#and work on building a life in the here and now

[steddieprompts]

part 2 of this thing

The rest of the night the two sat on the couch, ate icecream and watched shitty comedy movies. Steve finally got Eddie to watch Major League and Eddie had to admit it was his favorite sports movie so far.

Eddie fell asleep on the couch as usual and Steve covered him with a blanket before heading to his room for the night.

They didn't talk about the situation with Tommy after that night. In all honestly Steve was happy to see the back of it as well as Tommy himself. Seeing him again was such a violent flashback to the person he was before... he didn't like thinking about it. He hoped Tommy loved New York so much he never stepped foot in Indiana again.

Of course Steve could never be that lucky.

It was a Monday night and the apartment was sweltering.

"I thought Daryl said he fixed the AC?" Steve said, fiddling with the knobs on the unit.

"Daryl says alot of things" Eddie's voice echoed from where his head was stuck in the freezer.

"Let's just go to the movies. At least their AC works," Steve grumbled.

Eddie pulled his head out of the freezer. "I'm in." He agreed and grabbed his wallet off the counter as he followed Steve out of the apartment... before shoving the handful of icecubes he snuck out of the freezer down the back or Steve's tucked in polo. His screech was so loud old lady Laski stuck her head out of her apartment to yell at them.

"Sorry, Muriel!" Eddie said through his cackling before they shoved their way out of the building.

Inside the theater the air was crisp and cool.

"Genius, Stevie," Eddie said, flipping his hair over the back of the seat and sliding down until his ass was almost off the seat. "I gotta pee," he announced and immediately stood back up. Jesus Christ he heard Steve mutter. "You want popcorn?"

"Nah. I'm good." Steve hummed as he closed his eyes.

After the bathroom, Eddie went to the concession stand and got himself a popcorn (large, because he knew Steve would steal some) and Steve a Sprite with extra ice.

When he turned away from the counter he nearly dropped it though. Across the room, just coming in the door, was Hagan.

Why was he still here? Shouldn't he be back in New York by now?

Eddie decided to ignore him... and the other guy he was with, some jock type Eddie faintly recognized from high school. He headed back towards the theater doors, but he wasn't as inconspicuous as he hoped.

Before he could get into the theater, Tommy sidled in front of the door.

"Well look who it is," Tommy smirked at him. "Out without your little body guard?"

"Body guard? Who, Steve?"

"I know he was lying to protect you. I can't figure out why." Tommy said, taking a threatening step toward Eddie.

He had about enough of this.

Eddie mirrored Tommy, taking a step forward and getting obnoxiously close to his face.

"Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," Eddie said his name like he felt so so bad for him, "Steve, the love of my life, is right in there." He tilted his head towards the door, "And believe me, he wasn't protecting me the other night, he was protecting you."

Eddie stared him down for a second before suddenly sticking out his tongue and making a guttural hiss. Tommy startled and jerked back into his jock friend. "Enjoy your film... and try not to think about what's in the dark." Eddie said sweetly before slipping into the theater, but not without hearing Tommy mutter "Freak" as the door closed.

Eddie hustled back to their seats, nearly spilling half the popcorn on the way.

"Steve!" He whisper yelled as he came down the row. He didn't really need to whisper, though, as the only other people in the theater were a couple teenagers in the back. "Steve!" He said again as he plopped down in his seat.

"What? Is that for me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got you a Sprite, Tommy is here." Eddie said all in one breath. Steve nearly choked on the sip he took. "And I might have talked to him."

"Eddie..."

"And I might have lead him to believe that I cursed him or something. Hissed in his face."

"Wha... why?"

"He called you my body guard. Oh, and you're the love of my life now."

"Body gu... wait. awww you love me??" Steve said, sickly sweet and batting his eyelashes.

"Madly, darling," Eddie replied in his worst trans-atlantic accent. Steve chuckled.

"He seriously said I was your body guard?"

"Yeah he thinks we're pretending."

"Well fuck him."

"That's what I say," Eddie grumbled. He didn't like being called a liar even when he was one.

At the back of the theater the door opened and Steve peaked behind him through the seats and low and behold... Tommy Hagan.

"It's him," Steve grumbled.

"Huh?" Eddie asked, distracted by the movie previews.

"Tommy." He turned to Eddie. "You haven't suddenly developed boundaries in the last five minutes have you?"

"No, why?"

Steve surged forward, pressing his lips to Eddie's and cupping his jaw. Eddie made a surprised noise before pressing back, his hand finding Steve's waist, fisting his shirt.

After a few seconds Steve pulled back, meaning to look over at Tommy to cement the deal, but he got... distracted, watching Eddie's eyes flutter open, seeing how they danced over Steve's face as he processed.

"I see what the big deal is now," He finally said. Steve let out a soft chuckle, still enraptured by Eddie... and wasn't that a thought.

Eddie looked over Steve's shoulder, picking Tommy out in the dark, the light of the screen highlighting him. Slowly Eddie wiggled his fingers at him in a little wave.

Steve finally looked back at him, just in time for Tommy to storm out of the theater, his new cronie following behind.

"Wow," Eddie mused, "That worked surprisingly well." Eddie looked back at Steve, "You think he's jealous?"

"Dude!" Steve whined before sliding down in his seat.

"Think Tommy wants a little King action?"

"If you don't stop, I'm leaving you here and you can walk home."

Eddie cackled, settling down as the movie started.

But Steve couldn't concentrate. Kissing Eddie was... nice. To be fair, Steve hadn't been with anyone in a while but... that wasn't entirely the reason. He felt something he hadn't felt in a while. As cliche as it sounded... he felt a spark.

Maybe Eddie had felt it too.

The movie went by too fast but when they stepped back outside the sun had set and the heat had dissipated. Tommy was no where to be found.

As they drove home, Eddie was strangely reserved. They talked about the movie, about going to work in the morning, but the conversation didn't take any wild turns like they usually did. Steve didn't even have to scold Eddie for sitting sideways in the seat.

When they got back into the apartment Eddie didn't flop down on the couch or root around in the fridge, just said he was gonna head to bed before going into his room. Steve looked at the clock. It was only 8:30.

He tried to ignore it, but he couldn't. He brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, sat down and turned on the TV, but he couldn't ignore how strange it was. And it wasn't hard to guess why.

He shook out his shoulders before he knocked on Eddie's door.

"Yeah?" Eddie called from inside, Steve could here him quietly picking at his guitar.

"Can we talk? Please?"

The guitar stopped and Eddie opened the door, already in the ratty black Sabath shirt he usually slept in.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry... but I'm not."

"About what?"

"Kissing you like that. I should have... given you more warning."

"It's alright, Steve, I'm not mad."

"Maybe not, but something is wrong."

"It's fine, Steve, don't worry about it."

"No," Steve's hand shot out as Eddie tried to close his door. "I'm sorry, Eddie. I just... Please just talk to me, okay?" His hand dropped from the door, but caught Eddie's fingers on the way. He tangled them together before asking softly, "please?"

Eddie looked at their hands before saying "What is this?" He looked up at Steve taking a steadying breath, but it barely got rid of the tightness, the wobble. "What...?"

"Eddie, I know how this started but I can help but feel maybe... I dont know. I think there's something. Maybe we've been ignoring it."

"Are you fucking with me, Steve? Because I can't..." Eddie hated how his throat was closing up with fear, with hope.

"I'm not, I promise you," Steve stepped forward, tightening his grip on Eddie's hand, "I've never felt so at home with someone, so happy, and kissing you... Eddie. I can't let this go unless you tell me to."

Eddie swallowed, swallowed again, until he got enough courage to lean forward, softly, gently, and pressed his lips to Steve's for the second time that night.

The kiss was soft and gentle until he felt Steve smile against his lips and he couldn't hold back. He felt himself laugh as he pressed forward, Steve pulling him back until they hit the wall across the hall, laughing when it took Steve by surprise. They broke apart, Steve peppering kisses up Eddie's cheek to his temple.

"You uh," Steve said through a smile, "You want to go out sometime?"

Eddie threw his head back as his happiness and relief burst out of him in a laugh. "Yeah, sweetheart," Eddie smiled at him. "Let's go out."

[a-method-in-it]

Times are scary. Things are moving so fast that four years feels like a lifetime.

But there are always things that you can do. Will they be enough? Who knows. But the things are there, and you can do them.

Some stuff that comes to mind right now:

Call your representatives (yes, even if they're Democrats, and yes, even if they're Republicans). Call them and tell them what you're mad about.

Donate money if you have it. Some organizations that are going to need more room in the budget include: the ACLU, Lamda Legal, the Native American Rights Fund, Planned Parenthood, and the American Federation of Government Employees.

Volunteer with a local community group.

Check out alternative political parties that are grounded in reality and practical goals, like the Working Families Party.

Consider running for local office.

Pick one or two issues to keep track of closely, things that you care about and feel reasonably knowledgeable about, enough to spot most misinformation or disinformation. Focus in on news about those things and give yourself permission not to try to make sense of every news story or every new unhinged thing happening.

Make sure your passport is current.

If you are in a union, do what you can to strengthen it, build additional solidarity among your co-workers, and talk about ways your union can resist any potential political pressure that might be coming to your industry.

If you are not in a union, consider talking to your coworkers (carefully) about unionizing. (I've written more on that here)

Talk to your friends, coworkers and neighbors just in general. When life gets harder and things get scary, it's good to have a community to address issues. Start building and strengthening yours today.

There's a lot happening. It's coming at us very fast, and it feels overwhelming. It will feel less overwhelming if you are taking concrete steps to make the world better and more resilient.

Doomers declaring that there's nothing we can do, no one's trying anything, he has absolute power to do anything and we have to live with it feels kind of odd given like half of everything he's done this week has been followed in a couple hours by a judge blocking it or it bring withdrawn after backlash. Looks eminetly resistable in fact

[awrkive]

[TEASER] CATCH YOUR WAVE (m) — JJK.

the last thing you expected when you strolled into your new school is to become the favorite project of the 5’11” tatted-up overly enthusiastic, golden-retriever-in-human-form PE teacher, jeon jungkook. he’s all goofy grins, bad math puns, and relentless charm, while you’re busy pretending you’re immune to his antics... spoiler alert: you’re not. and that infuriates you. 

alternatively, jungkook tries to prove that opposites don’t just attract — they collide. a classic case of one plus one equals: “oh, no. i like him.”

PAIRING jeon jungkook x (female) reader

GENRE r18+ (fuff, slight angst, mature content) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

WORD COUNT ~15k (still working around the final wc)

TEASER WORD COUNT 1.8k words

WARNINGS/MISC teachers!au, pe teacher!jk, math teacher!reader, seven!jungkook, himbo!jk, coworkers!au (works in the same school), oc gets kinda mean sometimes but jungkook likes it lmfao, extremely corny pick up lines.. he tries 💔 2000s romcoms references (sorry) warnings for this teaser: nothing major. just bad math puns delivered by himbo jungkook :')

NOTES inspired by the whole “can she gaf me💔” vibes in the seven mv (by jungkook) and ultimately the click five’s song, catch your wave (hence the title🥸 pls listen to the song for the whole vibes hehe <3). ive been wanting to write himbo jk for awhile bcs all my jks are like … smart so far so i thought wait we need to change that. gahhhh im so so freaking excited ive been thinking about writing this ever ever since i wrote that one himbo jk drabble 💃🏼

[ CYW MOODBOARD ] • [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

RELEASE DATE 2025, FEBRUARY 15TH | 01:00 AM KOREAN STANDARD TIME (GMT+9)

They say life is a balance of good and bad days, and you’re not a pessimistic person, but sometimes enough is enough. How is your week already this bad when it’s just barely started? 

Sunday morning, when you picked up your laundry from the shop, you were too late to realize that you mixed not just one but two white underwear with the colored loads. You’d blame it on the fact that they were too tiny, too flimsy for you to notice. But you know you should’ve double-checked before putting them in the machine. And now you have lost two panties. And in this economy? That shit cost a ton. 

When Monday came and the head of the Math Department informed you there was a sudden shift in your schedule for the semester, it meant that instead of teaching three Algebra classes for tenth graders, you’re also teaching pre-Algebra for eighth graders, meaning you’re gonna have to cross the long walk from the high school building to the middle school one, the latter being all the way to the left wing, completely the opposite side of the right wing where the faculty room and your initial classes are. 

Today, you’ve woken up with your WiFi not connected to the internet (something you have to talk to your landlord about when you come back home) and just two minutes ago, you realized you forgot to take your coffee order with you from the cafe across your school building, the sad garlic bread you bought along with it staring right at you without its beloved beverage pair. 

Truthfully, it might be your last straw. How the hell is this happening to you out of all people? The semester is just starting, for god’s sake, and you’re already hanging on by a thread. 

You take a deep breath on your seat before standing up from your cubicle, heading to the coffee machine by the snack bar.

You hate the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep on stocking the pantry with, it’s too naturally sweet – and you don’t like your coffee with sugar. 

But you have no choice but to make do. The cafe’s too far out and your first class starts in about twenty minutes. 

“Good morning, Ms. Math Genius – ready to crunch some numbers today?” 

As if this day couldn’t get any worse, you shut your eyes close for a moment when you hear the familiar voice. 

You stir your coffee with downturned lips.

“Only if you promise to flex those brain muscles—” You say, turning to look to the side. Much to your expectation, it’s Jeon Jungkook, leaning casually against the wall with that usual faux suave he keeps on around you – which you can’t take seriously because his big doe eyes tell you a completely different story. He’s wearing some Nike dri fit shirt, one that’s too tight around his chest and accentuates a comparatively tiny waist that you have to force your eyes upwards. But as they do, they land on the biceps that are straining against the poor material. It wasn’t lost on you though that one second after, they’re suddenly flexing. You arch your brow as you glance a look on his face. “—as much as you flex those biceps.” 

Jungkook’s lips curl into a huge grin, expecting the jab. 

“You know it!” He chuckles, running his fingers through his bangs. “I’m all about solving problems, and I’d say my favorite equation is you plus me equals a perfect start to the day.” 

You fight a loud groan from escaping your lips as soon as he says that, giving him a certain look before shaking your head and going back to your coffee. 

But you should’ve known better by now, because Jungkook – aside from being a PE teacher extraordinaire and every student’s favorite at that, Thee Football Coach, 5’11” tatted brunette with a long, fluffy hair paired with an objectively, annoyingly attractive face – is persistent. 

Most especially when it comes to annoying you. 

A few steps, and then you feel him getting closer to you. 

“Did you know that—” 

You roll your eyes. That’s it. If it’s another one of his corny math pick-up lines again you swear to god— 

“Jungkook, you don’t have to keep doing this everyda—” 

“—we’re like parallel lines?” 

“What.”

“Did you know that we’re like parallel lines?” Jungkook repeats earnestly, just like he always does. When he’s up in your personal space like this, it’s easy to get a waft of his cologne – and your annoyance could’ve been justified if he smelled like shit but somehow, even though he looks like he just got back from a run judging by his running shoes and gym bag, he still smells… okay. 

Just okay. As in, you don’t care how good he smells like or how he smells at all.

You make sure to keep that thought at the back of your head. 

“No.” You say, hoping to dismiss the conversation right there as you pick up the cup of coffee from the machine, ready to turn on your heel, but then Jungkook laughs ever so slightly and gives your arm a barely-there poke.

“Come on, entertain me a little.” 

You squint your eyes at him. He challenges your stare with a growing smile on his face. Scoffing, you roll your eyes again before you put the paper cup back on the table. With a sigh, you cross your arms and look at Jungkook. For a split second, his eyes cast downwards to your chest level but he quickly snaps out of it. 

“Okay… we’re like parallel lines… why? Because we’ll never meet?” You say in response to his little request, keeping your tone impassive. 

Jungkook’s eyes slowly widen at your words, smile slowly dropping – as if the logic of your words have ruined one of his million pick-up lines again. 

“I– no! What? I meant, we’re like, always running to each other! Side by side. Parallel lines.”

“Okay… so still never meeting?” You ask impatiently, brows furrowing. 

Jungkook mirrors your confusion. Then, he raises a hand, one finger up. “One second. I’ll fix this–” he takes his phone out from his pocket, types on it quickly, lip jutting out as he reads whatever he’s looking up, and then, “Ohh, I might have meant asymptote lines. We’re like asymptote lines.” 

Your face contorts into even deeper confusion. Holy shit, you’re not dealing with this very early on in the morning, especially not after the circumstances of the past hours.

“Asymptote lines are more depressing than parallel lines if we’re talking metaphorically.” 

Jungkook squints his eyes at you, suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“I would hope I know my lines, Jungkook. I teach them everyday.” 

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners cutely, and you hate how that tugs something at your heartstrings. 

You catch yourself right at that moment.

Jeon Jungkook is not cute. You keep in mind. He’s not cute. 

Jungkook thinks you’re so cute. Gorgeous, most of all, and unbelievably so. You and your signature furrowed brows and pink pouty lips.

As usual, you have your hair up in a clean bun today, and Jungkook can smell the lace of sweet vanilla from you as he takes a step closer to get a cup for himself. 

He loves the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep stocking the pantry with, it’s sweet as fuck. Just like how Jungkook likes his caffeine dose. Kind of like you, he thinks. 

Jungkook casts a quick glance at you again, can't really help himself when you're so pretty, although he makes sure to be subtle about it.

You’re wearing another one of your pencil skirts, one that he has to avoid staring at for longer than three seconds lest his mind takes him too far – but the upper view is even more of a torture, unfortunaly for him. Because as much as you wear the same outfit every single day and it should mean that Jungkook should get used to it by now, he can never be immune to your silk long sleeves, where you keep the top three buttons open – and as much as Jungkook tries to pry his gaze away from the exposed skin down from your neck, it’s like there’s a strange force in the universe that keeps him on it. Doesn’t really help that you like crossing your arms under your chest, too, making his mind run a mile per minute at the thoughts that form inside his head when a very apparent cleavage shows—

Alright. Damn. It’s like 8 am. 

And you were saying something about lines…

“Yeah? I hope you can teach me too, I need to—” 

“Goodbye, Mr. Jeon.” You cut him off before he can even finish his sentence, taking your coffee with you as you head to the direction of your cubicle. 

The nickname makes Jungkook’s lips curl up. He probably shouldn’t smile, given that you only ever call him that when you want to cut the conversation with him short. But he can’t help it, it sounds sweet coming from your pretty lips. 

In an attempt to not look like a fool, Jungkook bites his lip as he watches your disappearing figure, your heels clicking on the floor as you walk away. Your legs look so long in that grey pencil skirt, and it really should be criminal how you look like that even when you’re just showing your back. 

In his trance, he forgets about the brewing coffee in his cup and absentmindedly takes it out while the machine is still running, the hot liquid pouring from the nozzle quickly burning the skin on his finger. 

“Oh, shit!” He hisses, jumping from the shock, almost knocking his coffee out but thankfully he manages to catch it on time, just as when another member of the faculty walks by the snack bar. 

With an awkward smile, Jungkook raises a thumbs up to Mrs. Lee. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Lee. Looking rad as always.” He cheerfully greets, and Mrs. Lee’s confusion from seeing him fumble with his cup earlier quickly turns into a coo. 

“Oh, Mr. Jeon, you charming kid. I was just gonna get my cup of coffee.” She says, walking towards his direction. 

Jungkook adjusts the strap of his gym bag to his shoulder and takes a cup for Mrs. Lee with a grin, making her smile. 

She thanks him and with a playful salute, Jungkook goes toward the general direction of his cubicle, and because the PE department and Math department are just across from each other, he walks past you, typing something on your iPad before you look around and catch his gaze.

Jungkook automatically waves, smiling brightly, but you only frown, shutting your iPad close and ignoring him.

Amused, Jungkook tries to fight off a huge grin, taking a few long strides to get to his own cubicle. 

His day is already off to a good start.

© 𝐀𝐖𝐑𝐊𝐈����𝐄 2025. all rights reserved. copying, editing, reposting and/or translating any of my works are not allowed.

[keferon]

I’ve been reading through your Spellbound AU and thought of something funny, so naturally I wrote a short story for it.

My take on how Jazz came to work for Orion.

———————————————————————

Jazz slunk across ruined stonework overtaken by forest growth. Form shifting as subtly as the shadows he crossed.

Which would it be?

Tall and slim? Nah, that one already served it’s purpose. The twins saw something lank and dark looming in the trees, and now the young knights were distracted looking over their shoulders.

A hulking brute? No, that’d inspire an all out confrontation. Jazz already had all of them keyed up to act on instinct.

The twins were easy. Young and expecting a straight fight. Pax, his target, was harder to ruffle. He had the reputation of a courageous selfless hero and damned if the mech wasn’t dedicated to the ruse.

Pax wasn’t spooked, but he did take his underlings concerns seriously. He marched forward as a pillar of confidence and safety, but Jazz caught the way his gaze scanned the ruins. His white shadow seemed indifferent, but he was just an audience member anyways, not a real fighter.

Primed to play the part. Pax just needed his queue.

Jazz got into place on his stage. He shifted into something small and weak (in appearance alone). Bent a leg at an unhealthy looking angle, and slumped like he was exhausted and chased here.

Jazz sat with his back against the wall, the partially collapsed stone room was small enough that a mech of Orion’s stature would have difficulty moving quickly. It had the nice bonus of blocking anyone else from coming through the main entry point as well.

Through a crack in the wall, Jazz watched as the leader in blue and red got closer, his “loyal knights” lagging behind. The white one lagged as well, distracted by scolding the twins for being distracted.

Jazz focused on his target. Pulled at a thread from within Pax and strung it within his own chest.

Jazz set his new voice and with all the terror and innocence he could conjure screamed.

H̴͉̮́͂͗̐͌̍̇E̸̡̞̅̎̒͗͂L̷̛̻͎̮̽̏͝͝P̴̛̭͈͌̔̃̊͛̓ ̶͉̩̖̔͛͋̃ͅP̴̫͔̖͔̼͗̑̔͘͝L̸͓̣͖̫̭͎̊́̑̀͐̈́Ḙ̶͕̪̳̟̥͂̓̈̅͂͝Á̵̖̳̱͙͋ ̸̭̤̹̔͑͒̈͆̓͘Ȏ̵̡̥͈̪̟͛́̑͆̐͜Ḣ̷̡̻̪̘̯̹̊̂́̒͠ ̷̭̭͕̙̟̬͈̇̄̌̅̂̚̕W̸̺̯̦͔̼͇̄H̷͖͛̎͐̄͊̂͝À̶��̘̙̎͛̒͘ͅṰ̴̻͉̜͂̐̽̀̇ ̴̬͓̝̞̀̆̕T̸̙̖̲̺̯̆͛͜Ḥ̵̱͚͕͔̆̉ͅȆ̶͙̆́́̌̋ ̵̧͔͔̰̰̰͕̿͂̆̂̅̅F̵͕̘̰͓̓̔͜͜U̵̧̝̳̔̍̇̅̿͜͜͝Ç̵͎̎̓̒̓̊̂K̷̨̈́?̶̱͈̖̺̘͓͆̄͒͋

He slapped a hand over his mouth.

Outside, everyone went deathly quiet. Jazz didn’t dare move.

“Um.” Spoke their fearless leader.

Who apparently had thing for asthmatic dragons.

“Are you alright in there?”

Movement started to approach his hidey hole. Jazz could still salvage this. He could.

The white shadow came through first. Damn it. New plan: save own life.

Jazz plucked a new voice from him and made himself look as unthreatening as possible.

“ - ?! !”

Nothing. He loves the concept of nothing. Not even a celebrity crush? A favorite singer? The sound of his own voice?

Some of the functionalists were like that. That’s probably half the reason they “allowed” him to take on their commissions. All the money in their coffers wasn’t worth this however.

The white mech frowned, scanning over Jazz with a cold blue look. He turned back to the entrance, “Sir, there is a ‘hypothetically’ injured person inside the building. Most likely they orchestrated our current circumstances in an attempt to assassinate you.”

Jazz lunged from the wall, dagger slipping between armor gaps to pierce the spoil-sports spark, ready to dash past in the resulting chaos when his lifeless body guttered before them.

And just like his voice, Jazz got nothing instead.

He gaped at the way his blade cut into hollow air beneath the plates. Numbly, he pulled out his dagger and stabbed again, like it’d do something different this time. The mech was unamused.

“Sir, the assassin is trying to assassinate me.”

Jazz pulled a working voice, “I̷͕͍̓̒͝ͅ’̵̝̂m̵̼̲̓́ ̷͚̑́͗͜n̶̢̬͈̉o̷̦̓̎͝ṱ̶̟̼͒͊ ̵̨̮̠̿̀ǎ̷̫̹n̶̫̜̚̕ ̸̹͙͐a̵̛̯̻̹s̶͍̈́s̵̳̲͎͂a̷̻͉̅͆̑s̴̛̫̞̽̈s̵̳̑į̸̝̽̊n̷̙̟̤͊!̸̪̃”. And discontinued his failing assassin attempt to cringe.

A massive hand closed around Jazz’s wrist, stopping him cold.

“Do not.” Orion lessened his grip but did not release him, “Harm my friends.”

Jazz had to crane his head back considerably to make eye contact. Orion was built like a brick house and Jazz had enough experience fighting mechs like him to know his kill window was gone.

Groveling it is!

“Į̷̧̲̍͝ ̴̟̩̗̀̿̊a̵̹͙̔m̵̠̜̳͍̀̽̾̏ ̷͕͕̔̿͆̂s̸̡͋ơ̵̦̜ ̶͍̫͔͔̒̈̈́̌s̶̻͓͔̆͜ò̸͙̥̻̀r̷̢̠̈r̵̘͑̎͂y̸̰͓͆͗̔.̵̯͇́̌͒ ̵̳̞̏̇̕I̶̦͚̦͠’̸̞̯͙̟́ḿ̵̢̜̅̍͜ͅ ̴̮̩͓̀̓̈͜j̷̻̒̀u̷̯͂͋ŝ̴̭͇̱͎͑͆ẗ̶͎̬͗́͝ ̷̥̰̗̃a̸̼̫̦̾̚ ̶͕͉̓͌͋͝d̴͖̗̰̒̎̈͘ͅe̸̗̞̤̲̽͗̈́͛s̸̖͐p̵̢̎͊e̴̢͖͉͑̿̾͘r̶̩̬̰̈́́ą̵̧̰̋̊͝t̶̻̯̞̦̆e̷̱̥̪̍͜ ̴̠̱̼̣̌̾t̴̙̐̔h̵̟̪͈͛̚ǐ̶͕ě̴̻̺f̸͕̠̯̤̀̆!̷̗̩̩̃̽ ̷̮̩̆̾Ǐ̷͍̭ ̴͕͕́ṅ̸̗̰e̸̯̱̝͚͆͂v̴̛͓͉͇̍́e̴̺̞͖͂͑̏͐͜r̶̢̼͠ ̴̗͙̐͒̋̚m̸͓͆͐e̶̱̩͕̐̚͠a̵͉͇̟̺̋̇̑n̶̢̖̙̣̾͝t̷̘̔ ̵̦̉̈́̈́͗t̵̳̻͇̔̎̃͜o̴͈͖̓ ̵̬̦̞͖͌͋͂͆h̷̲̓͑̎̃a̵̛͇̾͗r̵̠̗̩̾̏̈̚m̸̭̃ ̷̢̗͇͈͑͊a̵̧̠͑̒̚ ̵̢͉̮̌̀k̵̼͈͎̳͒̀̐͂ǹ̸̛̘͈͔í̶͓̜̜͉g̸̨̖̗̜̽͊ĥ̷͉̫͉̻̾̽̉t̵̜̣̲̹̑ ̸̡͒̃o̶̮͉̺͝r̷̬̎̓̚͝ ̵̡̠̩̓̈́̐̏ḣ̶̨͖̼̥̎́i̶̖̋͝s̷̻͍̭̒͜ ̵̢̖͓̿̍̌̾f̶̣̜̒̎r̶̝̈͊̍̋ǐ̶̝͓̱̱̆̐ẹ̷́̅n̴̢̛̘̍ḑ̷̪̈́̀͒̚ŝ̷͍̹!̷̪͙͕̬̐ ̵̨̡͆̏P̸̧̢̼̿͝l̶̡̧͔̳̍̉͋̆ẽ̶͉ȁ̸̦̜̤̀̉ͅs̴̮̙͍̘̐̂̉e̴͇͚͊̔̈́͋ ̸̧̳͒̈̃͠h̸̡̧̰͛̈͐ͅḁ̷͔̗̱̓̌̉v̸͖̼͓̜̽̏ę̵̬̤͎̄̅̓͆ ̷͍̯̗̥̋̀͛̉m̸̹͈͔̑͂͠ͅé̴͎͕ȑ̴̢̖̘̎c̴͙͇͙̤̐̔͒̕y̷̨͈͗͛͛!̶̹͝͝”

Orion cringed behind the mask.

“I- I’m sorry I don’t think I quite understood that.” He paused, “Would…you like a cough drop?”

Orion seemed to take stock of what he had on him, patting his sides with his free hand. He turned to the white mech.

“Prowl, would you happen to…um nevermind.” He turned to the twins, “Sunstreaker?Sideswipe? Do either of you have a cough drop?”

The twins searched their pockets for a magically appearing cough drop. Jazz searched for his sanity.

Jazz plucked a voice from the twins and couldn’t care less which it came from.

“Listen!” Oh thank fuck the twins were normal.

Jazz smiled while slowly uncurling Orions fingers from his wrist. Prowl narrowed his gaze at the new voice.

“You got me! I’m a thief! And I panicked! And I am so, so, so-.”

“A mimic.”

Smile frozen in place, Jazz turned his head so slowly there was an audible grounding noise.

Prowl remained impassive.

“Um.” And Orion…let him? Pull his wrist free. “Are you going to continue trying to kill me?”

Jazz snapped back to Orion, his target. The words aren’t what gave him pause, but how he said them. Like he just asked Jazz “Are you sure you want to go with puce green?” As if the mech was more concerned that Jazz was going to make a poor decision than for his own wellbeing.

“No.” Jazz said definitively. Because Primus knows he lost the upper hand now and wasn’t aiming to try again so soon.

“Are you genuinely in need of money? Food and shelter?” Orion continued, optics softening.

Jazz didn’t recognize the play. He bit his lip beneath the cowl.

Jazz decided to capitalize on whatever got him the most sympathy. He nodded seriously. “Yes. Of course. It’s not easy when the functionalists decide you’re a monster.” A bit of a lie and a bit of the truth. His favorite combination.

“Do you like your current employers?” Orion asked and Prowl started to narrow his optics.

“No…I don’t.” Jazz answered without enough dishonesty to feel comfortable.

Orion kneeled so he was on optic level with him. “Would you like to join my order?”

And when Jazz just stared at him he continued. “You’d be free to leave if you ever found it not to your liking. And your skills would be very useful in keeping people safe. And of course we’d ensure safe lodgings, fair pay and-.”

“Sir.” Prowl ground out with the most emotion Jazz had ever seen from the guy. “He tried. To assassinate you.”

“Well, he wasn’t very invested.” He shrugged.

Orion looked at Prowl. The twins looked at each other. Jazz looked at an opportunity.

“Deal.” Jazz took Orions hand, shaking it before his better thinking caught up to him.

Orion’s optics crinkled in delight. “Wonderful! Welcome to the Autobot Order!”

Prowls face betrayed nothing, but Jazz hadn’t spent his entire life studying people to miss the way something ever so subtly cracked under Prowls stoney facade.

Jazz didn’t need their Order to survive. But he had become desperately curious to know what in Pimus’ sweet name was going with those two. And more importantly, after outing him twice in a row, Jazz was going to BREAK Prowl.

“T̴͓̹̚h̸͖̘̀̈͠e̸̡̗̳͊̓͝ ̴͚̘͆n̶͉̰͐͜ą̸̦̉m̸̮͙͋é̴͉̫̥͘s̴̮̔͑̄ ̶̰̚J̷͎̀͝a̸̟͎̽̒̇z̷̰̆͑͜͝z̵̨͎̈́.̴͎́ ̷̡͉̱̒̾̕N̵̳͚̈͘i̴͙̓̎c̶̪̅̆ḛ̸̂͂ ̷̰̻̊͝ͅt̷͖̤̓͋o̴̗͇̭͑̿͛ ̴̮̹̉̃͜m̴̼͈̝̍ë̸̗̫̘́̊͌ē̸̘̹̅t̷̛̞̙̫ ̵͙̎̄y̵͂̚��̩a̴͉̲̪͌̍.̶̖̻̒”

———————————————————————

The silent sentence was “Did you hear that horrib- Huh?! OH COME ON!”

I just really liked the idea that because Jazz talks in Shockwaves voice around Orion, the first time it happened everyone nearly shit themselves.

-SSTP

"Who apparently had thing for asthmatic dragons."

LMAO

"The twins searched their pockets for a magically appearing cough drop. Jazz searched for his sanity." AHAHAJCZTYLVXFUJKCDYKFSS HELP

Jazz, looking at OP: There is something really wrong with you. Five weirdness points out of five.

Jazz, looking at Prowl: ........I need a new scale

[wstviewvidal]

homesick- w. maximoff

summary: at last.

pairing: rich!wanda x r

a/n: (real) last chapter of dirty cash! thank you to those who were patient with me. life is crazy!

minors do not interact

the brisk walk to wanda’s office building had you holding your coat shut and your face hidden beneath your scarf. the thick material doing nothing to shield you from the sharp gusts of wind slicing through the street.

the following days after your first kiss were filled with hour long phone calls and dinner dates around the city, the kind that lasted hours because neither of you wanted them to end. you two rivaled that of two lovesick teenagers— not that either of you really minded.

you couldn’t ask for someone as thoughtful and sweet as wanda. she made you forget that you ever wanted to swear off of relationships after jess.

the breakup between the two of you was brutal, the kind that left wounds you struggled to heal.

but then came wanda— who came into your life and swept you off your feet, gentle and electric. a surprise you never expected to love and cherish so much.

you push through the front doors of the building and greet the receptionist with a wide grin as you walk into the building.

she looks away from her computer, peering over her thick glasses, “you here for miss maximoff?”

the subtle smirk on her lips causes you to roll your eyes playfully. you respond with a sarcastic tone, “it’s either for her or to discuss how to buy a share of her company.”

swatting her hand at you playfully, she picks up her desk phone to alert wanda that you are on your way up to her office.

in your hands, you carry a lunchbox filled with a homemade lunch— a small excuse to steal wanda away for a bit.

knocking on her office door, you patiently wait for a response before you walk in.

given the green light, you walk in cautiously, unsure if you’d be intruding on a conversation. you scan the room, noting her degrees framed on the wall and the warm light lamp that’s turned on for ambiance.

wanda stands from her chair, walking over to you with a warm smile, “hi, beautiful.”

you meet her halfway and stand on your tip toes to meet her in a brief kiss, “hi,” you say softly as you pull away.

wanda holds you by your waist, looking you over with a subtle smirk. her eyes have a glint in them, a glint you don’t think you’ve seen before.

“i brought you some lunch,” you gesture to the pink lunch box in your hand, “you have time for me?” you tease gently, rubbing a hand on her forearm.

a small chuckle escapes her lips, her thumbs brushing over your waist in a gentle manner, “for you? always.”

the two of you sit adjacent to each other, enjoying the homemade pasta you’d brought. as you eat, wanda updates you on on the latest work drama that’s been going on— little bits and pieces she’s picked up from afar.

you nod along, finding it humorous that someone so polished and professional would enjoy work drama— especially sharing it with her.. girlfriend?

the title flits through your head and your heart stumbles over it.

the two of you have yet to discuss the topic of labels, wanting to take it slow. you don’t know where wanda stands on labels, or if she wants to take this any further than what it is now.

your heart feels heavy at the thought of wanda not wanting to pursue anything further than what you two are right now. wanda is a busy body, always throwing herself into her work. you can’t blame her for that, but you wonder if this is all she will want from you.

wanda watches you, the small frown on your lips causing her concern, “hey, you okay?” her voice is soft, one she uses with valerie when she’s upset.

you look up at her with a confused look, blinking away the thoughts, “yeah, why?” your voice is slightly high pitched. wanda catches it immediately and raises an eyebrow at you.

she sets down her plate and looks at you with a gentle expression, “what’s wrong? work? your friends?” wanda studies you, as if the answer is written on your cream knit sweater.

a soft sigh escapes your lips and you shake your head, “one day when you’re older,” you poke fun at wanda’s words to valerie when she asks too many questions beyond her age.

with an eye roll, wanda drops the topic but not before nudging your foot with her shoe. you two continue to eat, enjoying each other’s company. you glance at each other with playfulness, not hiding from each other for once.

you glance at the clock on wanda’s wall, a small sigh escaping your lips, “let me call my boss before she thinks i abandoned ship.”

wanda lets out a small laugh and nodding in understanding, “of course.”

you step outside of her office, quickly making the call. you’re just about to put your phone in your pocket before a blonde woman walks past you, a smirk on her lips as she slows down just in front of you.

“didn’t know we had any new hires, are you new here?” she asks, a devilish look in her eyes that you’re not sure you’re a fan of.

you politely shake your head and give a small smile, “just here visiting someone important.”

the woman looks over you, something of a satisfied look taking over her features, “well, when you’re tired of that, we could use some more pretty faces around here.”

the woman’s boldness catches you off guard, causing you to blink at her. a nervous laugh escapes your throat, “good to know.”

before the woman can shamelessly flirt any further, you politely excuse yourself and slip back into wanda’s office. she’s scrolling through her computer, a concentrated look on her face.

holding back a smirk, you decide to tease her, “you’ve got a really good environment going here, you know? very welcoming.”

you’re leaned against the door frame, eyes tracing over wanda’s poised face. her tailored suit enamoring you in the easiest way.

wanda raises an eyebrow, moving to face you completely, “oh?”

“yeah,” you’ve cross your arms over your chest, “one of your employees said i would add to the… camaraderie.”

wanda’s expression doesn’t fade, but you can see how her jaw clenches slightly and her eyes narrow just the tiniest bit, “really? who was it?”

laughing at her subtle jealousy, “not like you’re going to fire them.”

wanda’s eyebrows raise at that, “are you forgetting i have the power to do that?”

playing along, you act like you’re thinking pensively, “i mean, she did call me pretty…”

wanda hums, looking alarmingly calm, but the way her nostrils flare a bit and the way her head tilts to the side— yeah, she’s definitely jealous.

“that’s funny,” she murmurs, “i was under the impression you were already taken.”

before you can even process your next words, you say, “well, i wouldn’t be a good girlfriend if i let people at your company flirt with me, wouldn’t i?”

silence.

the realization hits you like a truck. your face instantly heats up and your stomach does flips.

the both of you freeze, but the expressions on your faces differ drastically. you look mortified at the idea of assuming too far ahead, wanda looks like she just won a game you weren’t even aware you were playing.

“girlfriend?” her voice has a hint of amusement.

you squeeze your eyes shut, as if wishing you could teleport yourself out of the situation you put yourself in.

“wanda, i didn’t mean-“

she leans back in her desk chair, a smug look on her face as she watches you squirm, “am i your girlfriend, baby? when did i earn that title?”

if you weren’t already mortified, that would’ve done it. a nervous smile tugs at your lips and you glance over at her, “are you?”

wanda’s smug look slowly morphs into a warm expression. she stands from her chair and walks over to where you’re standing, her hands finding their familiar spot on your waist.

wanda’s exhales a small breath as she looks over your face, “am i your girlfriend?” her voice is low and soft.

you swallow, hands instinctively finding the lapels of her jacket, “unless you don’t want to be.”

your voice is laced with nervousness and you’re sure wanda can hear the slight shakiness in your words.

a warm laugh escapes wanda’s lips as she places gentle kisses along your jaw, “of course i do.”

she pulls away from you slightly— just enough to look you in your eyes, “is that okay with you?”

you nod softly, taking in the warmth in wanda’s eyes— the genuine sincerity laced in her words, “yeah.”

and then she leans in, placing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. it’s not rushed or urgent— slow and promising. when she pulls back, she places her forehead against yours.

“i like the sound of that,” she whispers.

you two stand there for a moment, enjoying the moment— wrapped in each other’s arms and letting the weight of it settle.

then—

“now tell me about this employee of mine who thought they stood a chance,” she says, pulling back from you.

laughing, you nudge her shoulder playfully, “relax, maximoff, they never stood a chance.”

wanda’s scoffs, rolling her eyes, “of course they didn’t.”

and just like that, the air in the room is lighter and filled with promise. promises of stability and trust. you and wanda, together. no guessing and no more hesitation.

[deathlygristly]

The spousal person and I chose each other when we were 18. We're 44 and 43 now (I'm seven months older than him which I'm sure scandalizes antis, like I could roll over on my own while he was still a fetus so clearly I am preying on him) and we are still very happily monogamous.

Here's the thing though.

We're both autistic, neither of us grew up religious (well, the spousal person went to Catholic school K-8 but he never believed in it), we both lost a parent before we met (my father died when a month after I turned 7 and his mother died when he was 17, a few months before we met) and on our first date when we were 18 we both agreed that we did not want children and that we cared more about being happy than about outward markers of success and status.

Now 25 years later we don't have kids but we do have a lot of cats, and I often tell him that my dream is for him and the kitties to be happy and he says his is for me and the kitties to be happy. :)

We got married when we were 21, in a drive-thru chapel in Gatlinburg/Pigeon Forge. No rings, no fancy outfits, no guests, nothing like that. Just paperwork and then driving around to the window for the officiant to say the official words, lol. I didn't change my last name.

I've been learning more about autism lately and listening to the Autistic Culture podcast and things, and maybe it's the autism, I don't know. Neither of us really understand conformity or social pressure. Neither of us are real good at socializing long term with other people. We like our routines and our rituals. We're comfortable with each other and very much not comfortable around strangers. Dealing with other people is A Lot for us.

The main thing though is that it was all completely our own choice, from the moment I emailed him and asked if he wanted to hang out without our other friends to now, when I am sitting here with a cat in my lap and he's in the kitchen making a dinner that we both talked about and chose, and then we'll eat it while watching two kdrama episodes that we talked about and chose.

Also I get really confused about things I see on here about marriage and relationships with dudes, because I don't recognize any of what the haters are saying. The spousal person does all the housework except vacuuming. I don't do all the emotional stuff. We take care of each other and support each other. He's really cool and fun and I love him more than the universe and when we're watching a kdrama and something funny happens and he laughs and I look back at him and I hear his laugh and I see his face....it's the most beautiful perfect experience in existence and I want to be near him for always.

But if you didn't choose it, if you felt pressured into it by society or religion or family, if you don't even like the person you're building your life with, if you don't support each other and you don't talk and you don't feel free to be yourself and you're just performing to please some weird external Other....yeah, I can see that being awful.

If what you really want is monogamy and lifelong commitment, you absolutely cannot force it on an unwilling pseudopartner. Domination is not commitment. Abuse is not commitment. Performing to please an external other is not commitment.

To me commitment isn't hard at all. It's the easiest thing in the world. It's just hanging out forever with my most best friend who is also the coolest cutest human to ever exist in all possible realities.

But based on what I've learned about other people since I got internet access...it's not going to be easy if you can't accept yourself for who you are and if you care more about conformity and social status than your own happiness and if you haven't taken responsibility for your own emotions and you aren't willing to work on healing your own trauma.

And if you do work on healing your own trauma and take responsibility for your emotions and get comfortable with who you are and with respecting other people as their own unique self and you find that what you want is polyamory or being single or whatever, go for it! That can be commitment too, to a steady set of multiple partners or to yourself and your own integrity.

I don't know. I think the point is that domination and abuse and forcing others never works and never results in long term happiness, no matter the number of people involved. You gotta respect the autonomous selves of others if you want mature committed relationships, of whatever kind.

Gotta stop here because he says dinner is ready. :)

everybody talks about men in trad marriages having affairs with their secretaries but it’s worth noting a lot of women back then had side pieces too. you can force a woman to submit to you legally but you can never force her to love you or maintain fidelity against her will. you can get rid of no fault divorce and get rid of abortion but you can’t get rid of fun.

[kitkat13001]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞

⤷ eijirou kirishima x reader

⤷ friends to lovers, kiri implied to be taller than reader, inspired the song “look after you” by the fray

compassion is second nature to eijirou kirishima. he’s always willing to lend a helping hand, no protest and no questions asked. 

he’s the ‘bro’ friend, the big-brother of the group standing over you all like a shield. they don’t call him the sturdy hero for nothing. 

he’s saved your life plenty of times, common in your line of work. but most often the things kirishima saves you from aren’t as big as falling buildings or supervillains. 

he always carries an extra hoodie for you in case you get cold. he makes sure everyone drinks water on the weekend group hikes. he always, always offers to share his snacks and insists even when you refuse. 

he texts you to make sure you got home safe, even when he’s the one who drove or walked you. 

for god’s sake, this is the man that sprinted two blocks to a corner store to buy tweezers when you got a splinter one time a few years ago. 

you wonder sometimes how a heart as big as his even fits in his broad chest. 

every other weekend bakugou insists on dragging everyone out for a hike because he can’t catch up with you all over dinner like a normal person and needs to do something active. 

today’s hike had taken longer than you’d originally thought. bakugou got a little too ambitious with his destination, and then mina and denki had wandered off the trail, and then sero twisted his ankle chasing after them. 

it’s nighttime now, and everyone’s been dropped off. you’re the last stop, sitting in the passenger seat of eijirou’s car and wondering how long you can linger without it being weird. 

you sigh after a long moment of sitting in peaceful silence with the faint radio music, finally moving to get out of the car. 

“night, kiri,” you say in the voice of someone who really doesn’t want to say goodnight. 

he moves when you move, clambering out of the drivers seat with a little smile. “i’ll walk you up.”

you stop, meeting his big crimson eyes. “it’s a ten foot walk to the door.”

“yeah.”

“you could just watch me from here, y’know?”

he shrugs, coming around to your side of the car. “‘s no big deal.”

you can feel the warmth coming off his body from when he’s standing next to you. you’re staring up at him curiously, and he blinks down at you. 

“i can see your breath,” he chuckles, taking his scarf off and wrapping it around you loosely while you stand there, stunned. his hands linger on the fabric, warm on your shoulders as he beams down at you. 

“eiji, don’t you ever get tired of looking after everyone?” you ask after a minute, walking up to the door at his side. 

kirishima hums thoughtfully, thinking on it for a second. “i mean, maybe sometimes i guess? but not really, ‘cause i look after the people i care about. so it’s not really work for me, y’know?”

“but don’t you ever want someone to look after you?” you’re at the door now, but you don’t want to go inside just yet. 

“you do,” he replies with a little smile, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you blink, stunned by the revelation.

“you always check up on me. text me good morning and good night. make sure i rest when i’ve been working too hard. carpool front seat so i don’t have to drive alone in the night.” he’s ticking them off on his fingers, an indescribable fondness in his voice. “and besides,” he adds cheerfully, “seeing you happy always has me feeling brand-new.”

you stare up at him with big, soft eyes. “kirishima, i love you.”

he laughs bashfully, scratching at his neck. “yeah, man, i love you too.”

“no, eiji, like i love you.”

he looks at you, meeting your loving gaze. his cheeks darken, and he looks almost nervous. “you…you do?”

you don’t dignify him with a spoken answer. you try to put any words you might’ve strung together into the kiss you pull him in for, clutching at his jacket to bring him down. 

he almost gasps into your mouth, but after a moment he’s cradling your face in big, careful hands like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. 

he’s grinning when you pull away, eyes like melting rubies. “i love you, too. but i think maybe you knew that already.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics and @/anitalenia — one hug from kirishima could fix all my problems. no further comments.

[oraclecrackle]

👁️‍🗨️ Tarot is a fluid and evolving practice, where the insights offered can shift in response to changes in your energy and circumstances. As your journey unfolds, the messages may adapt, reflecting the growth and transformation you experience.

👁️‍🗨️ Feel free to like and share to support this message.

Random messages from your future spouse 👁️‍🗨️🩶🪽

Pile 1

👁️‍🗨️ "I want you to know that no matter the challenges we face, we have the strength to overcome them together. You and I are a team, and I believe in us wholeheartedly."

👁️‍🗨️ "There will be moments when we both need to take a step back and recharge, but know that my love for you remains unwavering, and I will always be here when you're ready."

👁️‍🗨️ "I admire your patience and the way you see the world with such clarity. Sometimes, all it takes is a little shift in perspective to realize just how beautiful our journey is."

👁️‍🗨️"I can't wait for the day when we can share our hopes, dreams, and fears. You bring a light into my life that I never knew I needed, and I’m excited for all that's yet to come."

👁️‍🗨️ "Even when life seems uncertain, I trust that the path we are on is leading us exactly where we need to be. With you, I feel grounded, and I know together we can navigate anything."

👁️‍🗨️🩶🪽

Pile 2

🩶 "I can feel the deep connection we share, even in moments when we might be far apart. Our bond is something mysterious yet undeniable, and I’m so grateful to have you in my life. I can’t wait for the day when we can truly embrace everything we’ve built together."

🩶 "Every day with you feels like a beautiful adventure, like we’re discovering new layers of each other. I know that we’re meant to be together, and I’m ready for all the moments that will create our love story. I’ll always choose you."

🩶 "I want you to know that I see us building something real and lasting something we can celebrate together. When we’re united, the world feels so right. I’m already picturing the life we’ll create, full of love, joy, and fulfillment."

🩶 "There are times when I find myself needing solitude to understand more about what I want and how deeply I feel for you. But no matter where I go, I always find my thoughts circling back to you. You are my heart’s home, and I can’t wait for us to share that quiet, peaceful happiness together."

👁️‍🗨️🩶🪽

Pile 3

🪽 "I know we've both been through so much, and sometimes it feels like we're fighting an uphill battle, but I promise you, I’m not going anywhere. We’re in this together, and I’ll always stand by your side."

🪽 "Every moment I spend with you feels like a dream come true. You are my other half, the one I’ve always been searching for. There's such a deep connection between us, and I can’t wait to see what the future holds."

🪽 "When I think about our past, I smile. The memories we’re creating now will only grow more beautiful with time. I cherish everything about you, and I feel so grateful for how far we’ve come."

🪽 "The journey ahead excites me. We’ve both put in the work and have learned so much. Now, we’re on the verge of something wonderful, and I can’t wait to see where it leads us next."

🪽 "My heart overflows with love for you. It’s like a new chapter has begun for us, and everything just feels right. I’m ready to build a future filled with happiness, love, and endless possibilities with you."

👁️‍🗨️🩶🪽

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

if you wanna hurt think of a ominis fic where mc and sebastian sit him down and are like we want you to be godfather and if it's a girl we are naming it after your aunt if that's okay if it's a boy we are naming it after you.

smash cut to ugly crying

Namesake | Sebastian Sallow x OC

EEEEEK THIS WAS SO CUTE AND SOFT AND SWEET THANKS FOR THE IDEA ANON HOPE U LOVE IT

Words: ~2,000

Tags: Post Canon, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff, More Fluff

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline

Ominis Gaunt was a patient man.

At least, that’s what he told himself. Years of childhood conditioning had instilled in him the art of controlled silence, of waiting, of enduring. He could sit through excruciatingly long pure-blood dinner parties with nothing more than a polite nod and a thin, restrained smile. He could withstand the tension of courtroom proceedings without shifting in his seat. He had mastered the ability to conceal even the deepest of emotions behind an impassive mask, a skill that had served him well.

And yet, for all of his so-called patience, he was failing miserably at it now.

He had no idea why Evangeline and Sebastian had summoned him here tonight—only that it was "important," a word that, in Sebastian’s hands, could mean anything from we’ve uncovered a conspiracy at the Ministry to Evangeline finally perfected her bread recipe, and you’re going to sit here and eat it.

But this time, something about the request had set his nerves on edge.

Because he couldn't even guess what it was about. He had already endured the biggest shock of the decade when they'd told him Evangeline was pregnant—though, in retrospect, perhaps “shock” wasn’t the right word for it.

Shock implied surprise. Shock implied that this revelation had been something he had never considered before. And yet, Ominis had always known, in some quiet, unspoken way, that Sebastian and Evangeline would build this life together. Tat they were the kind of people who would find joy in something as terrifying and miraculous as a child.

So no, he hadn't been shocked.

But he had been thoroughly, playfully outraged that he'd been the last to know.

Because Anne hadn’t seemed remotely surprised. In fact, she had reacted with a knowing smile and absolutely none of the wide-eyed astonishment Ominis had expected, which, upon further interrogation, had quickly made sense.

Because of course Evangeline had gone to Anne first. Anne was a Healer, after all. If anyone was going to confirm the news, it was her.

"You mean to tell me that I was the last to find out?" he had asked, indignant.

Evangeline had only smiled, reaching out to squeeze his arm, her warmth cutting through his dramatic sulking. “I promise it wasn’t personal.”

Anne had snickered. “It’s a little personal.”

The four of them had laughed, and Ominis, despite himself, couldn’t find it in him to continue feigning irritation—not when Evangeline had looked so utterly happy, her fingers resting over her stomach in quiet wonder, and not when Sebastian had been seconds away from tearing up like a sentimental fool.

In fact, Ominis had been thrilled. Excited. And just a little bit terrified.

Because this was Sebastian and Evangeline they were talking about. A baby born to those two was bound to be either the most brilliant or the most dangerous child in existence. Possibly both. Ominis had already resigned himself to years of damage control, and the baby hadn’t even been born yet.

It had been weeks since then, though, and now that Ominis was here in their sitting room, he had no idea what to expect. Sebastian and Evangeline weren’t exactly the sit-you-down-for-a-serious-talk type. They were blunt and affectionate, prone to teasing and honesty without preamble. So the fact that they had summoned him for something—and without Anne, who was conveniently working late at St. Mungo’s—was making his nerves prickle.

“Alright,” he said carefully. “I can tell you’re both trying not to make me panic, which only makes me panic. Just get on with it, whatever it is.”

Evangeline and Sebastian exchanged a glance, and that was when Ominis knew he was well and truly doomed.

It wasn’t that they were being particularly suspicious—at least, not outwardly. But Ominis had spent years attuned to their every shift, their every nuance. He knew Sebastian’s nervous ticks just as well as he knew Evangeline’s soft hesitations, the way she measured her words when something truly mattered.

And that was what set him on edge.

Because Evangeline was measuring her words now.

She exhaled, slow and steady, then reached for Ominis's hand, her fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Warm. Steady. Comforting.

It did nothing to calm him.

"Ominis," she began, voice gentle but intent. "You know how much you mean to us. You always have."

That was it. The moment his stomach dropped.

This was bad.

There was a “but” coming—there had to be.

Because no one ever started a sentence like that without following it up with something dreadful. His entire childhood had been filled with those phrases. You know how much we care for you, Ominis, but your disobedience cannot go unpunished. You know you are valued, but your behavior has left us with no choice.

He braced himself. He clenched his free hand into tight fist in his lap, the tips of his fingers pressing into the fine wool of his trousers. He was sure he looked impassive, but internally, his mind was spiraling into the depths of every possible worst-case scenario.

Sebastian, for once in his life, wasn’t jumping in with some remark to defuse the tension. That was another bad sign.

"You're our family," Evangeline continued, squeezing his wrist lightly, her voice so full of certainty that it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. "And we trust you and Anne more than anyone."

Sebastian finally spoke then, a touch rougher than usual, as if he were trying to maintain his usual nonchalance but failing. “Which is why we... we want you to be our baby's godfather.”

Ominis froze.

The words should have made sense, but for some reason, his brain refused to process them.

"I—" He swallowed, utterly lost. "What?"

Evangeline let out a small breath of laughter, and Sebastian—Merlin damn him—sounded smug when he said, "You do know what a godfather is, don't you?"

Ominis turned his head toward Sebastian so fast it was a wonder he didn’t snap his own neck. He should have known—should have known—that even in a moment like this, Sebastian would find a way to be insufferable.

“I know what a godfather is,” Ominis bit out, his voice barely holding steady, “I just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face, trying to drag himself back to the present before his emotions completely derailed him

Sebastia, continued, as if he weren’t sending Ominis into the early stages of an emotional breakdown. "Well then, if... if you're willing, we truly can’t imagine anyone else."

Ominis’ lips parted, but no words came out. He felt like he was suffocating, but not in a bad way. More like… like he had been dropped into the middle of an ocean with no warning, waves closing over him before he could even breathe.

"And if it’s a girl," Evangeline said softly, hesitantly, "we were thinking of naming her Noctua. After your aunt."

It took all of Ominis’ control not to flinch.

Noctua. Noctua.

His aunt, the only person in his family who had ever shown him kindness, who had tried to help him, who had died trying to show him their family could be more. The only Gaunt he had ever loved.

His throat closed up.

"Only if you're okay with it," Evangeline added quickly, as if sensing the way his world had just tilted off its axis. "We don’t want to bring up painful memories, but—"

"I—" Ominis' voice cracked, and he had to take a moment to steady himself. His entire chest ached with something raw and terrible and beautiful. "I don't— I mean, I—"

And then Evangeline kept going, not knowing she was about to destroy him entirely.

"And if it’s a boy," she murmured, softer now, "we’d like to name him after you."

Silence.

It stretched thick and unrelenting, pressing against Ominis's ribs, filling his lungs with something he didn’t have the words for.

The first breath he took came out in a broken, stuttering gasp, and before he could even try to stop it, his face was in his hands, and—oh, Merlin, he was crying.

Not the kind of restrained, dignified tears he had occasionally let slip in private moments of grief.

No. This was ugly crying.

It was full-body, unrestrained sobbing, the kind that stole his breath, that made his shoulders shake and his chest hurt.

Somewhere through the haze of overwhelming emotion, he felt Evangeline shift, felt her arms wrap around him in a way that was warm and secure and safe. She murmured something soft, something meant to soothe, but the words were lost beneath the sharp, impossible ache of it all.

Sebastian, the bastard, let out a wet laugh. “Merlin, mate, we thought you’d be happy about it.”

Ominis tried—tried—to say something in response, but all that came out was another strangled, half-choked sound that barely resembled human speech. Which was fantastic. He was making an absolute spectacle of himself, and neither of them had the decency to pretend he wasn’t.

Sebastian squeezed his shoulder, his touch grounding but careful—a rarity for him—while Ominis buried his face further into his hands, laughing helplessly between broken sobs, and shook his head.

"I—I am happy, you idiot," he managed to choke out.

Sebastian let out another breath of laughter, this one softer.

"Good," Sebastian said again, his voice quieter now, like he was trying to play it off as casual, like he wasn’t two seconds away from getting choked up himself. But Ominis knew him too well—knew that the slight tremor in his voice, the way his fingers tightened against his shoulder, was just as much a betrayal of emotion as Ominis’ own wrecked state.

Evangeline still hadn't let go, her arms firm around him, her hand smoothing up and down his back in slow, grounding strokes. And Ominis—who had spent a lifetime holding himself apart, who had learned to flinch away from touch before he ever learned to accept it—could do nothing but sink into it.

Because it was safe. Because it was real.

Because it was his.

It was a family of his own making, built from the ruins of the past, from the people who had chosen him despite everything.

And it was the most precious thing he had ever been given.

Ominis took a shaking breath, tried to steady himself enough to speak properly. It didn’t quite work. "I—" He swallowed hard, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes like that might somehow stop the flood of tears. It didn’t. "You absolute nightmares."

Sebastian snorted, the sound thick with emotion. "Well, we're your nightmares."

Ominis let out something between a sob and a laugh, shaking his head. "I—Merlin’s beard, I don’t even know what to say."

"You don’t have to say anything," Evangeline murmured, like she was grateful for him, as if this hadn’t just completely undone him from the inside out.

Sebastian leaned back into the couch, sighing dramatically. "Yeah, the crying pretty much said it all."

Ominis didn’t even have the energy to glare at him. "Shut up."

Sebastian grinned, bumping their shoulders together, and Evangeline only held him closer.

[animentality]

I know x reader fans have always existed, and I don't generally mind them.

however I feel like the way they've overtaken fandom analysis/ shipping culture is an indication of the general decline of fandom communities.

they are normies, guys. I'm sorry.

it's not a slur, it's just a fact.

normies infiltrated fandom spaces because of covid.

they come in and just want to thirst after a particular character... and that's like. fine. of course it's fine it's always happened.

but they don't seem to actually care about the character being in character. nor does it really require any analysis of that character's motivations or story, or their relationship with others.

I know not everything HAS to relate to canon. like duh, we are here to make our own canon.

but come the fuck on. I go into a tag and it has a character tagged being some dommy daddy when that character is nothing like that in canon... and there's this line between making a character act a certain way bc that's your fetish, and completely ignoring who that character is entirely to the point where you could just replace their name with anyone else in any other show, and it wouldn't make a difference?

like that's... normie shit. it's people who do not think deeply or passionately about that media, it's just them having this surface level grasp of the physical attractiveness of the character.

and again. I'm not saying these people are stupid or whatever, just that the overabundance of this watered down ass content is an indicator of how much fandom has changed.

fans are not the socially awkward introverted queer voyeurs anymore, who enjoy fantasies and daydreaming about being someone else because of this disconnect with the self, or this fear of others that leads you to seek human connection in fiction.

they're the people who do just fine with other people ... and I'm not gatekeeping fandom from people who aren't socially awkward or anything.

but they come here, and they do shit like say you can't like this ship bc it's morally wrong .. you're not allowed to thirst after an 18 year old that makes you a pedophile... I'm 15 and I'm allowed to lust for Gojo but you a 25 year old woman, aren't allowed to write itafushi fanfiction.

go back to taxes and your job!!!

like that drives me fucking insane. these people want to insist they're not normies but they then go around insisting that being over 20 means you need to Work and Be a Normal Adult... bitch.

adults make fandoms. not you fucking children. you don't know how to build communities, you barely know how to make friends.

attacking people who like the same thing you do? is that what you think community building is?

oh this poor generation. anyway.

they come here and are disgusted by weird fetishes and obsessions. and by people sharing sexual headcanons or ideas about sexuality that make them uncomfortable because they've never ever been counter culture, they've never felt the need to go against the status quo.

they're cis straight girls/women mostly, whose mothers basically fuel the ya spicy romance booktok industry.

they're just younger and think it's trendier to be "in a fandom" than a fucking book club.

they're modern day bodice ripper fans... which again

would be so fucking fine, if they weren't doing the youth version of karening the fuck out.

and flooding the fandom with both hyper criticism of how you conduct your business AND an aggressive market for just imagining yourself with a character.

like fandom was originally just hyper passionate freaks.

they discussed movies and TV shows like life and death. they were fucking nuts but in the way where they needed to seek one another out, to share in this joyous sensation of being a freak obsessed with something beyond the point of reason.

now?

now it's like ... oh.

Sally from Bio thinks your love of Gaara is super creepy when you're 19. like what, are you a pedophile? why are you imagining him getting married to Naruto? are you a fucking pedophile who gets off to teens making out? they need to check your hard drive!!

like ok Sally.

ok.

I just think x reader is such a strong indicator of what kind of fan you are.

and if a fandom is mostly x reader... then it can't be that popular. it can't be a proper community.

how can it be?

it's as watered down and generic and bland as a marvel movie. it's stripped down of anything unique. it is pruned of controversy and humanity.

you are literally stripping yourself down into a non character.

you're not truly projecting yourself into a character, because the you that you read about is nothing. a placeholder. you are a passive observing robot who exists only in the form of a faceless and personality less entity.

and I don't get it.

what's the point then?

isn't fiction about realizing something about yourself or others

if your only manner of engaging is stripping yourself of personality... is it engagement at all?

or is it just more mindless consumption?

just watch law and order, man.

watch the good doctor or some shit on lifetime.

there's shows with passionate fanbases who theory craft and endlessly obsess with relationships and world building, and then there's shows with x reader only content and you know exactly why now.

[not-neverland06]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚕 𝚂𝚘𝚗

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: It's finally here, the fruits of my labor have finally come forth lol. I finally managed to get out those last few bits that I was struggling with so much. Turns out, finally getting on anti-depressants is actually a fucking game changer. Who knew?

I'd like to apologize for how long this took, but, also, I'd like to thank you all for being so supportive. I know there can be a lot of toxicity in fandoms, especially in fanfiction. I have been absolutely blessed with such wonderfully supportive, understanding, and kind readers. I want you to know that I do not take you guys for granted and absolutely love the small community I've found on here. Thank you all, and know that the epilogue is nearly finished and will be posted within the next 1-2 days, as I'm sure some of you will be wanting it after this one.

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: The end is nigh. Arthur feels it in the air, the broiling tension and building hostility within the gang. Their enemies are no longer their biggest problem. Instead, they have to worry about each other now. There's betrayal at every turn and Arthur is stuck in the middle of it all, pulled incessantly between two worlds. His old life as an outlaw, and the possibility of a new one with you.

You heave the hog off your shoulder and drop it onto Pearson’s table with a heavy thud. The legs creak under the weight, groaning as though they might give way. For a moment, you hover, watching the table tremble before it steadies. Satisfied, you take a step back.

Pearson ambles out of his tent, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He spots the hog, and his face twists into a suspicious scowl. “What the hell is that?”

You give a faint grin, more out of habit than humor. “Helped a farmer down the road. Didn’t have the coin to pay me, so he gave me one of his prize hogs.”

Pearson’s frown deepens, his lips twitching as though he’s struggling to process the situation. After a beat, he shrugs. “Alright, fine.”

You scoff, the lack of gratitude digging under your skin. Would it kill him to crack a smile? Shaking your head, you turn away, irritation simmering as you leave him to his work. Maybe you’ll go for another ride tonight—most likely camping out under the stars. Anything to clear your head.

You’ve still got a few hours before sunset, so you mull over how to kill the time. A race with Sadie might do the trick. The familiar sound of hooves splashing through the mud catches your attention. Normally, you’d ignore it, but a sudden commotion pulls your focus.

Mrs. Grimshaw’s gasp pierces the air, her hands clasped over her mouth in shock. Frowning, you follow her gaze, your stomach twisting as you spot riders approaching. Their faces are blurry in the distance, but something about the way they move makes your chest tighten. Stepping closer, your heart drops like a stone.

Dutch is at the head of the group, leading his men back into camp. Those who’d been on the ferry are all there, alive and well—except for one. The absence burns hotter than the sun on your back. Anger flares like wildfire in your chest, threatening to consume you.

The others cheer and laugh, crowding around the returning riders. Your gaze locks with Micah’s, and your teeth clench so hard it hurts. Dark circles frame his eyes, and he coughs into a bloodied cloth. The sight of him—the fact that this bastard gets to live while Arthur doesn’t—is enough to make you sick.

You turn away sharply, unable to stomach the celebration. Across the camp, your eyes meet Sadie’s. She’s leaning against the cabin, her face a mask of restrained fury. The sight of Dutch soaking up the adoration like a starving dog gnaws at what’s left of your patience.

You can feel it slipping away—your peace, your freedom. Dutch’s return threatens to drag it all back into the muck. But not this time. You swear it, not this time.

Dutch Van der Linde isn’t your leader. He isn’t your friend or your family. He’s nothing but a man who takes and takes until there’s nothing left.

Your gaze hardens on his back, your lips curling in quiet defiance. Tonight, you’re leaving—for good. Damn the gang. Damn this camp. And damn Dutch Van der Linde.

Arthur finds Diablo waiting for him at Shady Belle, as though the horse knew exactly where he’d return. He walks up to him, rubbing the horse’s nose gently. He finds an apple and gives it to Diablo, relishing in the familiar connection.

He’d known, deep down, when he was on his way here, that the gang wouldn’t be around. There was no way they could stay near St. Denis after what happened. Still, when he doesn’t see you immediately, the gut-deep ache doesn’t fade, even if he’d expected it. 

The note Sadie leaves is easy enough to figure out. Going off the hooves circling around the house, he’s sure the men who were ahead of him discovered the location too. Mounting Diablo and riding off toward camp is such an achingly familiar feeling it almost hurts. After weeks in Guarma, scorched by the sun and tortured by corrupt politicians, riding Diablo feels like a return to something sacred, something he can’t quite explain.

Reacclimating himself to the feeling of riding a horse isn’t an arduous task, but it is uncomfortable at first. He’d walked across every inch of Guarma, then spent weeks on a boat. It’s been so long since he felt the freedom of the open plains.

 Arthur looks toward the horizon, to the setting sun and the golden light casting its net across the world before him. It won’t be much longer until he’s back with you. He’s almost looking forward to hearing you say ‘I told you so.’

It’s not much longer before he’s riding through the muddy puddles in front of the cabins deep in the moors. Sadie is the first to see him. Her head is ducked, eyes down as she speaks in hushed whispers with you. Your back is to him and he doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not. The idea of a reunion has felt like a distant dream, he’s not sure if he’s truly ready to see you again. 

Sadie’s head lifts slightly, eyes locking on his. Her face goes slack with shock, cheeks pale, and eyes wide. “Sadie?” You ask, and your voice is like a balm over all his aches and pains. “What is it?” You don’t look,as stubborn as ever, you nudge at Sadie’s shoulder, waiting for an answer.

She spares you a brief glance as Arthur dismounts, eyes still stuck on him. “Turn your ass around and look,” she demands, her voice a mix of disbelief and wonder.

Arthur doesn’t notice the way Sadie throws herself at him, her arms wrapping around him, pulling back, and slapping his shoulder. He’s too focused on you. Your shoulders are stiff, fists curled tight like you know he’s there but can’t bear to turn around. In all his time thinking of this moment, of seeing you again. He’d forgotten something very important. 

Finally, you turn around. Arthur grins, the relief in his chest rising. “Well?” He teases, arms open wide as he narrows his eyes at you. “Aren’t you gonna say hi?”

You don’t answer, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you look close to tears. Arthur’s brow furrows in confusion. He thought you’d at least look happy to see him. “Arthur Morgan,” Sadie chides from beside him, though her grin betrays her. “I thought you were dead, you bastard.”

Arthur feels his heart drop, finally realizing why you’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost. He was gone for weeks, last you heard he’d been on a ship. And word had probably gotten around that they’d been shipwrecked. Weeks without word, the shipwreck, and the rumors that must’ve circulated. He hadn’t thought for a second that you might actually believe he’d left you behind. After the way you’d parted, he supposes he didn’t do enough to convince you otherwise.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, chest clenching tight, “I-” 

You take quick steps toward him, boots splashing through the mud. He mutters your name lowly, an apology and a promise laced between the syllables. You suck in a sharp breath and he thinks you might hug him. Before he can say anything else, his head is whipping to the side, cheek stinging. 

Your hand lingers in the air for a moment, as if still caught in disbelief. You stare at him, your eyes wide, voice trembling. “Arthur?” you whisper, your words barely audible, your face crumpling under the weight of the truth.

You surge forward, grabbing the collar of his tattered shirt and dragging him down. You surge up, pressing your lips to his with a desperation that nearly matches his own. He can taste the salt of your tears as you kiss him, the way they streak down your cheeks. 

Arthur’s heart drops. He’s used to being a disappointment to the people around him. He’s experienced this a hundred times. His relationship with Mary was no exception, he should be used to this pain by now. But knowing he’s failed you, makes it hurt worse than it ever has before. Arthur grabs you by the waist, desperate to make up for everything. He pulls you as close as he can get, pressing his lips to yours. 

You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, desperation nearly a physical thing as you return his touch. You hold each other as though this kiss could somehow erase the weeks of suffering you’d both endured.

He doesn’t want to let go again. Arthur never wants to see that heartbroken look on your face. And he doesn’t ever want to be the cause for it, not anymore. The ache in his chest loosens as he breathes you in like you’re the only air he’ll ever need. Arthur won’t let you go again, he swears it to himself, because he knows you won’t ever believe him again.

You and Arthur sit toward the back of the cabin, away from the heart of the gathering. Everyone had been thrilled to see him alive, their greetings warm yet subdued, their relief tempered by everything they’d been through in his absence. 

Your hand rests loosely in his, a token of comfort you hardly seem aware of offering. Arthur studies your face as you listen to Dutch’s grand retelling of Guarma, your narrowed eyes betraying the skepticism simmering beneath your otherwise still expression. Each time Dutch embellishes a detail, you flick your gaze toward Arthur, silently searching his expression for the truth. The scrutiny makes Arthur shift uncomfortably, though he knows it’s not unwarranted.

“I truly do not know how you all made out so well here.” Dutch comments, lips curled slightly as he glances around at the thick layers of dust and dirt coating the walls 

Tilly grins eagerly, motioning toward you and Sadie. “It was all Mrs. Rowe and Sadie, they found this place. They been taking care of everything.” 

Arthur’s brows furrow as he watches a sheepish smile grow on your face. He squeezes your hand and you glance toward him. He lifts his brow in question and you nod your head. “Ain’t been doin’ much,” you tell him, shrugging. 

Sadie must hear you because she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You kiddin’ me? Once you finally stopped mopin’, you were the only reason we didn’t all lose our minds.” Your smile tightens, the edges hardening as your shoulders stiffen.

“Well,” Dutch interrupts smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension. He fixes you with a look, and you straighten under his gaze. “I suppose I should thank the both of you for holding things together.”

“Suppose you should,” you reply sharply, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Or maybe you could apologize for that half-assed plan that got us stuck in this mess in the first place.”

Arthur’s hand tightens on yours, his voice low and warning. “Don’t—”

You whip around, glaring at him, and he’s startled by the fire in your eyes. Without a word, you yank your hand free and stand. Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Dutch steps forward, his gaze narrowed in on you.

The tension is interrupted by the door bursting open behind Dutch. Bill stumbles in, his face red and sweaty. “Go’damn!” he bellows, his chest heaving. “I’ve been lookin’ for you all damn day. Had to ask every soul in town where the hell you were.”

Arthur’s gut twists. He bolts to his feet, striding toward you and Bill. “What’dya mean you asked around town?”

Bill falters, his face draining of color. His lips part as if to speak, but the words are stolen by a booming voice from outside.

“This is Agent Milton,” the voice calls. The blood drains from Arthur’s face as he grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. “You have one minute to surrender before my men decide to take you in dead.”

“Dammit, Bill, you fool,” Arthur growls, the words biting through clenched teeth. His mind races as he grips your arm firmly. He knows the men outside won’t hesitate. They aren’t the type to spare the women or the children. They’ll gun you down just for being around him and the others. He tugs you closer, instinct has him shielding you from the chaos as best he can. 

Milton doesn’t wait for the countdown. “Forget it,” he barks. “Start shooting.”

The first bullets shatter the cabin’s windows, sending shards of glass spraying like rain. Arthur curls his body around yours, as the rest of the gang scatters, some diving to the floor, others scrambling for cover. A lamp explodes nearby, and the oil catches fire, dripping to the floor and licking at the walls.

Arthur’s focus is on you, but you’ve already moved. You duck and grab a rifle from beneath a cot, slinging it over your shoulder. There’s no hesitation, no look back for approval. You dart toward the door, your movements swift and purposeful.

“Wait, dammit, don’t!” Arthur shouts, but you’re already outside, firing before the Pinkertons can adjust their aim. The sun has dipped below the fire, he only spots you through flashes of bullets and the fire steadily growing behind him. He tugs his revolver out, shooting wildly, the Pinkertons are swarming out of the forest like wolves, there's no point in aiming now.

Arthur follows along behind you, taking cover behind a wagon as some of the others pick up their own guns. He spots Sadie running past him, shouting something indecipherable as she takes out the Maxim gun. Blood flies as bullets make their marks, after weeks on a boat it almost feels foreign to feel the warmth of someone else’s life pressing against him. 

Through the chaos, he watches you move with precision, directing shots with a cold efficiency that makes his chest tighten. You’re not the woman he left behind. You’re faster, bolder, and sharper, your confidence and stupidity is clear as you throw yourself into the center of danger, taking aim at some of the men on the roofs of the cabins. 

Arthur sees another man creeping up behind you. His gun has been abandoned somewhere, he only has a machete in his hand now, arm arcing down toward your head. Weeks without practice might have left him slower than he used to be, but he’s still quick enough to shoot the blade out of the man’s hand. 

You flinch at the shot, whipping around with a pinched expression. The attacker shouts, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. Without hesitation, you rise and swing the butt of your rifle at the back of his skull. The man crumples face-first into the mud, lifeless. You don’t even look at him again, your focus snapping back to the fight as you resume shooting, each shot clean and deliberate.

The tide of the fight begins to shift. Once Sadie got ahold of the maxim, the Pinkertons had no choice but to start their retreat. Even outnumbered fifty to one, the gang still has some fight left in them. But it’s a fragile victory, and Arthur knows it won’t last.

He weaves his way toward you, his mind racing, but you speak first before he can get a word out.

“They’ll regroup,” you say, your voice firm but low. “We need to track them into the woods, pick them off before they get away.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “What’re you talkin’ about?” His voice is sharper than he intends. “You’re stayin’ right here. You hear me? I’ll deal with it.”

Your face screws up and it’s the first time you’ve given him a glance of the anger that had been burning under the surface. You go silent, lips set in a firm line before you glance over his shoulder. “They’re getting away,” you tell him quietly. “You can stay here if you want, but I’m going after the rest with Sadie and Charles.” 

You move around him without waiting for a response, your rifle brushing his arm in a way that feels deliberate, distant. The message is clear: you no longer need his protection. Arthur watches, stunned, as you stride toward the others.

For a moment, he stands frozen, the weight of the realization sinking in. The way you fight now, the fire in your eyes, the complete lack of hesitation, it’s all different. You’ve become someone who doesn’t need him, someone who’s learned to stand alone.

His chest tightens as he mounts Diablo, his gaze flickering toward you one last time before spurring the horse forward. He’ll follow the Pinkertons like you suggested. But even as he rides, a different battle churns inside him.

This isn’t something a few dead Pinkertons will fix. The distance between you both is growing and for the first time, Arthur feels powerless to stop it.

Dutch moved them down to Beaver Hollow, it’s a nice enough spot near the base of the mountains. The only problem is a bad brood of folk called the Murfree’s. A bunch of animals masquerading as men, cannibalizing people, and taking women without a care. Arthur hates the idea of you being anywhere near them. He’s doing his best to keep you in camp and you don’t argue. Arthur’s surprised at your easygoing obedience after what happened at the other camp. 

He’s getting worried about you. You’re quiet more often than not, you don’t bite back at Dutch or Micah like you usually would. And you’re more on edge than he’s ever seen you. He tries to talk to you about it, to understand what’s going on with you, but you won’t tell him. 

You always just say you’re worried about what’s going to happen when everything finally goes wrong. He thinks he knows what you mean, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Too many times has he been told that the reign of outlaws is over. There’s no room left for them anymore. 

When he was a boy, he would have thought that the time of outlaws was immortal. It’s easy when you’re young and foolish to think that you’re invincible, that nothing can ever touch you. He sees everything coming close to an end now, though. Despite the elation of their return back to a land they know, nothing’s the same. 

Micah’s only gotten worse since they returned from their shipwrecked time in Guarma. He’s always coughing, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. A doctor down in St. Denis told him it was tuberculosis a while back, Arthur knows that their time on the island only further agitated the disease. Since then, he’s been angrier, always whispering in Dutch’s ear. 

And Dutch, he won’t listen to Arthur anymore. Since the Pinkertons turned up at the cabins, he has it in his head that everyone’s a traitor. The only person he’ll trust is the one whispering poison into his ear. It drives Arthur mad. He keeps trying to get Dutch to tell him what’s going to happen next but he just says the same thing every time. “I have a plan, Arthur. Don’t you trust me?”

Before Guarma, before the O’Driscolls, before you, he would have said yes in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t trust him anymore, he can’t. Not after Dutch left him for dead, and then Sean and John. Sadie and Arthur had to go bust them both out of the chain gang they’d been working at in jail. It had been a mess and a half but when they’d returned to camp the only thing Dutch had to say was, “I had a plan.”

He’d been angry at them for rescuing the men and Arthur couldn’t understand why. He never would have left them to rot if Hosea were still here. 

The thought of the old man’s death leaves an ache in Arthur’s chest. He keeps picturing him lying on the St. Denis road, bleeding out. He knows Dutch couldn’t have done a damn thing about it, that bastard Milton was never going to spare him. But, if he had been given the opportunity to save Hosea by turning himself in, Arthur knows he wouldn’t have taken the chance. Dutch has grown selfish and arrogant, prioritizing himself over the rest of the gang and it only makes Arthur’s resentment grow. 

Still, he can’t help but see him as the man who’d taken him off the streets. Dutch and Hosea had taught him how to shoot, how to read and write. They’re the reason he knows how to hunt and make it on his own in the wild. How can he turn against the man who raised him to be who he is today?

You shift restlessly beside him, turning out of his hold and onto your side. Arthur frowns at the action, placing a light hand on your arm. You don’t shrug out from under his touch but you don’t reciprocate. You’ve turned cold and it’s only making everything harder. 

“I want to leave,” you whisper, and he startles slightly, thinking you’ve been asleep this whole time. 

“Huntin’?” Even as he speaks, he knows it’s not what you want, but he tries anyway. 

You scoff, the noise bitter and angry. “No.” You tell him shortly, tone clipped as you rise from the cot. Without another glance at him, you start changing out of your nightgown. Arthur sits up slowly, watching you. He doesn’t know what he’s done to spark this sudden shift in you, but the tension is near suffocating. “You have to see it, Arthur,” you say, pulling up your pants and tightening the belt. You glance over your shoulder, your expression is expectant, almost pleading. 

He lets out a rough sigh, figuring that there’s no chance of convincing you to rest a little longer. “See what?” He asks, dragging his hand over the stubble on his jaw. A low groan slips from his lips as he gets to his feet, back protesting at the too-small cot. 

“This,” you motion wildly, arms swinging out towards the camp that waits outside the closed flaps of his tent. “All of this, Arthur. It’s coming to an end. I can feel it,” you tell him, voice impassioned with fear and urgency. “There’s only so far we can run.”

Arthur looks away from you, shrugging on his shirt. “I know it’s hard right now. But Dutch-”

“Has a plan?” You snap, taking a step closer to him. Your brows knit tightly together, anger burning hot behind your eyes. You swat his hands away as he fumbles with a button, doing his shirt up for him. Even in your frustration, you can’t help but help him. It’s oddly endearing, despite the tension yawning between you. “He’s gonna get us to Tahiti?” You scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm as you roll your eyes. You smooth out his collar before stepping back, movements curt and precise.  

He reaches forward, hands catching your waist and tugging you back toward him before you can get far. You don’t meet his eyes, stubbornly looking away, but you don’t stop him from pulling you closer. 

“We’ll leave,” your head whips towards him, face lighting up with hope. He winces, wishing he was more clever with his words. “For a few days,” he clarifies and your eyes narrow into irritated slits. 

“I promise, what happened in St. Denis isn’t going to ever happen again.” He needs you to believe him, to understand just how much of a fool he felt like getting on that boat with Dutch. They hadn’t truly had another choice, but if he had a chance to do it all again he would have ran away with Charles. He never would have even left you at camp. 

“After a certain point, Arthur,” you squeeze his hand in yours and he feels just a little bit of relief at you finally returning his touch. “Your promises stop meaning much when you don’t keep them,” you slip out of his hold and his face falls flat, chest caving slightly. “But, sure, we’ll leave for a few days,” you shake your head, slipping out from his tent as he stares at the spot you’d once occupied. 

How had things gotten so bad?

“And where are you going, Mrs. Rowe?”

Arthur turns toward the sound of Dutch’s voice, spotting him standing near Pearson’s station. He looks for all the world like he’s at ease, but the tense set of his shoulders and twitch at the corners of his lips betray him. Arthur’s gaze shifts to you, standing by Lady, one hand gripping the reins of the restless mare.

“For a ride,” you say curtly, your tone flat and face pointedly blank. “What’s it look like?”

Arthur’s stomach knots as he notices the tension in the air. You’re already gripping the horn of Lady’s saddle, pulling yourself up with practiced ease. Arthur watches as you glance down at Dutch, your expression hardening and eyes slit in challenge. 

Dutch steps closer, his mouth curving into a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I understand things were run a little differently while we were gone. But I don’t think you going out alone is what’s smart right now-”

“Frankly, Mr. Van der Linde,” you interrupt, voice laced with venom, “I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m going for a ride.”

Arthur watches the muscle in Dutch’s jaw tighten, the flare of his nostrils betraying his irritation. Dutch turns to him, his eyes sharp, searching Arthur’s face for the usual complacent obedience.

Arthur whistles, and Diablo trots up to him obediently. Swinging into the saddle, he shoots you a quick look. “You heard the lady. We’re goin’ for a ride.”

The trail you lead him down is unfamiliar, winding through thick trees and rocky inclines. Arthur catches himself stealing glances at you- the way you sit tall in the saddle, the ease with which you guide Lady over uneven terrain. He tries to meet your eye, but each time, you only offer him small, polite smiles. They feel hollow, and it gnaws at him.

The silence stretches, prickling at his nerves. Finally, he speaks, voice cutting through the suffocating stillness. “Alright. Where are we goin’?”

You glance at him briefly, nodding toward the mountains in the distance. “Meeting up with Charles and the local tribe. I’ve helped them hunt a few times, but,” you trail off slightly, voice growing heavy, “they’ve been having problems.”

Arthur raises a brow. “Problems?”

You hesitate, your jaw tightening. “With the military,” you admit.

He doesn’t feel like you’re telling the whole truth and he can’t help but prod you further. “What kind of problems?”

You let out a frustrated sigh, shifting in your saddle. “The kind Dutch has been making worse.” You shoot him a pointed look and his jaw clenches at the blame lurking in your gaze. “He’s been riling up the chief’s son, getting him involved in jobs he shouldn’t.”

Arthur’s frown deepens, his brows furrowed as he struggles to think of Dutch’s reasoning for getting involved with the local tribe. Though, it’s not as if he’s been involving him in many plans lately. “Why would Dutch do that?”

Your head snaps toward him, your eyes filled with pent-up ire that’s been waiting to spill over. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Hey, now,” Arthur objects defensively, his tone growing just as sharp as yours. “I’m just askin’ a question.”

You fall silent, your expression flattening as you look ahead again. The weight of your resentment�� hangs heavy between you, unspoken but undeniable. Arthur feels it like a stone in his chest, and it makes his teeth grind.

Arthur isn’t sure what he expected, but the sight before him twists his gut. Women huddle around children, feeding them thin soup from chipped bowls. Elderly men and women cough into bloodstained rags, their frail bodies barely covered by thin blankets. The air smells of sickness and desperation.

Arthur glances at you, but you’re already dismounting and striding toward the center of the settlement. Despite the distrustful stares from the tribe members, you move with purpose, your shoulders squared.

Charles stands near an older man, his voice low but urgent. Arthur catches the tail end of the conversation. “…my people will not survive this much longer,” the man says, his voice weary but resolute.

Arthur follows behind you as you approach. The man carries himself with a quiet strength, but his face is lined with worry and it’s ageing him by the minute. There’s a glint of familiarity in his eyes as you approach and he nods his head in greeting.

“Arthur, this is Rains Fall, he’s the chief of this tribe,” you explain to Arthur, introducing the two. “He-”

“I know you,” Rains Fall interrupts, still looking at Arthur. “You were there in the city. Your leader was meant to help my people.” He shakes his head, and Arthur sees the pain of being betrayed one too many times in the old man’s face. “Now the military is holding our medicine hostage.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens as he takes in the scene. It’s worse than he imagined. He’s heard the stories—the government stealing land, taking children—but seeing it up close is something else entirely. 

Being associated with Dutch has never brought about anything but pride. But standing here, seeing the people he’s taking advantage of, he’s overcome with shame. Rains Fall speaks again, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. “If we cannot retrieve the vaccines soon, we will lose many more. My people are already weakened.”

Arthur looks to Charles, who meets his gaze with grim determination. “We’re going to get the medicine back.” he tells him, and Arthur knows that you’re going to help, whether he wants you to or not. “The officer’s camp isn’t too much further down the mountain. But we can’t risk this looking like the tribe’s retaliating, it’s why I need your help, Arthur.”

Arthur and Charles are close, perhaps not as close as they should be. But they respect one another. Right now, Charles isn’t just asking for a favor, he’s asking for the help of a friend. Of a brother. And Arthur won’t allow himself to keep disappointing the people he cares about. 

Arthur nods, his decision immediate. But the truth burns in his chest: Dutch’s hand is in this. Somehow, the man he once idolized has turned these people’s suffering into a means to an end.

He glances at you, and your expression says it all. This is what you’ve been trying to warn him about. The look you give him is sharp, almost scolding, as if to say I told you so. Arthur doesn’t have the words to argue—not this time.

The conversation with Rains Fall and Charles winds down, and the three of you prepare to part ways. Arthur adjusts his hat, turning toward you. “You comin’?”

You pause, exchanging a glance with Charles. The look between you is brief but meaningful, and Arthur feels a pang of something he can’t quite name.

“We’ll catch up,” you say simply, your tone dismissive.

Arthur hesitates, searching your face for… something. An explanation? Reassurance? But you’ve already turned away, speaking quietly with Charles. He lingers for a moment longer, then mounts Diablo.

Arthur finds himself screwing up more often than not lately. But letting Dutch know about the plans for the tribe, has to be one of the stupider things he’s ever done. Dutch wants to get involved, of course, for the good of the natives, he claims. Arthur knows him, though, he knows it’s more than that. 

Together, they go and find Eagle Flies, the chief’s son. He’s already with his own band of men, each of them young and healthy, the few fighters their tribe has left. Their plan to get the medicine back, to stick it to the military, is far more violent and grand than yours and Charles had been. 

“This is the dumbest idea I have ever heard,” Arthur tells Eagle Flies, glaring down at the dynamite in his hand. He turns toward Dutch, expression disbelieving, “I can’t believe you’re encouragin’ this!”

“Encouraging what, Arthur? These young men to fight for their home, their land back. I’m disappointed in you son,” Dutch chides, and the way he says son rubs Arthur the wrong way. “I thought you, of all people, would support a cause such as this.”

“I support the cause,” Arthur snaps, snatching the dynamite out of Eagle Flies hand, “but I cannot support acting like damn fools and getting yourselves killed.” He turns toward the boy, imploring him to see reason, not to listen to Dutch’s silver tongue. “My friend has a plan for your people, he can get the medicine back. And he can do it without getting anyone killed.”

“What is the point in that?” Eagle Flies growls, taking the dynamite back from Arthur. “You want us to just lay down, belly up like dogs and let these men take everything from us? You would have us stay quiet instead of fighting back? The only way your people hear us, is if we make ourselves loud.”

He steps back, looking around Arthur to Dutch. “Tonight, we’re going to their camp and we will send them a proper message. You can join us or not,” he snaps, storming back toward his men. 

“Dutch-”

“I’m disappointed in you, Arthur,” Dutch starts, shaking his head as he makes his way back to the horses. “Not just for this, but for how you’ve been acting lately.”

Arthur stops in front of Diablo, eyes narrowed on Dutch, “And how have I been actin’?” He snaps, tired of the superiority that Dutch carries himself with, as if he’s not trying to get these boys killed. 

Dutch stares down at him, distrust and suspicion lingering between the both of them, “Like someone I can’t trust.”

“Well,” Arthur shakes his head and mounts Diablo. “I guess we both feel the same, then.”

Charles is furious as Arthur tells him Eagle Flies plan to blow up the military encampment and steal back not just the vaccines, but the deed to their people’s land. “We had a plan,” Charles shouts, the first time Arthur has ever truly seen him lose his temper.

“Arthur,” you start, letting out a low sigh. “Why did you tell him?” He doesn’t need you to say his name for him to know who you’re talking about. 

“I thought,” he can’t finish his sentence. Too ashamed of what the end might be. He thought that, maybe, you were all wrong, that Dutch could still be relied on. That the man he once knew was still in there somewhere. It felt too childish to admit out loud. 

“We’ll need the others,” you start when it's clear Arthur doesn’t have a reasonable excuse. “We won’t be able to stop Eagle Flies on our own. Especially not if he actually picks a fight with the military.”

It doesn’t take long to gather the rest of the gang, some of them ready to join Dutch as he goes to see Eagle Flies. But Arthur knows that he’s doing this for the wrong reason. He doesn’t understand what Dutch thinks he can gain from exploiting the tribe, and he knows that Dutch is never going to share it with him. 

The ride toward the military encampment is quiet, the tension thick enough to choke on. Eagle Flies and the other men are already moving around the area when they arrive, dynamite placed and ready to ignite. Their faces are set with the determined fury of men ready to face death. 

Charles brings Taima to a harsh stop and swings down before she’s fully still. He heads straight toward Eagle Flies, face tight with anger. “What the hell are you doing?” He demands, voice sharp as he jerks the boy forward by his arm. “We had a plan! Your father-”

“My father would do nothing!” He snaps, ripping his arm out of Charles's grasp. His hands ball into tight fists at his side, as though he’s prepared to take his anger out on anyone close enough. “He waits, and we die slow. The army has taken everything from us, and you want me to stand by and watch?”

Arthur dismounts from Diablo, mud splashing around his boots as they hit the ground. “You blow this place sky-high, you think they’re just gonna walk away? They’ll come down even harder on your people.”

Eagle Flies’ expression flickers for a brief moment, the weight of his father’s disappointment visible in the tightness of his jaw. Before he can respond, a sharp sound cracks through the night. Everyone turns to face it as another breaks the silence. A gunshot, clear as day. 

Chaos erupts instantly, soldiers startling from their tents and returning from their watch along the treeline. They run forward, rifles raised, gunfire already ringing out through the night. “Shit!” Arthur curses, reaching for his revolver. 

As he turns to run for cover, the rest of the gang scattering, he realizes that he can’t find Dutch. He doesn’t want to assume the worst, he can’t. But he wasn’t beside Arthur when the first shot rang out, and the soldiers didn’t even know they were there yet. 

He doesn’t have time to linger on the thought as the first explosion detonates prematurely. A fireball launches to the sky, the ground below him shaking as though it’s about to split open. The horses make a run for it, bucking off riders and racing for cover. Shouted orders and screams become one cacophony as he finds cover. He fires from behind a stack of crates, bullets disappearing into the dark of the night, but the return fire is relentless. 

Arthur has lost sight of everyone, you, Charles, he sees no one except the soldiers bearing down on him. 

He grits his teeth and keeps shooting, even as the fire begins to spread across the dry grass and smoke fills his lungs. He sees one, two, three men drop before he’s forced to reload. As he turns, he spots Dutch nearby, moving through the smoke and fire with a calculated calm. For a brief moment, Arthur feels a flash of relief, if only to see one familiar face. 

Then, something slams into him. He’s knocked to the dirt, teeth rattling from the force. A soldier grapples Arthur and raises his arm, a knife flashing in the firelight as he swings it toward Arthur’s throat. He catches his wrist just in time, muscles straining and breath ragged as he holds the soldier back. The blade trembles inches from his neck, the soldier’s weight pressing him further into the suffocating earth. 

“Dutch!” Arthur chokes out, struggling to keep the knife at bay. “Dutch, help me!”

He sees Dutch stop and turn to face him. The gunshots have lessened, soldiers dropping to the ground like flies as the gang swarms over them. Dutch has nothing to worry about as he watches Arthur. Yet, his eyes are unreadable, cold in a way Arthur has never seen before. He looks at Arthur for a long time. Then he turns. 

And runs. 

Arthur’s grip slips, for a horrifying second, he nearly lets the knife drive through his throat. The shock and betrayal hits him like a punch to the gut. But before the knife can land, a wet, gurgling sound fills the air. The soldier jerks, eyes going wide and face paling as blood spills from his lips. 

Eagle Flies stands behind him, his knife buried deep in the man’s throat. He rips it out without a care and the body slumps to the ground. Arthur remains in a state of shock as Eagle Flies offers his hand. He hesitates, only for a second, before grasping it and hauling himself to his feet. He barely has a moment to catch his breath before another shot rings out. 

Eagle Flies gasps, his body jerking to the side as blood blossoms from his ribs. “No!” Arthur shouts, whipping around and putting a bullet between the eyes of the soldier who fired the shot. The man drops, but Arthur barely pays attention as he turns back to the boy. He grabs Eagle Flies as he wavers, slinging his arm over his shoulder. 

“Come on, kid. We’re gettin’ outta here,” he swears. Eagle Flies groans in pain but doesn’t argue. Arthur grits his teeth, half-dragging and half-carrying him away from the battlefield, bullets whizzing past him. 

He stumbles through the trees as the soldiers scream, wildfire consuming them quicker than his revolver ever would. He hears your voice over the sounds of death, sharp with desperation. “Where’s Arthur?” You shout and he lifts his head. You stand by the horses, face tight with worry and finger twitching close to the trigger. 

Dutch stands in front of you, expression impassive. “Where the hell is he?” You demand, stepping back from Dutch and raising the rifle to be level with his face. 

“Here,” Arthur calls out before you put a bullet in the man’s skull. You spin, your relief immediate but fleeting as your eyes fall on Eagle Flies slumped in his arms. Charles steps forward, his face contorting with grief as he looks at the boy. 

Arthur meets Dutch’s eye, something flickers in the man’s expression, something that could be shame if Arthur didn’t know better. He stares at him, and for the first time, he sees Dutch for what he truly is. A liar, a coward. And a man who would leave him to die. 

“I’m takin’ him home,” he turns his back to Dutch and prepares for the long ride back. 

He pushes Diablo faster than he ever has, heels digging into the shire’s side as he pushes him over the edge. Eagle Flies is only getting weaker and he can’t return another dead son to Rains Fall. He can’t be the reason that the rest of his family dies. 

He knows, though, that there is no chance of survival for a wound like Eagle Flies. No herbal remedy or medicine could fix this. But the least he could do is give them one last moment together. 

When he rides back onto the reservation, Rains Fall is already waiting to greet them. He rushes forward, face stricken as he sees his son slumped against Arthur’s back. Charles walks over, helping Arthur gently lower Eagle Flies from his horse. 

Rains Fall kneels beside his son, quickly scooping him into his arms and pressing his forehead to his. Eagle Flies is too weak for words by this point, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxes into his father’s embrace. 

“You brought him back,” Rains Fall murmurs, his voice breaking. Arthur nods, not trusting himself to speak. The chief closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, they’re wet with sorrow. “This land will never be safe for us. We must go. Find somewhere else to settle.”

Arthur looks away, knowing nothing he could say would ever fix this. He could never salve over a wound like this with something as trivial as empty promises or kind words. You and Charles stand at his side, watching Eagle Flies take in his last shuddering breath. The disappointment is palpable. 

He can’t face it any longer. Can’t face the death or the grief that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Without a word, Arthur mounts his horse and rides off into the night, leaving the weight of it all behind him. 

And he knows, deep in his very soul, that nothing will ever be the same again. 

The trail lightens as the sun begins to rise. The sounds of the reservation fade behind him, swallowed by the rustling trees and the distant call of an owl. He rides without direction, without thought, just the steady rhythm of Diablo’s hooves against the earth, carrying him further from everything he no longer knows how to fix.

Then, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Oh!” Someone shouts from the trees, “You goddamn, useless,” the man’s voice trails off into a series of expletives that’s too quick for Arthur to make out. Face pinched in confusion, he nudges Diablo forward, leading him towards the man. 

An old man stands in the middle of a clearing, hopping around on one leg, fist waving wildly in the air as he curses to himself. Arthur chuckles to himself, watching the man plop to the ground with a huff. He reaches down and rolls his pant leg up, revealing a stump where his leg should be. 

Arthur frowns, slipping off Diablo and moving closer to the stranger. He’s barely got a chance to greet him before the man's whipping out his revolver, eyes narrowed in suspicion as Arthur approaches. 

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, sonny.” The man tells him, pulling back the hammer of the gun. 

Arthur puts his hands up in surrender, shaking his head, “I’m not lookin’ to cause any. Only wanted to see if you needed any help.”

The man’s eyes turn into thin slits, lips pursed as he eyes Arthur up and down. He looks the part of an outlaw, but right now the stranger doesn’t have much choice but to trust him. He lets out a heavy sigh and puts his gun down. “Hamish Sinclair,” he offers as an introduction. Arthur gives him his name and Hamish gives him a brief smile. 

“Forgive my poor manners, don’t see much of anyone ‘cept those Murfree folk.”

Arthur shakes his head in dismissal, taking a step closer. “It’s fine. You wanna tell me what’s got you out here shoutin’ at the sky?” He can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out when he sees how Hamish’s shoulders slump in embarrassment. 

“It’s my damn horse, Buell, bucked me off, took my leg with him.” He gestures vaguely behind Arthur with a huff, “ran off that way.” Arthur nods, grabbing his rope off Diablo and heading off. “Feel free to shoot him,” Hamish shouts from behind him, “bastard’s caused me enough trouble.”

Arthur laughs quietly to himself, Hamish reminds him a bit of you. 

It doesn’t take long to find the horse. But Hamish wasn’t lying, he was a right bastard. It was more of a chore than Arthur thought it would be to get him lassoed and corraled back to the old man. 

Hamish’s leg, as he’d promised, was still tucked into the stirrup, the wooden appendage waving in the wind as Buell stomped around. “Oh!” Hamish shouts, waving his hand as Arthur brings the horse forward. “Shoot the son of a bitch, I’ll go get me somethin’ nicer,” he mutters, reluctantly bringing a hand up to pet Buell’s nose. 

Arthur offers Hamish a hand up, holding the wooden leg out for him to take. Hamish holds himself steady on a nearby rock and latches the leg back on. “Cannonball,” he says idly. 

“Which war?”

“Civil, whatchu think?” Hamish snaps, narrowing his eyes at Arthur and shaking his head. “Named this damn thing,” he lays a heavy hand on Buell's side, “after my commander. They were both pains in my ass, and they both cost me my damn leg.” Hamish laughs at himself, swinging up onto the saddle and glancing down at Arthur. “Comin’ or not?”

Perhaps it’s the loss of Hosea that has Arthur following this man. Or maybe it’s just the need for a moment of escape. Either way, he finds himself mounting Diablo and following after him. “What were you doin’ out here, anyway?”

Hamish digs his heel into Buell’s side with a huff, driving the horse down a small path Arthur wouldn’t have found on his own. “I went out to get some bait. Got this pike that’s been eatin’ all the fish in my creek,” he turns and gives Arthur a wild grin over his shoulder. “I’m lookin’ to turn it into my dinner.”

A smile curls upon Arthur’s lips, something uninvited and unnoticed. Things in camp have been so tense, every conversation with you or Dutch just feels like a noose tightening around his neck. He’s being drawn in so many different directions that he’s forgotten what it feels like to just talk to someone without any ulterior motives. There’s no hidden message within Hamish’s gaze or underlying threat to his words. For right now, he can just ride and pretend that all is fine within his world. 

“Can’t seem to get the damn thing on my own, maybe you’ll have better luck. You seem a touch spryer than myself.”

Arthur snorts and shoots the old man an amused look, “A touch?”

“Hey,” Hamish warns, tone light as he grins, “I may be weathered, but I can still take you down, sonny.” Arthur raises his hands in surrender, bowing his head in defeat as Hamish lets out a low chuckle. “Gotta say, been a while since I hollered at anyone ‘cept those Murfree boys. It’s quiet out here, that’s for sure.”

Arthur takes in the scenery around him. The way the sunlight just barely parts through the thick cover of trees and shines across the creek running beside them. The deer he can hear rustling off in the distance. There’s a whole other world around him, one he hasn’t been a part of in a very long time. 

“Quiet’s what I’m looking for,” he mutters, not much thought behind the words as he makes note of a bunch of wildflowers. They look like some you used to pick for the tent. 

“No point in quiet when you’re all alone,” Hamish chides softly, a heavy sadness hangs off his shoulders that Arthur’s not sure he’s ready to dissect. Hamish doesn’t leave him worrying for long, shooting Arthur a quick smile and shaking away the emotions. “Nearly there,” he tells him, nodding toward a clearing. 

Wildflowers and rocks that reflect the midday sun surround a shimmering lake he’s never noticed on his travels. Arthur’s fingers twitch toward the journal in his satchel, the scene too perfect not to draw. Still, he doesn’t think Hamish would appreciate the interruption much. 

Instead, he commits the image to memory. The quaint cabin that sits in the middle of it all, so unimposing it looks as though it had grown there like a tree. He’d have to draw it later, maybe even show it to you. 

Hamish leads him around the cabin and orders him around like he’s spent all his life doing it. Arthur drags out the fishing poles and takes the boat off the shore. He laughs when Hamish slaps his hand away when he tries to help in the boat. And he laughs even harder when Hamish nearly topples over the edge in his stubborn fit. 

The fishing itself is spent in silence. One of them occasionally breaking it by humming something or thinking they spotted movement in the water. It makes Arthur’s chest ache with a familiarity that’s a stranger to him. Yes, he used to do this with Hosea. But Hamish wasn’t Hosea, and there would never be anything to replace or soothe that gnawing pain of never being able to sit on a boat with him once more. 

“There!” Hamish slaps his shoulder hard enough to force Arthur out of his spiraling grief. He nearly knocks him out of the boat as he starts frantically jumping up and down, arms pinwheeling to keep himself balanced. “There’s that bastard, whoo I got you now!” He hollers, lighting a stick of dynamite and tossing it into the water before Arthur knows what's happening. 

He ducks, bracing himself as a ripple of water nearly puts the boat on its side. It’s quickly followed by a fin rising up in the water in the distance before disappearing once more. “My god,” Arthur gets to his feet, jaw gaping as he watches the behemoth of a fish swim away. Not once, has he ever faced a pike as large as that before. It could eat him. 

“What’re you doin’, you fool? Reel it!” Hamish snaps, already lighting another stick of dynamite to force it back towards them. Arthur shakes off the silent astonishment and quickly grabs his fishing pole. It feels like a battle, hauling this fish toward them and finally killing it. 

They must spend nearly an hour on those waters, blowing up half the lake just to haul a fish the size of Bill out of the water. Hamish is cackling and hollering the whole way back to his cabin. He goes on and on about how long that pike has been taunting him. How Arthur must be his goddamn lucky charm to have gotten it on their first day. 

It’s only when Arthur lingers by the edge of Hamish’s doorway do either of them acknowledges the shared pain between them. Arthur doesn’t know exactly what Hamish lost in the war, but he knows it must be something just as bad as Arthur. There's a creeping loneliness that they both know neither one of them can fill. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. 

“You helped kill the bastard, sit down, I’ll cook up some of him for ya.” It’s an invitation that Arthur can’t deny. He gives Hamish a small smile, sitting down at his table while Hamish moves quickly through his cabin. 

“Did I ever tell you,” Hamish starts, as though they’ve been friends long enough for Arthur to hear his stories. Arthur doesn’t object or interrupt, he leans back, eyes alert as he listens to everything Hamish tells him. Tales of the war, the time before, the time after. Arthur shares a little about himself, but for the most part, he’s content to let the old man talk. 

That’s how most of their time together goes. When Arthur manages some time away from Dutch’s suspicious eyes, he goes to Hamish. He listens to his stories. And they use the excuse of hunting animals Hamish claims to be haunting him. It’s on his fourth visit that Arthur mentions you. 

“I don’t get it. You’re big, strong, you gotta have someone.” Hamish pauses, glancing away from his fishing pole and narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “Don’t tell me I’m your only friend, son.”

Arthur chuckles a little, shaking his head. “I got a lady,” he tells him, reluctant for Hamish to know exactly what company he keeps. Hamish nods his head, giving him an expectant look. Arthur lets out a low sigh, rubbing his palms across his pants and shrugging. “She’s gorgeous,” Hamish lets out a disbelieving snort and Arthur shoots him a look. “Smart” he continues and it’s the first time he’s ever struggled to describe you. 

Such simplistic terms don’t seem fitting for someone like you. If he had his journal, if he could show him a drawing of you, of the little bit of you he’s managed to capture on paper, maybe Hamish would understand. “And she’s a good person, a better one than I ever will be-”

“Then what’s she doin’ with a fool like you?” Hamish interrupts, snickering when he sees the irritated look on Arthur’s face.

“Weren’t you just tellin’ me what a catch I am?” Arthur snaps, eyes narrowed in amusement at the old man. 

He shrugs, tugging slightly on the string of his fishing pole and huffing out a laugh. “Eh, she can’t be that great if she’s with someone like you.” Arthur straightens up but Hamish barrels on, paying him no mind. “Bring her down tonight. I’ll cook up whatever we catch here. It’ll give me something other than your ugly mug to look at.”

Arthur scoffs, “You are a piece of work, old man.”

Hamish waves him off, leaning back in the boat and smiling softly as he waits for a fish to bite his bait. Arthur shakes his head, looking back to the familiar blue waters and feeling something like contentment settle over him. 

“You didn’t have to dress up,” Arthur tells you, holding his hand out to you. Perched atop Lady, you give his outstretched palm a long look before slowly settling your hand in his. 

“I’d hardly call a corset and some nice pants dressing up, Arthur,” you tease. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to each other without there being some underlying current of tension to your conversation. 

He leads you toward Hamish’s front door, smiling slightly when you stop to admire the garden at the side of the cabin. “I wanted to make a good impression,” you tell him, straightening up from where you’d been smelling some of the flowers. You give him a brief look out of the side of your eye before brushing dirt off the knees of your pants. “You’ve been talkin’ about him a lot and well,” you suck in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I know things have been hard after Guarma,” you can’t seem to look at him, eyes always darting away from his. 

Arthur stays silent, worried anything he says will ruin the first honest conversation you two have had. “And everythin’ has been so odd between us." You take a step forward and Arthur follows, craving the closeness that has been so sorely lacking. Looking up, you finally manage to meet his eye. The hurt and frustration so plainly displayed on your face makes his stomach clench. 

“I care about you, Arthur, deeply. And that’s not ever goin’ to change.” He expects there to be a ‘but,’ some clause added on that means he needs to change his ways. Or even you telling him that you just can’t handle this life anymore. He wouldn’t blame you if you told him that, but just the thought of it makes him hurt. 

Instead, you give him a smile and lean up, pressing your lips timidly against his cheek. Your hands find his, squeezing slightly, like an assurance to you both that there’s still something to be saved between you. 

Arthur can’t help himself as he turns his head, capturing your lips between his own and tugging you closer. You let out a short huff of laughter, smiling against his lips. It’s a chaste kiss, certainly one of the more demure ones you’ve shared. But it means more to him than he ever thought it would. 

“What the hell are you two doin’?” You startle back from him, eyes wide as you turn. Hamish has his head peeked around the corner of his porch, a stern look on his face but a slight mischievous tilt to his lips. “I invited you to dinner, I didn’t need a show to come with it,” he scolds, but there’s no hiding the humor in his tone. 

You bite your lip and move away from Arthur, though you let your hand linger in his as long as you can before you slip to the porch. “It’s nice to meet you,” you tell Hamish sheepishly. 

“Hm,” Hamish shakes his head as he looks at you, “Can’t believe you let Arthur fool you into bein’ with him.” He grins at Arthur’s affronted scoff and nods you along. “Go on inside, fish is almost ready.” You send Arthur one last look before heading off. 

Climbing the steps of the porch, Arthur lightly shoves at Hamish’s shoulder. “What’re you playin’ at, old man?”

Hamish shrugs, beckoning him inside, “I need somethin’ to entertain myself with.”

“How long have you been out here?” You ask Hamish as you settle down at his too-small table. He plates the fish and takes a seat across from Arthur, brow wrinkled as he thinks. 

“Well,” he laughs lightly and shakes his head. “It’s been so damn long, I can’t quite remember. Probably longer than you’ve been walking, sweetheart.”

Your eyes round, something like concern flitting across your face. “All on your own?” Arthur pauses from where he’d been cutting into his meal, content to let you carry the conversation. He glances up at Hamish, gauging the look on his face. 

Hamish’s solitary lifestyle has been something Arthur’s been avoiding talking about. He knows there’s something painful in Hamish’s past, something he does his best to keep quiet about. Arthur hasn’t wanted to push, too afraid that he’d ruined the good thing they had going. 

But the look on the old man’s face isn’t defensive or angry. It’s soft, his eyes are sad as he looks nostalgic, as if thinking back to happier times. “All on my own,” he confirms and Arthur sees the way your expression slacks with sympathy. “Honestly, this cabin is starting to feel too big,” he admits, glancing around at the barren walls. 

Where some would have family portraits, heirlooms, or memorabilia, Hamish has mounted deer and stuffed fish. There’s nothing besides a slightly dusty metal from the war to hint at what his life had once looked like. “It needs a family, or,” he glances back at you and smiles, “someone besides a sad old man.”

Hamish turns back to his meal and asks Arthur something, he responds vaguely, eyes still trained on your face. Your gaze has hardened as you glare down at the fish on your plate. There’s a wrinkle between your brows that he’s come to know as you plotting something. Whatever Hamish has said has given you an idea that Arthur’s not sure he wants a part of. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Hamish shouts, jumping from his seat and running toward the window. “That goddamn bastard!” 

You shoot Arthur a bewildered look and he shakes his head, standing up to join Hamish by the window. “What is it?”

“That boar! It’s back!” Hamish points to a vague shadow of a shape on the crest of the hill. It’s larger than any boar he’s ever seen, but Hamish seems to be cursed with animals of legendary size and vindictiveness. He runs from the window, grabs the rifle mounted above his fireplace, and runs toward the front door. “You better get a move on, boy, I ain’t waitin’ for ya!” He hollers over his shoulder, already whistling for Buell. 

Arthur sighs and gives you an apologetic look. “I oughta make sure he don’t get himself killed.” 

Smiling, you wave him along, “Go ahead, though,” you muse, glancing out the window, “it doesn’t look like he needs much help.” Arthur turns, letting out an aggrieved huff as he sees Hamish already shooting wildly at the beast. 

“Won’t be long,” he promises as he rushes out the door. 

He only vaguely hears your small, “I’ve heard that before.”

Arthur spots Buell grazing in a small patch of grass and leaves Diablo beside him. The two horses don’t seem to get along very well, but he’s more concerned with the trail of blood in the underbrush than them. 

Kneeling down to investigate, he’s stopped by nearby shouting. “I’ve almost got him, Arthur, hurry-” Hamish’s voice is cut off by a loud cry of pain and a boar squeal that almost sounds like screaming. 

Dirt flies up under Arthur’s boots as he races forward. He pushes through the thick foliage, stumbling out into an open area where Hamish lay sprawled on the ground. His body twitches, fingers weakly grasping at a dark, gaping wound in his stomach. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the earth.

“Oh, Hamish, no,” Arthur mutters, dropping to his knees beside him. He presses his hands over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it’s no use. He can see it in the way Hamish struggles for breath, his chest stuttering with each ragged inhale.

Hamish lets out a shaky laugh, the sound wet and gurgling. “Flesh wound,” he croaks, though the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth says otherwise. His voice is strained, each word dragged from his throat like it pains him to speak. “I’m an old man, Arthur. This was bound to happen sooner or later.” Arthur wants to tell him to stop talking, to save his breath. But he’s seen death enough times to know there’s no coming back from this. 

“Don’t,” Hamish chokes on his blood and flinches forward. Arthur props him up on his knee, still keeping his hand over the wound. It’s not doing anything except prolonging this, but he can’t find it within himself to let go. Hamish settles, lungs wheezing with effort. “Don’t be like me. Don’t die lonely.”

Arthur doesn’t have the chance to tell him he’s not alone before the light leaves his eyes. He finally takes his hands off of him, looking up as he hears squealing. He spots the boar in the underbrush and picks Hamish’s rifle up off the ground. 

The trek back to the cabin is slow. Hamish’s body is slung over Diablo and Buell carries the boar. Arthur wonders if Buell knows that his master’s dead. If he can smell it, or if he even cares. 

He leads them both toward the hitching post at the side of the home. He sees you watching in the window, eyes narrowed in on Hamish’s body before you disappear from view. Footsteps sound out on the porch as he slings the body over his shoulder and walks it toward the clearing of wildflowers. 

“What happened?” You call out, voice soft as you join him. 

“Boar,” he answers shortly. He doesn’t have the patience to speak. He’s faced and caused death hundreds of times, but something about this feels like a slap in the face. It wasn’t enough that he had to lose Lenny and Hosea and then watch as what used to be his family falls apart. He had to drag Hamish into his problems, had to loop you into this business. 

He knew, when his mother died and when his son died, that he was cursed to lose everyone he loved. That he would never be allowed a happy, or a simple life. And yet, like the fool he is, he keeps trying. He keeps trying to allow himself a sliver of peace or happiness. 

You hand Arthur a shovel as he sets Hamish down on the ground and he starts to dig. Until the sun sets and the moon is high in the sky, he digs a grave for Hamish. You stand there with him the whole night, never saying a word, and for that he’s grateful. He’s learned that it's better not to have to do something like this alone. 

When he’s done, and Hamish is six feet deep, facing the east so he can see the rising sun, he leads you back to the cabin. It’s a comfortable quiet as you help him rinse the dirt and blood off his hands. You take the clothes he stores on Diablo and bring them to him, convincing him to just stay at the cabin for the night. 

He’s too tired to understand the concentrated look on your face, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. A sort of intuition he usually wouldn’t ignore but can’t bother with tonight. “Good night, Arthur,” you whisper but he’s already asleep before he can say it back. 

When he wakes up, you’re sitting at the table, writing something on a scrap piece of paper. You turn slightly, smiling briefly at him before going back to the paper. “What’re you writin’?” He asks, sitting up in bed and stretching out the soreness from digging for so long. 

Your shoulders tense up, expression going blank before carefully reconstructing itself into something pleasant. Placing the pen down, you slide the paper away from yourself and turn fully to face him. 

“Eagle Flies is dead.” Your voice is clipped, emotion buried beneath steel. “Dutch was at the heart of it all. He didn’t just destroy a tribe and a family for nothing but his own gain, he left you for dead.”

Arthur grimaces, shooting you a sharp look. “I don’t need the reminder-”

“I think you do, Arthur.” Your tone hardens, cutting through his defensiveness. “Charles is devastated. He won’t stay with the gang much longer after this. That’s who the letter’s for,” you say, nodding toward the paper on the table. “I need to tell him some things before he disappears for good.”

Arthur watches you carefully. There’s something else behind your words, something bigger than just grief over Eagle Flies. A knot of unease tightens in his stomach.

“John and Abigail are leaving soon,” you continue, voice steady but insistent. “They won’t risk Jack getting caught up in Dutch’s mess. Sadie’s been itching to go off on her own for a while-”

“What’re you gettin’ at?” Arthur snaps, frustration creeping in. He’s tired, exhausted from everything, and you dragging this out isn’t helping.

You inhale sharply, rolling your shoulders back as if bracing yourself. “I want to stay here.” Your expression is unreadable, your voice flat. “Here or anywhere else, but I am not going back to that camp. I won’t.”

Arthur stiffens, dragging a hand down his face before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He tugs his shirt back on with sharp, jerking movements, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “You want me to just leave?”

You shake your head, voice calm but firm. “I want you to do what you need to do.”

Arthur doesn’t believe that. He can’t accept that you would be so calm giving him permission to leave again. He searches for an ulterior motive, for some hidden tone to your words, even though he knows there won’t be one. “They’re my only family. You expect me to just walk away?”

Your expression softens, but he can see it in your eyes, the steel behind each word. Your resolve isn’t bending, you won’t be changing your mind anytime soon. “I expect you to decide for yourself, for once.” You step closer to him and he feels two ideals, two lives, warring against each other in the back of his mind. 

“You’ve spent your whole life followin’ someone else’s lead- Dutch’s, Hosea’s.” Arthur wants to leave before he has to listen to anymore, not ready to confront the truth. “Even now, you’re just tryin’ to hold it all together because you think you have to.”

Arthur swallows hard, “It ain’t that simple,” he argues, even though, deep down, it truly is. 

“It is,” you counter gently, voice calm like you’re soothing a bucking horse. “I’m not tellin’ you to abandon anyone. But you know how this ends,” the look in your eyes shifts. It changes from something earnest to the distant gaze of someone whose sick and tired of marking new graves. “You’ve always known.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he turns away from you. If he doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe he won’t have to face the truth in them. 

But you’re stubborn as all hell and you never know when to quit. “I’m stayin’ here. This is my choice. And I’ll be here when you get back,” you pause, your last words quieter, “if you choose to come back.”

Arthur hesitates by the door. There’s so much hanging over the gang, the Pinkertons, Cornwall, Dutch’s tightening grip. Even if they all wanted to leave, Dutch would never let them. And Arthur… 

Arthur has to see this through. 

“I have to go.” His voice is quiet, resigned. 

“Then go,” you tell him as if it’s the simplest idea in the world. 

He lingers a moment before stepping through the door. He doesn’t look back, but he knows what he’s fighting for now. What he’s fighting to come back to. 

Arthur rides into camp, his gut twisted with unease. He’s not sure what he was expecting, certainly not an idyllic scene, but the sight before him still takes the breath from his lungs. 

Molly lies sprawled in the dirt, blood soaking the earth beneath her. Mrs. Grimshaw hovers over her body, shotgun in hand and the barrel still smoking. Her face is unreadable. The rest of the gang looks at her in stunned silence, some horrified, others grim. 

“She said,” Susan mutters, voice hoarse. “She said she sold us out. Gave us up to the Pinkertons.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. He steps forward, his voice low and urgent. “No, she didn’t,” he looks at Molly, the flickering light of the fire dancing across her lifeless face. He turns his gaze to the real snake in their midst. “It was Micah.”

Mrs. Grimshaw pales and Micah scoffs. “Oh, give me a goddamn break.” He leans lazily against a post, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes are alight with amusement as if this is all some great joke to him. “You’re graspin’, Morgan. I get it, you need someone to blame, and Molly’s already dead, so why not pin it on me?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, “I see you for what you are, you rat bastard.”

Micah just shrugs, cocky as ever. Mrs. Grimshaw, though, in all of her wisdom and unflinching loyalty, sees right through him. Her eyes narrow and she comes to stand beside Arthur, “Arthur’s right.”

That’s all it takes. The shift on Micah’s face is instantaneous. The gunshot rings out before Arthur can even react. Mrs. Grimshaw jerks back, her body crumpling to the ground. Blood seeps through her blouse and spreads across her chest. 

The camp erupts. Shouts ring out, insults are thrown, and guns are pulled by people who had once called each other friend and brother. Dutch steps forward, getting between Arthur and Micah, his hands raised, eyes darting between them both. Arthur can’t read his face. It’s calm on the surface, but beneath it, something fragile and uncertain lingers. 

Micah steps back, but he isn’t alone. Bill and Javier fall in beside him, weapons drawn. 

John pushes Abigail and Jack behind him. Charles and Sadie round up the rest of the women, dragging John’s family off as they lead them to the horses to flee. John meets Arthur’s eyes, and there’s no hesitation. He grabs his revolver and steps to Arthur’s side. 

Arthur breathes out sharply, giving Dutch one last chance. “You can still do this,” he tells him, voice raw. “You can still make this right, Dutch. You can stop this.”

Dutch’s face twists, pain, doubt, anger, all flickering at once. He shakes his head slowly. “I thought of you as a son, Arthur.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. Then louder, firmer, “I can’t believe you’d betray us.”

Before Arthur can say another word, the Pinkertons ride in, guns blazing. Chaos takes hold of the camp as Micah takes his eyes off of him to start shooting at the others. Arthur doesn’t hesitate, grabbing John as they bolt for their horses. Bullets fly past them, grazing against their clothes and nearly nicking them. Pinkertons certainly aren’t good shots. 

They mount the horses, racing through the woods. The sound of gunfire and shouting follows behind them before slowly fading. They can’t afford to slow down or stop, wordless as they push their horses harder and faster than the animals can stand. 

They don’t stop until they reach the base of a mountain. The money’s nearby, stashed away in Dutch’s greed-fueled paranoia. It’s their only chance of making something out of this mess. Arthur can’t afford to let Dutch and the other’s get to it first. 

Arthur dismounts and John follows. “This is it,” Arthur turns toward John, placing his hand on his shoulder. “You take the money, you get Abigail and Jack outta here. Make somethin’ of yourself.”

John frowns, shaking his head. “Arthur, I ain’t-”

“Go,” Arthur’s voice is firm. The finality of it stops John short. “I’ll hold ‘em off.”

John hesitates, and Arthur knows how desperately he wants to stand beside him and fight. To prove that he’s more than a coward. But he knows better than to argue, and he knows he can’t leave his family behind. He gives a short nod and starts running. 

Arthur begins his climb up the mountain, hoping to find a vantage point to hold the Pinkertons and the others off. He’s not far when he hears them behind him. Turning, he sees Micah and Dutch closing in. 

Micah grins, “Should’ve run while you had the chance, Morgan.”

White hot fury floods through Arthur’s veins, it pushes him forward and he lunges at Micah, grappling him to the ground. Micah lets out a wheeze, his blackened lungs not prepared for the attack. He doesn’t hesitate, bringing his fist down until he feels bones crunch under the force of his hand. 

Micah struggles against him, kicking him off and struggling to his feet. Arthur lets him get up and then he goes after him again. He pins him against the wall of rock behind them both, letting his rage drive him forward as he hammers against his face. Micah keeps gasping for air, arms rising feebly in defense only to get knocked down again. 

A click echoes through the cold air and Arthur freezes, dropping Micah and letting him slump to the dirt. His eye is purpled, swollen completely shut and Arthur almost can’t recognize him anymore. 

He turns, finding Dutch standing behind him, gun aimed at his chest. 

For a long, silent moment, they just stare at each other. Dutch’s finger hovers over the trigger and Arthur just watches. He sees the conflict in Dutch’s eyes, the doubt warring with years of manipulation and ego. 

But in the end, Dutch does what he always does. 

He runs away.

Micah groans, nails digging into the dirt as he struggles for air. Arthur doesn’t bother finishing him off. He watches Dutch disappear into the night and leave them both behind. Breathing slowly, his chest heaving, Arthur turns away from Micah and leaves him to rot. 

The ride back to the cabin is slow. Every muscle in Arthur’s body aches, his lungs burning with each breath, but for the first time in a long while, he’s not carrying the weight of the gang on his shoulders. It’s over. Dutch is gone. Micah is as good as dead. The life he’s known has fallen apart, but he’s still here. And he’s free. 

He crests the final hill, the cabin coming into view, and there you are- waiting. 

You’re not crying with worry or pacing in anger that he left again. You stand, arms crossed, watching the road like you always knew he’d come back.

Arthur exhales, something in his chest easing at the sight of you. He slows Diablo to a stop, dismounting with a grunt of pain. You don’t rush over to him and demand to know what happened, or how he got the fresh bruises littering his skin. The both of you have always known that the only way this was going to end was bloody. Arthur looks up and you hold his gaze, waiting for him. 

Waiting for him to finally decide. The outlaw life, or this new one with you. 

He takes a step toward you, and you stay still as a statue, another and he’s nearly on top of you. You don’t move away or take a step back, you peer up at him, meeting his gaze expectantly. “It’s over,” he tells you simply. 

You nod, nothing gleeful or victorious on your face that you finally got him right where you wanted. You’re not Dutch, this was never about controlling him, he realizes that now. Without his loyalty blinding him, he can finally understand that you were only ever trying to help him. “I know,” your voice is calm as your eyes rove over his face. 

A silence stretches between you, heavy with words left unsaid. Then, slowly, Arthur lifts his hand toward you. You don’t pull away, and when his fingers brush your waist, you sigh, your shoulders easing like you’ve been holding yourself together for too long. Arthur doesn’t waste any more time pulling you in close to him, the both of you holding each other up. 

Arthur breathes out slowly, resting his forehead against yours and pulling you as close as he can get. Your hands come up, gripping his shirt like you’re trying to make sure he doesn’t slip away. But he knows he won’t, not ever again. 

For the first time in what feels like forever, Arthur allows himself to feel real and true hope. He keeps you tight in his embrace, and you bury your face in his neck, he can feel your lashes flutter against his neck as they finally close and you relax against him. He’ll make something of this second chance. He’ll become a man you can be proud to call your own. 

As the sun rises, casting its golden light over the both of you, Arthur finally leaves behind his old life, to begin this new one with you. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

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[octuscle]

City Slicker to Country Boy.

Peter stood in the middle of nowhere. Out of nowhere, something had hit his windshield. Some kind of animal. Whatever it was, the glass had shattered into a million tiny pieces. And the overly sensitive airbags of his BMW had deployed in all their glory.

Goddamn it!

According to his GPS, the nearest authorized repair shop was 200 miles away. And with no signal, neither his cell phone nor his emergency system worked. He was stuck in a cornfield with nothing to do. And for a workaholic like him, idleness and helplessness were far worse than the prospect of an expensive repair. If he could ever get the car repaired at all. Right now, he’d be happy just to see any sign of intelligent life out here. The only sounds were some birds chirping and the occasional cricket.

After what felt like an eternity of hoping for a miracle and some phone reception, he heard a noise. A noise that grew louder. An engine.

Peter stepped onto the road, took off his blazer, and waved it in the air. “How ridiculous,” he thought. “I look like a shipwrecked idiot stranded on a deserted island.” Then again, his situation wasn’t all that different.

The pickup truck that pulled up next to him was a giant compared to his elegant station wagon.

“Howdy, name’s Ace. What kinda trouble ya in?”

“Peter, nice to meet you,” Peter replied, pointing at the windshield. Ace responded by spitting on the ground and mumbling, “Well, damn.”

“Tell ya what, buddy. I can take ya back to the farm. We’ll call up them Krauts, see if they can fix up yer ride. Don’t reckon I got the right parts lyin’ ‘round.” He laughed like he’d just cracked the best joke in the world.

Peter forced a smile and said that would be very kind of him.

“Quit talkin’ all fancy, man, and hop in. Need anything from yer car, throw it in the back.”

The truck was big and dirty. It took Peter a moment to bring himself to place his weekender bag and laptop case on the dusty truck bed. But what choice did he have? He sighed, hoping he wouldn’t get too dirty in the passenger seat, and climbed in.

Ace wasn’t much of a talker. But Peter was actually grateful for that. He kept staring at his phone display.

“Ain’t no use, man,” Ace said. “Tornado came through last week, took out some towers. Ain’t gonna get a signal ‘til we’re a few dozen miles down the road.”

Peter closed his eyes and leaned back. Just his goddamn luck. The truck rumbled steadily down the endless straight road. Ace was humming along to some slow country tune. Peter dozed off.

“Wake up, buddy, we’re here.”

Peter jerked awake. They were in a barn. Tractors and other farm equipment stood around. Ace jumped out of the truck and walked toward a small kitchenette nestled between tool cabinets. Peter got out and followed.

Ace poured himself a cup of coffee from an old pot, unzipped his coveralls, and took a sip. Peter couldn’t help but stare at Ace’s hairy, wiry, muscular torso. Peter swam twice a week, but he couldn’t compare to that build.

“Like what ya see?” Ace smirked.

Peter’s eyes widened in shock. Had he been staring?

“I mean—ya want some coffee?” Ace clarified, still grinning.

Peter nodded. Ace poured a cup and handed it to him. Normally, Peter took his coffee with oat milk and sweetener. But asking for that now felt ridiculous. He took a sip. Damn, it was hot and strong.

Ace asked if Peter could give him a hand. He needed to load up some vegetables and take them to the grocery store. Peter nodded, took off his blazer, and draped it over a chair. Ace climbed onto the truck bed, tossed Peter his duffel bag and laptop case, and told him to start handing up crates. Together, they got the job done quickly.

Peter asked if he should come along to help unload.

“Nah,” Ace said. “Ya know how to cook?”

Peter nodded. Not a lie—he enjoyed cooking in his free time.

“Well, stay here and fix up some dinner then. Be back in ‘bout an hour.”

Peter asked where the kitchen was.

“Over in the house, where else? Door’s open. You’ll figure it out.” And with that, Ace drove off.

Peter threw on his denim jacket, slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, picked up his laptop case, and walked to the house. Two big dogs greeted him enthusiastically at the door. Normally, Peter wasn’t much of a dog person, but these two? He liked them. Strong, solid animals. Perfect for hunting. Shit, why was he even thinking that?

Somehow, and he couldn’t explain why, everything here felt oddly familiar. Ace looked like the kind of guy who’d appreciate a good chili. Peter grabbed the necessary ingredients from the pantry and fridge and got to work. Beau and Bailey never left his side. They knew Peter always tossed them scraps while cooking. They didn’t beg. They were well-trained. But Peter knew how to keep them happy.

Ace returned about two hours later. The chili was simmering, the table was set, and Peter was lounging on the couch, watching TV, Beau and Bailey at his feet.

As usual, Ace stripped down to his underwear as soon as he walked in.

“Had a beer with Clyde and Gator,” he said, heading to the fridge. “Want one?”

“Dumb question,” Peter replied.

Ace came back with two bottles, sat next to Peter, and asked why he hadn’t changed yet. Then, he reached into his worn-out briefs and fondled his thick cock.

“Was just outside with the boys,” Peter said, clinking bottles with Ace, taking a swig, and burping as he got up to grab the chili. He unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his belt on the way to the kitchen.

They ate in silence. One of the perks of living without women—you didn’t have to talk so much.

“Wanna go get yer car tonight? Filled up the spare gas can,” Ace said, spilling a bit of chili on the table.

“Nah,” Peter replied, scratching his balls with one hand and shoveling more chili into his mouth with the other. “Let’s fuck first. Deal with it in the morning.”

“Fine by me,” Ace said, licking his spoon while stroking his cock at the same time.

Including Beau and Bailey, they made a solid four-guy household. Farm work was tough. Having to deal with love and all that bullshit on top of it? Pure hell. Work, eat, fuck, watch football, sleep. The routine was simple. But neither Peter nor Ace were exactly intellectuals.

The sun wasn’t even up when Peter woke. Ace was already brewing coffee. When Pete put on his camo hunting gear, Beau and Bailey tensed up. They knew what was coming. But they waited until their master gave the signal. Then, like lightning, they dashed to the barn and leaped onto the truck bed.

Pete greeted Ace with a deep kiss, grabbing his morning wood. “Quick fuck first?” Ace asked.

“After the hunt,” Pete replied, taking his coffee.

Damn, running out of gas in the cornfield yesterday had been a pain in the ass. Now Ace had to drive him out with the spare can and the dogs. But Pete would make up for it by restocking the freezer. Today, he’d bag that deer. Ace could bet on it.

And hell, if he didn’t bring back fresh meat, well—then he’d just have to be the one getting fucked tonight. Not much of a sacrifice.

Ace looked at his man and grinned. It sure was easy turnin’ a city slicker into a real country boy.

[vinnyvin-thevincent]

I actually love that you're talking about this! Jayce's trauma is very overlooked, especially the long-lasting effects. I wish it was explored more, or that the writers added in a 4th Act to season 2 so that Jayces trauma could be expanded on, as well as his reaction to being around Mel in this new light.

Ultimately, I think he's overlooked BECAUSE people hated him in season 1. I was always an enjoyer and defender of his character and arc, he's actually been my favorite character since season 1 came out, but I think he's been reduced to "Oh traumatized man hot :0" because there's not a lot of critical thought into his story. A lot of people were neutral if not hating him, so people turning it around and saying "he's interesting now" just because he's now suddenly "hot" is the most they're allowing themselves to like him.

The perception of Jayce is that he exists only in reference to Viktor and Mel's plots. "Jayce's time in the cave taught him that he loved Viktor" no, he already did. He put Hextech, his life's work, on the metaphorical backburner FOR Viktor.

His hallucinations of Viktor and Mel didn't seem sweet to me, it didn't seem like a "deciding my boo" moment. He seems sad and angry, and he's realizing that he blames them just as much as he's blaming himself. Though this nuance isn't allowed to see the light of day because "unlikeable pretty boy is now sad and hot" mindset.

It's a shame, honestly. Now I'm not gonna be a hypocrite, I've watched and even made thirst edits of Jayce, back in season 1 and season 2. I personally think men look better with facial hair and beards, so does he look more attractive to me like that? Yes, but that's not the reason I'm obsessed with him. That's not the reason he's my favorite character. His story of building something to better the world, despite how much people wanted to shut it down, he persevered... only for the apocalyptic end of the world to be brought on by his very hands and his very obsession. He is the only one who saw this future, so he must fix it.

It's a tragic story, and one that is very very overlooked because "man look at his boobs" (look, he has a nice rack but be serious).

I dunno, I hope I'm adding good thought here. But his time in the cave/ravine is dehumanizing and breaking. Humans are social pack animals, and isolation is detrimental and can actually cause brain damage. The only reason I genuinely think he was functioning is that he was stuck in survival mode. When he got back to his timeline, he stayed in survival mode. He rushed to the Commune and shot Viktor. He found Caitlyn and hurried to Piltover to prep for the incoming war because he KNEW that wasn't going to be enough. He kept moving, kept moving, kept moving. It was the only way to stop the incoming destruction.

Tldr: You're right, I've noticed this too, and I'm more than HAPPY to discuss and focus on his arc with you

Random Thoughts on the Arcane Fandom about Jayce

this is gonna be a mess but I have nowhere else to talk about this.

I've recently noticed how Jayce Talis has been subjected to all kinds of sexualization since the drop of Act 2 of the second season. People have mentioned many times how trauma has made him "hot". A good and well-known example of this is Danny Motta's reaction to episode 5, where he said, "Holy shit, they made Jayce hot! [...] My dude went from looking like a Muppet to the king of Rohan, and all it took was a little bit of trauma."

This isn't entirely new for him? If people didn't hate Jayce back in S1, they ogled him in the scene where he works on the Forge shirtless, which IS kinda the point because the animators are making him very obviously attractive. But most importantly, he as a character has been reduced to his sexual or romantic relationships since the beginning of time.

It seems that S2 is a response to this in a way. His arc from the ending of S1, where he took responsibility of his actions out of guilt for the child he killed, was slightly set aside for Viktor. Well, ALL of his life, dreams, decisions, everything about him was eclipsed by Viktor's shadow because of the whole "all times, all possibilities" twist. He wasn't expected to show up as a Councilor in any of the meetings, and we must assume he quits at some point, but he surely hasn't resigned from his position by the time Viktor wakes up. Apart from that much needed scene between him and Cait, and the one where he attends the memorial (and is attacked by a vengeful mother), we don't see many of his decisions or what leads him to make them, other than Viktor. This is beautiful in a way because we can SEE how it is a trauma response to losing him. He is obsessive by nature, and he clings to what keeps him and his loved ones safe excessively, but I still had to do a bit of mental gymnastics as to why he went back on the second promise: to not build Hextech weapons again. (Hint: it has to do with the fact that VI saved him with HIS weapon, but it went so fast it's hard to process in the first watch.)

Now back to the sexualization problem. Every time I look up his name and trauma, or PTSD, 95% of the results are thirst edits on Tiktok about how hot he is. No joke. One of the more serious results is my own edit. Of course, a lot of people connect with his suffering without naming it as trauma, and that is great. My concern is that there has been so much focus on Jinx's trauma, Viktor's trauma, even Silco's trauma (which are all valid and fascinating to explore), but there's less attention for other characters who clearly show how their own traumatic experiences has shaped them. Vi, Caitlyn, and Jayce are some of the clearest examples of this, and they've experienced some truly heinous things in the show. Trauma cannot be compared, ever. But why is it that Jayce, who lived through an apocalypse that HE knows HE caused, and lives in complete isolation except the "company" of metal watchers, to the point that he loses touch with reality, and is changed so irrevocably that he loses the naivety and starry-eyed optimism that has always defined him...is seen as hot? And more importantly, why is it that there is very little attention to his experiences on that cave? Every scene between him and Viktor is uploaded in 1080 HD quality, but the scenes of him alone? Fighting to survive? Showing remarkable resilience in the face of his suffering? No, that's not as fun. Not a single one of those scenes is uploaded fully, and I have checked many times. (Some people have actually skipped those scenes to focus on Timebomb. I'm...)

I went online and looked up "why do people sexualize traumatized characters" because let's face it, it's real, it's interesting, and I cannot judge or else I am a hypocrite. Bucky Barnes, Loki, Ellie Williams, Dean Winchester, Vi herself, the list goes on much longer but I can't think of others off the top of my head. We connect with their suffering, and we are pulled by their experiences.

However, Jayce is such a complicated case because he is usually thought of as the greedy himbo that fumbled two baddies, or the confused bisexual, or the guy who lost it because of a situationship (much like Vi, who DID NOT lose it because of a failed romantic endeavor bfr). And then the plot goes and tells us, "Actually, yeah, his life outside of Viktor doesn't matter, he's not even supposed to be alive, because Viktor saved him. All of time is completely inextricable from Viktor." People hate meljay because she manipulated him and "trapped" him in a relationship or something, only to celebrate it when something suspiciously similar happens with the male romantic interest? I initially thought it was beautiful too, bc Soulmates, but man. Mage!Viktor really left the man he loved to rot in complete isolation, eating raw reptiles until throwing up, losing his mind. Say what you want about the allegory for Viktor's life, at least Viktor's isolation was metaphorical up until the Glorious Evolution.

Despite us being shown this, people make thirst edits of him in his black fit, and fighting with sexual tension with Viktor. I fear...that I am the only one who finds this tragic. The man forced to create a larger than life persona to sell his work and be seen as an attractive pawn of the system, has become the attractive pawn of the narrative. Viktor's narrative.

Perhaps Viktor was forgotten by the world. But Jayce's kind heart, and brave soul, were forgotten by us.

Just some thoughts to chew about my favorite character and my wish that more people focused on his arc with me

[witherby]

opposite au where hal is the one with all them damn kids 😭

A single dad who works twelve jobs

Who loves his kids and never stops

With calloused hands and the heart of a fighter

He's a surviiivoorrr...

Anyway this is hilarious. What fuckin money and time does Hal Jordan have to raise Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian. All of his children would be latchkey kids. They'd be raised on television and TV dinners. He's gotta pick up 30 thousand extra shifts to cover just one kid's college tuition because unfortunately they live in America and universities are for-profit here.

Bruce the Bat-chelor (he he he) would see this tired, overworked man and go "how can I not fuck him and become the step-dad to all of his children?"

It would very much become a sugar daddy situation immediately, I think. At least at the start. Hal would see a single, hot, well-meaning idiot with money to burn and throw himself at that to get his kids whatever they wanted.

Tim's old Game Cube looks like some sorta fucking amalgam of bits and wires because he has to keep upgrading and reprogramming the ancient thing? Toss it. Here's a PS5. Fuck it here's two of them. Here's a massive desktop computer, best on the market. Here's just a lump sum of cash to buy whatever parts and games and shit you want.

Jason's stressed out about keeping his 4.0 GPA up to keep his scholarships? Don't even worry about it. Bruce made a big enough donation to the school that now one of the buildings is in his fucking name. Tuition is taken care of, just enjoy college.

Dick is working overtime in Blüdhaven as a detective but he really wanted to pursue a professional career in gymnastics instead? Quit your job. Quit it. A private gym is being built and a professional coach is being hired and it's all yours. Go crazy.

Damian just wanted a cat but they couldn't have pets or the rent would go up? Boom. Shelter. Go crazy.

The kids are living it up. Hal is so so so happy they're happy. Now he just has to keep Bruce happy in order for the kids to continue living the easy life.

[prentissmultiverse]

No Strings to Hold Us - part III

Walls crumble as you and Emily finally face the emotions you’ve both been avoiding, turning comfort into something deeper. tw: smut, age gap, angst part I and part II

(words: 9.8k)

The hospital room was dim, its silence broken only by the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the quiet hum of the heater working overtime to keep the space warm. Emily sat in a chair pulled close to your bedside, her body leaning forward as though her presence could will you to wake. Her dark eyes traced over every detail of your face—the ashen pallor of your skin, the faint flutter of your eyelashes, the way your chest rose and fell in a fragile rhythm beneath the heavy blankets.

You were alive.

She repeated that fact to herself like a mantra, though it did little to quell the storm inside her.

Emily’s fingers pressed into the armrests of her chair, her knuckles white from the tension she couldn’t seem to release. She had been trying to keep herself steady for hours, but the silence left too much room for her thoughts to intrude, for the weight of what had happened, and what she felt, to press down on her.

Guilt.

The image of you lying on the icy floor was burned into her mind. Your lips had been blue, trembling as you whispered her name with what little strength you had left. Even in that moment, when you should have been fighting to survive, you had looked at her like she was your lifeline.

And then, the light in your eyes had faded.

The memory made Emily’s chest tighten painfully. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the image away, but it was no use. Every time she blinked, she saw you there again, barely conscious in her arms, slipping further away.

Her hand twitched, hovering above yours as if drawn by some invisible force. She wanted to touch you, to feel the warmth slowly returning to your body, but she couldn’t bring herself to close the distance. The guilt was too sharp, too suffocating.

This was her fault.

Emily’s mind spiraled as she sat there. She’d pushed you away after that night, the night when everything between you had changed.

She’d crossed a line.

It had been reckless, unprofessional, selfish. She had let her guard down, let her feelings slip past the walls she’d spent years building. And then, when she realized how far she’d fallen, she had done the only thing she knew how to do, she’d put those walls back up, higher and thicker than before.

Her professionalism had been a shield, one she wielded with precision to keep you at arm’s length. She had ignored the warmth in your smile, the way her heart raced whenever you were near, the way you looked at her like she was someone worth breaking the rules for.

And now here you were, fighting for your life because she hadn’t been strong enough to admit the truth.

The truth was that she cared about you... more than she should, more than she was allowed to.

Emily blinked away the sting in her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. Her gaze snapped back to your still form, her jaw tightening as she studied your face. The doctors had told her you were stable, that they were monitoring your heart and keeping you warm to rebuild your core temperature. Severe hypothermia, they’d said, and she had nodded numbly, the words barely registering over the roar of panic in her mind.

You were alive. That was what mattered.

But even as she told herself that, her heart ached with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“Y/N…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t stir.

Emily clenched her jaw, her nails still digging into the armrests of the chair. She didn’t know what to do with the storm of emotions crashing through her. It was like every wall she’d built to keep her feelings in check had come crumbling down in the moment she saw you collapse.

“I thought I lost you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible in the stillness.

The words hung in the air, raw and unguarded, before fading into the hum of the heater. Emily swallowed hard, her throat tight as she forced herself to keep speaking.

“I should have been there sooner,” she said, her voice trembling.

Her fingers finally moved, brushing against the edge of the blanket covering your hand. The small contact sent a jolt through her, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her hand rest lightly over yours, her thumb tracing small, absent circles against the fabric.

“I’ve been so distant…” she admitted, her voice breaking. “I should’ve told you,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I should’ve said something—after that night. I thought pushing you away would make it easier. That if I could keep things professional, I’d stop feeling… this.”

She laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and humorless. “Turns out I’m terrible at loving anything, especially the people I care about the most.”

Her eyes flicked back to your face, searching for any sign that you might hear her. But you remained still, your body too exhausted from the fight to respond.

Emily’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, and her voice softened. “I can’t lose you,” she whispered. “I… I can’t.”

The vulnerability in her tone startled even herself, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

“I don’t care how complicated this is. I don’t care what it means for us, or for me. You matter more than anything else. You always have.”

Her words fell into the quiet, and for a moment, Emily let herself feel the weight of them. She leaned forward, her forehead resting lightly against your hand, her eyes slipping shut.

Then the guilt surged up again, sharp and unrelenting, clawing at her chest. “God,” she choked out, her voice breaking as she pulled back just enough to see your face again. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have invited you over that night.” The words tumbled out in a rush, her tone tinged with both regret and bitterness.

“You were just supposed to be a distraction. That’s all it was ever supposed to be.” Her breath caught, and she shook her head, as if trying to shake free of the memories. “But I let you in. I told myself it was fine—just one night, no strings.”

Emily’s fingers brushed lightly over the back of your hand, her movements tender despite the sharp edge to her words. “And I let you get close. I shouldn’t have. Everyone I let close gets hurt. And now… now you’re here.”

The weight of her confession seemed to drag her shoulders down, her body folding in on itself as she pressed her forehead against her hand.

“You have to wake up,” she murmured. “Please.”

The steady beeping of the heart monitor was her only answer, its rhythm both reassuring and maddening. Each pulse felt like a tether, a thin thread keeping you tied to this world, but it offered no comfort to Emily. Not when you remained so still.

Her words fell into the silence like drops of water into an endless void, absorbed and unnoticed. She’d spoken to you for what felt like hours, pouring out every thought, every regret, every confession she’d buried deep inside. But there was no reaction, no flicker of acknowledgment, no sign that you had heard her at all.

Emily’s voice had cracked, raw with emotion as she pleaded with you to stay, begged you to come back to her. And still, nothing. Your pale face, your motionless form, the faint rise and fall of your chest—it was all that she had, and it wasn’t enough.

She stayed there, hunched forward in the chair, her elbows resting on the edge of the bed. One hand gripped yours, her thumb running over your knuckles in an absent, desperate rhythm. The other cradled her forehead as she closed her eyes, trying to block out the sting of tears she refused to let fall.

The silence pressed down on her, the kind that wasn’t truly silent—the hum of the heater, the muffled sounds of hospital staff moving in the hallway, the maddeningly steady beep of the monitor. Each sound reminded her that the world outside this room continued on as if nothing had happened. As if her world wasn’t crumbling right here.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured again, her voice barely audible, the words spilling out into the quiet. “I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t know what else to say. The things she’d already confessed—how she pushed you away, how she’d tried to protect you by keeping her distance, how badly she’d failed—they felt meaningless now. Words wouldn’t wake you.

Her grip on your hand tightened, as if holding onto you more firmly could bridge the gap between her desperation and the stubborn stillness of your body. But your hand didn’t move.

Her gaze dropped to where her fingers curled around yours, her thumb still tracing small circles over your icy skin. Emily had always been good in moments of crisis, sharp and steady in the face of chaos, but this wasn’t something she could control. There was no strategy, no plan, no way to fight against the weight of her own helplessness.

She let her head fall, her forehead brushing against the back of your hand. Her voice broke as she whispered, “You have to wake up. Please.”

The silence swallowed her words.

Emily stayed like that for some time, her body still but her mind churning, replaying every mistake she’d made, every moment she could have done something differently. Her guilt was a crushing weight, her heart breaking under the sheer enormity of it.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, unmoving. It could have been minutes, or hours. The sound of the monitor’s steady beeping blurred into the background, a cruel reminder that you were alive but not truly here.

And then—

A faint twitch beneath her fingers.

Emily froze, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at your hand. The movement was so subtle she almost thought she’d imagined it. But then it happened again, your fingers curling ever so slightly against hers.

“Y/N?” she said, her voice trembling with disbelief.

Her heart raced as she leaned forward, her free hand brushing against your cheek. Your skin was still too cold, but there was life in it now, a fragile flickering warmth that hadn’t been there before.

“Y/N, it’s me,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m here.”

Your lips parted, a faint sound escaping: a broken, fragile whisper. She leaned in closer, her dark eyes wide with hope as she caught the shape of the word forming on your lips.

Her name.

Emily’s breath hitched, tears springing to her eyes as she clutched your hand tighter. “I’m here,” she said again, her voice cracking. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Emily’s heart clenched, relief washing over her in a wave so overwhelming she thought it might drown her.

It took some time for you to fully register what’s happening around you. The sterile smell of the hospital, the distant hum of machinery, and the faint prickling of warmth trying to return to your limbs felt like fragments of a dream. Everything was muted, as if the world existed behind a pane of frosted glass.

But there’s something else.

Emily’s voice.

It’s steady and low, cutting through the haze like a lifeline. Her words blurred together, but her tone was unmistakably fierce and tender all at once, filled with a desperation that griped your chest tighter than the cold ever could.

And her hand.

Her hand is wrapped around yours, grounding you, its warmth a stark contrast to the icy stillness that had consumed you before. The sensation, though faint, is enough to anchor you, enough to pull you back from the abyss.

Your lips parted again, and this time, when her name falls from them, it’s quiet and raspy, barely more than a whisper.

But it’s real.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” she breathed, her voice trembling as she leans closer. Her hand moves to brush a strand of hair away from your face, the touch so gentle it nearly undoes you.

You forced your eyes to open, the effort monumental, and the world slowly came into focus. The first thing you saw was Emily—her hair slightly mussed, her face pale, and her eyes rimmed with red. Her hand is still clasped around yours, but the moment your gaze flickered to life, she jerked upright, hurriedly brushing her sleeve across her face to erase the evidence of her tears.

You blink sluggishly, trying to make sense of the sight in front of you.

“W-were you crying?” you rasped, your voice barely audible but carrying a teasing edge, faint as it is.

Emily’s breath caught audibly, and her eyes darted away for the briefest second before snapping back to yours. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, her voice breaking despite her attempt to sound lighthearted. “I don’t cry.”

You managed a faint, lopsided smile, though it’s more of a twitch of your lips than anything else. “Sure… you don’t,” you whispered, your voice cracking on the effort.

A soft, shaky laugh escaped Emily, but there’s no humor in it—only tension and fragility. She leaned forward slightly, her hand tightening around yours for a moment.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost reluctant, as though admitting it cost her something. “Don’t you ever do that again. Do you hear me?”

You blinked slowly, your gaze fixed on hers, and even in your disoriented state, you could see the raw emotion in her eyes—the fear, the guilt, the relief. It’s all there, laid bare in a way Emily rarely allows herself to be.

“I’ll… try not to,” you managed, your voice so faint it almost doesn’t carry.

“Good,” she murmured, leaning back just a little but not releasing your hand. Her other hand tugged lightly at her jacket sleeve, brushing it down as though to busy herself, though her attention never fully left you.

For a few moments, there was only the steady beeping of the heart monitor between you. Emily’s fingers remained wrapped around yours, her touch steady and grounding, but her expression grew unreadable, her gaze flickering down to where your hands were clasped, as though she was lost in thought.

“You look like hell,” she finally said, breaking the silence with a weak attempt at humor.

“Feel like it too,” you replied, though the faint tug of a smile on your lips took the sting out of the words.

Emily let out another soft laugh, her voice quieter now, as though the relief of seeing you awake had finally begun to sink in. Her thumb traced an idle, gentle circle against your skin, a motion so absent that it felt natural, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

“You’re safe now,” she murmured after a pause, her tone soft and steady. Her gaze dropped to your hand, her fingers curling around it just a little tighter. “That’s what matters.”

There was something in the way she said it, a weight to the words that made you feel like they carried more than she was letting on. But you were too tired to press her, the pull of sleep tugging at the edges of your consciousness again.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” you murmured faintly, a flicker of warmth in your voice.

Emily’s lips curved into a small smile, but there was a shadow of something deeper in her expressions, something you couldn’t quite place. “Yeah, well,” she replied, her voice lighter now, “I didn’t sit here all night just for you to turn around and pull a stunt like this again.”

Her attempt at humor drew a faint chuckle from you, though it came out weak and strained. Your eyes drifted close despite your best effort to stay awake, the exhaustion overwhelming you once more.

The last thing you felt was the steady warmth of Emily’s hand in yours, her touch anchoring you to the moment. You didn’t see the way her smile faded once your breathing evened out, or the way her gaze lingered on your face, tinged with something unspoken.

And you didn’t hear the words she murmured, so soft they barely escaped her lips: “You’re safe now… but I wish I’d have the strength to keep you away from me...”

Two days passed in a blur of doctors, nurses, and restless sleep. The warmth had returned to your body, but there was something inside you that still felt cold, as if a shadow had taken root in your chest. The team had flown home after you woke up, their relief palpable as they each took turns squeezing your hand and promising to check in on you. But Emily had stayed. She hadn’t said why, and you hadn’t asked. Maybe you didn’t want to hear her reasoning.

She hovered constantly, asking if you needed anything, ensuring you ate, slept, and followed the doctors’ instructions. But she didn’t talk about what happened—neither the freezer nor anything from before that night. Her presence should have been reassuring, but the silence between you grew heavier with each passing hour.

You couldn’t help but wonder: Was she regretting staying? Regretting you? Yet you remembered the tears in her eyes when you first opened yours, the way her voice cracked as she said your name. That had to mean something… didn’t it?

The second morning, the doctor cleared you to leave. Your vitals were stable, and though your body still felt weak, you were deemed fit to travel. Emily drove you to the airfield in silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Every glance she sent your way only deepened the ache in your chest, the cold lingering like a stubborn phantom.

Now, you sat in the jet, a blanket draped over you and a warm cocoa in your hands—Emily’s doing. She sat across from you, her laptop open and fingers poised over the keys. The sight made your stomach twist. Emily Prentiss, always composed, always in control. You wondered if you’d imagined the rawness in her voice when she begged you to wake up.

You sighed, adjusting the blanket around you. “You don’t have to hover, you know,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the hum of the jet engines.

Emily’s eyes darted up, dark and unreadable. “I don’t hover,” she replied, her tone even.

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your cocoa. “You’re practically breathing down my neck.”

Her lips quirked into a faint smirk, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you lied. The lingering cold in your chest begged to differ, but you weren’t about to admit that to her. Not when things between you already felt so fragile.

Emily didn’t respond, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before dropping back to her laptop. She looked like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. The silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable, and you found yourself gripping your cocoa tighter, desperate for some kind of warmth.

You wanted to ask her about the night she’d found you, about the words she’d whispered when she carried you out. But the vulnerability in her eyes then was nowhere to be found now. She was distant, as always, and you didn’t have the strength to bridge the gap.

Instead, you leaned back in your seat, closing your eyes and letting the steady hum of the jet lull you into a restless haze. But even as sleep tugged at you, Emily’s presence loomed large in your mind, her voice echoing in your memory.

“I can’t lose you.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. Or with her. But as the jet soared through the sky, you knew one thing for certain - the cold in your chest wasn’t just from the freezer.

The jet touched down softly, the familiar bump of the landing gear connecting with the runway signaling the end of the journey. Relief coursed through you at the thought of being home - of slipping into your bed, curling up under your own blankets, and finally letting the exhaustion that clung to you take over.

You stood, ready to grab your go-bag from the overhead compartment, but before your fingers could curl around the strap, Emily was already there.

“I’ve got it,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument as she slung the bag over her shoulder and motioned toward the door.

You opened your mouth to protest but caught the look in her eyes—a determined sharpness tempered by something softer, something vulnerable. Guilt. It flickered behind her carefully constructed facade, just out of reach but unmistakable. You swallowed your words and followed her out of the jet.

Outside, the crisp night air greeted you, wrapping around your still-recovering body. It felt heavier than it should, clinging to your skin like a second layer. All you wanted was to get to your car, drive home, and disappear into the sanctuary of your own space. But as you stepped toward the SUV waiting for you on the asphalt, Emily stepped into your path.

“I’ll drive you,” she said simply, her voice calm but firm.

“Emily, I’m fine,” you replied, though the thought of not having to focus on the road was tempting. “I can drive myself. It’s not a big deal.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and you could see the muscle in her jaw tighten as she set her bag down beside the SUV. “It’s not happening,” she said. “You’re not driving anywhere.”

Her tone brooked no argument, but you couldn’t help the flicker of annoyance that sparked within you. “I’ll be fine,” you insisted. “I’m not made of glass.”

Emily didn’t respond right away. She stood there, her dark eyes locked on yours, her expression unreadable. And then she said, softly but firmly, “You’re coming with me.”

The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been. You frowned, caught off guard. “To your place?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”

Her bluntness startled you. She wasn’t asking, she was telling you. But as much as the stubborn part of you wanted to resist, to dig in your heels and prove you were fine, you couldn’t ignore the way her voice wavered ever so slightly. It wasn’t just about you. You could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way her shoulders tensed beneath her coat.

This was about her, too.

You sighed, the fight draining out of you as you nodded. “Alright,” you said quietly, and her shoulders seemed to relax, just a fraction.

Emily didn’t say anything else, simply opening the passenger door for you. You slid in without a word, the SUV’s interior warm and comfortable. She rounded the front and climbed into the driver’s seat, her movements precise and measured. The engine roared to life, and she pulled onto the road, the silence between you settled in like an old friend.

As the city lights blurred past the windows, you stole a glance at her. Her hands gripped the wheel tightly, her knuckles pale against the black leather. Her jaw was set, her eyes fixed on the road, but the tension radiating off her was palpable. You wanted to say something, to break the silence, but the words stuck in your throat.

You didn’t know what to say.

So instead, you watched her, the weight of everything unsaid sitting heavy in the space between you.

The sight of her house came into view, and you felt your chest tighten. It was a beautiful place, sturdy and quiet. But to you, it was haunted. The last time you had stepped through that door, everything had changed. Everything had unraveled.

The memory of that night loomed like a ghost, stirring unbidden thoughts. You tried not to think about the way her hands had felt on your body, the way she had whispered your name. That night had been the first- and the last - time anything like that had happened between you.

The SUV rolled to a stop, and Emily cut the engine, her movements tense. She stepped out, and you followed suit, your body feeling heavier than it should. The cold air nipped at your skin as you followed her to the door, her keys jingling softly in her hand. She didn’t look at you as she unlocked it and stepped inside.

You hesitated for a moment before crossing the threshold. The warmth of her home enveloped you, but it did little to chase away the chill that had settled deep in your chest. The living room looked the same- perfectly curated, a mixture of sophistication and comfort. The memories came rushing back, uninvited, of Emily leading you down the hall that night, her touch setting fire to your skin. You pushed the thoughts away, but they lingered, leaving behind a sharp pang in your chest. You winced, the pain a fleeting but jarring reminder of how fragile you still felt.

“Let me get the guest room ready,” Emily said, her voice pulling you back to the present. She was already stepping away, her tone curt but not unkind, as if to say you know where everything is.

And you did. You knew this house well enough to find your way around without her. But you made no move to get comfortable. The weight in your chest and the cold that clung to you made it hard to care about anything but staying upright.

Emily disappeared down the hallway, her presence leaving the room even more still. You stood there, staring at the perfectly arranged furniture, the art on the walls, the bookshelves that hinted at her meticulous nature. It should have felt welcoming, comforting even. Instead, it felt distant, like stepping into someone else’s life—a life you had only glimpsed but never truly belonged to.

You sank onto the edge of the sofa, letting your body sink into the cushions but keeping your posture stiff. The cold in your chest refused to fade, clinging to you like a shadow, heavy and relentless. You stared at the floor, your mind drifting in and out of the memories of that night. The way she had touched you. The way she had looked at you. The way she had built a wall between you afterward, as if it had never happened.

A faint clatter from down the hall broke the stillness, followed by Emily’s soft footsteps as she returned to the living room. She paused when she saw you sitting there, her dark eyes flicking over you briefly before she spoke.

“The guest room’s ready,” she said, her voice steady but distant. Emily lingered for a moment, her eyes resting on you as if she were trying to decide whether to push further. Her arms crossed over her chest, but it didn’t feel defensive—it felt like she was holding herself together, her own form of armor.

“Are you hungry?” she asked softly, the question catching you off guard.

You shook your head almost reflexively, the idea of food feeling more like an obligation than a comfort. “Not really,” you murmured, your voice quiet.

Emily didn’t look surprised, but she frowned, a flicker of something crossing her face before she straightened. “You need to eat,” she said, her tone firm but lacking its usual sharpness. “Even if it’s something small. You’ve been through hell, and your body needs fuel to recover.”

“Emily—” you started, but she cut you off, stepping closer. Her voice dropped, soft but insistent.

“If not for you... do it for me, then.”

The words stopped you cold. You looked up at her, your eyes searching her face. There it was, a crack in her armor. Guilt seeped through her voice, and the way her eyes softened as she looked at you only confirmed it. She wasn’t just doing this for you. She was carrying something heavy, something that weighed on her more than she was willing to admit.

You nodded slowly, not commenting on it, not trusting yourself to. You didn’t know how to address this complicated mess between you, the night you had made love with Emily, the weeks of distance that followed, your near-death experience, and the way she’d held you as she carried you out, her words still echoing in your mind.

"I’m not losing you. Do you hear me? You don’t get to leave. Not after… not after everything.”

The closest she’d come to admitting whatever was between you. And then, at the hospital, waking to see the tears in her eyes, the rawness in her expression as if she was barely holding herself together, only to wipe away her tears.

But even after all of that, the two of you still hadn’t spoken about it. Emily’s hovering, her constant presence, her insistence on caring for you, it was all laced with guilt. And yet, she didn’t say a word about what truly lingered between you.

What you didn’t know - what you couldn’t know- was the way she had bared her heart to you when you were unconscious in that hospital bed. The things she’d said, the confessions that had spilled from her lips in the stillness of the room, words you hadn’t heard because you were too far gone to listen.

Emily let out a quiet breath as she turned and headed toward the kitchen, motioning for you to follow. You did, your legs feeling heavy as you shuffled behind her. The house was so quiet that every sound seemed to echo, the soft padding of your socks on the hardwood floor, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the clink of Emily opening a cabinet.

She moved with purpose, pulling out a loaf of bread and setting it on the counter. Her movements were efficient but almost too careful, as if the simple task of making a sandwich was grounding her. “Just a few bites,” she said, her back to you. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You nodded again, even though she couldn’t see it, and sank into one of the stools at the kitchen island. The cold in your chest felt heavier here, the stillness of the house only amplifying the weight of it. You watched Emily as she worked, the lines of her shoulders tense beneath the fabric of her sweater. She wasn’t saying anything, but her actions spoke volumes.

Minutes later, she set a plate in front of you, a simple sandwich, nothing fancy. She leaned against the counter across from you, her arms crossed again, watching you with a quiet intensity that made you feel like she was waiting for something.

You picked up the sandwich and took a small bite, the taste bland but manageable. Emily’s posture relaxed, just a fraction, and she nodded almost imperceptibly, as if to herself.

“Thank you,” she said softly, the words carrying more weight than they should have.

You didn’t respond, focusing on the sandwich instead, though your appetite was nonexistent. The silence stretched between you, but this time, it wasn’t as heavy. There was something in the way Emily stood there, her eyes never quite leaving you, that made it feel... less lonely.

When you set the sandwich down, only half-eaten, she didn’t push you to finish it. Instead, she walked over and picked up the plate, her movements deliberate but calm. “I’ll take care of this,” she said quietly.

You stayed where you were, your hands resting on the edge of the counter, your thoughts swirling. You wanted to say something, to break through the barrier that had grown between you. But every time you opened your mouth, the words felt too heavy, too complicated to let out.

And so, you stayed silent, the cold in your chest pressing against your ribs as you stared at the faint reflections in the polished countertop. Emily returned moments later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She hesitated at the edge of the counter, her eyes flicking to yours before she spoke.

“You should get some rest,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “The guest room’s ready for you. I put extra blankets on the bed... just in case.”

You nodded and stood, your body still feeling sluggish. As you walked past her toward the hallway, you paused, your hand gripping the edge of the doorframe. “Emily,” you said softly, your voice uncertain.

She looked at you, her expression carefully neutral. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words but finding none. Finally, you just shook your head. “Never mind,” you murmured, disappearing down the hallway before she could respond.

You didn’t see the way her shoulders slumped as you left, the guilt in her eyes deepening as she leaned heavily against the counter, the weight of her own unspoken words pressing down on her.

You lay in bed, the soft fabric of the sweatpants and shirt Emily had left for you doing little to chase away the cold that seemed to have taken permanent residence in your chest. You’d tried to sleep, tried to let exhaustion drag you under, but the icy weight pressing against your ribs made it impossible. You’d wrapped yourself in blankets, tucked them tightly around you as if you could lock out the chill, but it was futile. It wasn’t a physical cold. It was something deeper, something clawing at you from the inside out.

You glanced at the clock. 11:57 p.m. Nearly midnight. You sighed, running a hand over your face as your gaze swept over the guest room. It was neat and welcoming, yet it felt distant, like you didn’t belong here. The stillness of the room matched the hollow emptiness inside you, amplifying it. The air felt heavy, pressing down on you, and you couldn’t take it anymore.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you got up, your movements sluggish but purposeful. You needed a distraction, anything to keep your mind occupied. Tea, maybe. Or just pacing the kitchen. The act of doing something, no matter how small, might help push back the oppressive cold in your chest.

As you stepped into the hallway, the dim light from the kitchen faintly illuminated the space. You took a step toward it, but before you could round the corner, Emily emerged from the living room. She stopped mid-step when she saw you, her dark eyes immediately locking onto yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Her gaze flicked over you, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your arms crossed as if trying to protect yourself from the cold that clung to you.

“You’re freezing,” she murmured, her voice low but filled with an urgency that you couldn’t quite match.

You opened your mouth to dismiss it, to tell her you were fine, but the words wouldn’t come. The biting chill in your chest crawled closer to the surface, making it hard to even think straight.

Emily stepped closer, her movements careful but deliberate. “Come with me,” she said softly, her tone firm but gentle. She didn’t wait for you to respond, her hand brushing your arm lightly as she turned and led you down the hallway.

The house was quiet, the faint hum of the heater the only sound as you followed her into her bedroom. As you stepped into Emily’s bedroom, a strange, heavy sensation settled in your chest, something different from the lingering cold that had clung to you all night. The room was warm, inviting even, but it held an undeniable weight.

It was the first time you had been in here since that night.

Your eyes flickered over the space, memories pressing in on you from every corner. The bed, perfectly made now, had once been tangled with sheets, bodies, and whispered breaths. The air, now still and quiet, had once been filled with Emily’s voice, her soft murmurs against your skin, the way she had said your name in the dark like she couldn’t get enough of it.

Your stomach twisted, your fingers curling at your sides. You had done everything in your power to bury that night, to pack it away, to mirror Emily’s distance so you wouldn’t break under the weight of it. But now, standing here again, the ghost of it wrapped around you, thick and suffocating.

You glanced at Emily, your breath hitching slightly when you found her watching you. Her expression was unreadable, but something flickered behind her dark eyes, recognition. She knew. She felt it too.

For a second, neither of you moved. The air between you crackled, heavy with the unspoken, with the things you had both run from for weeks. But then Emily inhaled sharply, shaking herself free of whatever thought had momentarily trapped her. She moved to the dresser, pulling out a thick sweatshirt, her hands steady even as something in her eyes betrayed the tension she was holding inside.

“Arms up,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost cautious.

You obeyed without a word, letting her slip the sweatshirt over your head. The fabric was warm, a stark contrast to the chill still settled deep in your bones. Emily’s hands lingered for just a second after the material fell into place, her fingers brushing against your arms before she stepped back, putting space between you.

Emily motioned toward the bed. “Sit,” she said gently.

You obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress, but the moment you did, a fresh wave of unease settled over you. This bed—it wasn’t just a bed. It was the place where everything had changed. Where she had unraveled you with her hands, her lips, her body. Where she had let you in for a fleeting moment before slamming the door shut just as quickly.

Your gaze dropped to the floor, your thoughts splintering into jagged pieces you couldn’t quite put back together. The cold in your chest ached, but it wasn’t just from the lingering effects of the freezer, it was from everything that had come after. The silence. The distance. The way you had mirrored her walls just to survive it.

Emily crouched in front of you, her presence grounding but unbearably heavy. She placed her hands on your knees, the warmth of her touch seeping through the fabric of your sweatpants. “You need to get warm,” she said softly, but there was something in her voice, something fragile.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the sweatshirt she had just pulled over your head. “I don’t think warmth is the problem,” you murmured, surprising even yourself with the quiet admission.

Emily’s hands tightened on your knees for a fraction of a second before she exhaled, steadying herself. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “Come on,” she urged, her fingers brushing over your arm in a silent plea. “Into bed.”

You didn’t argue. You let her pull back the duvet, let her guide you beneath it, let the weight of the blankets press down on you. But even as you lay there, cocooned in the softness, the cold in your chest refused to ease. You curled slightly on your side, staring at the faint outline of the bedside lamp against the ceiling, exhaustion pulling at your limbs but refusing to grant you rest.

The mattress dipped beside you. You felt Emily hesitate, hovering at the edge of the bed as if unsure whether she was crossing another invisible line.

Then, something inside her broke.

She exhaled shakily and shifted closer, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you against her. The warmth of her skin enveloped you, her touch steady and grounding as she held you tight. And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t keep her distance. She didn’t hold herself back.

Her grip was hesitant at first, but when you didn’t pull away, she held you tighter. Her arms came around you fully, one hand resting against your stomach, fingers splayed as if to anchor herself to you. Her other arm curled beneath your head, drawing you closer, until her breath was warm against your neck.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick, but not empty. Emily’s breathing was steady but not quite even, as if she was still trying to control something breaking inside of her.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve, gripping it like a lifeline.

Finally, her voice broke the stillness, soft and trembling. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her breath brushing against your hair.

You froze, your breath hitching slightly as the words hung between you. “For what?” you asked, though you already knew.

Emily tightened her hold on you, her tone thick with emotion as she spoke. “For everything,” she admitted. “For the walls I put up. For pushing you away when all I wanted to do was hold on. For not—” Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath. “For not telling you how I felt until it was too late.”

Emily shifted slightly, pressing her forehead lightly against the back of your head. “I shouldn’t have left you alone,” she whispered, and her voice was different now, unfiltered, fragile in a way you’d never heard before. “Not after that night. Not after what it meant.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the chest, the echoes of her voice cutting through your mind.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your throat tightening. It wasn’t just the cold you were fighting. It was everything else.

“I thought it would be easier,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was easier to tell you when you weren’t listening. When I didn’t have to see the way you’d look at me. But now…” Her voice trailed off, her hand on your stomach pulling you firmer against her front. “I hate myself for it. For not being braver. For not being better for you.”

Her guilt was palpable, threading through every word, every breath. You felt the tension in her body, the way her arms trembled slightly as she held you. It was the most vulnerable you’d ever seen her, and it cracked something open inside you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she admitted, her voice breaking again. “But I can’t lose you. Not again.”

You swallowed hard, the cold in your chest shifting, cracking under the weight of her words. “I didn’t leave,” you whispered, your voice shaky but firm. “I’m still here.”

You shifted slightly in Emily’s embrace, the warmth of her arms doing what nothing else could—chasing away the cold that had gripped your chest. Her words echoed in your mind, soft and raw.

“And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here,” Emily said.

You turned your head slightly, to look over your shoulder at her. Emily’s dark eyes were already fixed on you, filled with something you couldn’t quite name: guilt, fear, hope, all wrapped into one. Her brows furrowed slightly when your eyes met, but she didn’t look away.

“What did you say to me?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “In the hospital. When I wasn’t listening?”

Her body tensed for a moment. She held your gaze, her eyes searching yours, as if trying to decide how much to say. You hesitated before adding, “I can… turn around. Or close my eyes, if that’s what you need to talk about it.”

Emily’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she shook her head slightly. “No,” she said firmly, though her voice trembled at the edges. “Don’t turn around. Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me.”

You nodded, waiting, your chest tightening with anticipation. She took a shaky breath as if grounding herself.

“I told you…” She paused, her words faltering for a second before she forced herself to continue. “I told you that I’m terrible at loving anything. Especially the people I care about the most.”

Your breath hitched, her confession striking something deep within you. Loving.

“I’ve been so distant,” she went on, her voice breaking slightly. “I thought if I pushed you away, it would make it easier. That if I kept things professional, I could stop feeling this... stop feeling you.” Her hands tightened their hold on you, like she was afraid you might slip away. “I wished I’d have the strength to keep you away from me. But it didn’t work. I couldn’t stop.”

You swallowed hard, your throat thick with emotion as you absorbed her words. Slowly, you turned in her arms until you faced her completely. Emily’s eyes searched yours, her expression open in a way you’d never seen before. Vulnerable. Raw.

“I thought I was protecting you,” she murmured, her voice breaking again. “But I was just running. And I don’t want to run anymore.”

You exhaled shakily, the weight of her confession sinking in. “Emily…” you began, your voice trembling. “I mirrored your distance. I thought if I acted like nothing happened, I wouldn’t break under the weight of it. But I did. That night—it wasn’t just sex for me. It was so much more.” You hesitated, your voice growing softer. “You were so much more.”

Her breath caught, her eyes widening slightly as your words sank in. The vulnerability in her gaze softened into something else, something deeper, something that made your chest tighten in a way that wasn’t cold, but warm.

“I thought I’d lost you too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “And it killed me, Emily. The thought of never having the chance to tell you… what you mean to me.”

Neither of you spoke after that, the silence stretching between you, heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions finally brought to light. Emily’s hand came up, her fingers brushing softly against your cheek, her touch tentative, almost unsure.

You leaned into her touch, closing the small space between you. Her eyes searched yours one last time before she moved closer, her breath warm against your lips. And then, finally, she kissed you.

It was soft at first, hesitant, as though she was afraid you might pull away. But when you didn’t -when you kissed her back, your hands curling into the fabric of her sweatshirt- she deepened it. Her lips moved against yours with a quiet urgency, weeks of restraint and unspoken words pouring into the kiss.

Emily’s tongue traced along your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You parted your lips with a soft and content sigh, inviting her in. Her tongue slid against yours in a slow, tantalizing dance, sending shivers down your spine. Emily’s fingers tangled in your hair, her grip firm but trembling slightly, as though she was afraid you might slip through her fingers again.

You pulled her closer, hands grasping at the fabric of her shirt, needing to feel her, to anchor yourself to the warmth of her. She responded in kind, pressing her body fully against yours, the heat between you erasing the last remnants of cold that had lingered in your chest for too long.

You exhaled a shaky breath against Emily’s lips, and when you spoke, your voice was raw. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” Emily whispered back, the words slipping out without hesitation. It was a promise, not just to you, but to herself.

Emily cupped your face, her thumb brushing over your cheekbone. You leaned into her touch, pressing soft kisses against the heel of her palm before meeting her lips again. This time, the kiss was deeper, longing woven into every movement.

Emily’s fingers trembled slightly as they traced the hem of the sweatshirt. You felt the hesitation in her touch, not because she didn’t want this, but because she did. So much. And this time, she wasn’t rushing. Neither of you were.

Your breath hitched as she slowly lifted the fabric, her knuckles grazing along your sides, her touch deliberate, careful. She was undressing you not just to remove a barrier, but to feel, to map the warmth of your skin beneath her fingertips, to remind herself that you were real, here, with her.

You lifted your arms, letting her pull the sweatshirt and the shirt you wore under it over your head. The air was cooler without it, but then Emily’s hands were back on you, smoothing down your arms, fingertips ghosting along your ribs and up, tracing the edge of your breasts like she was memorizing every inch of you. Her eyes flickered over your body, dark and searching, and you swore you could see something unraveling in her.

Your hands moved next, reaching for the hem of her shirt. You hesitated for a moment, fingers curling against the fabric as you glanced up at her. A silent question.

Emily nodded, her breath uneven, her arms lifting just enough for you to pull it over her head. The fabric slipped away, baring her to you in the dim light, her skin warm beneath your fingertips as you let your hands explore, brushing over her shoulders, down her arms, up the delicate slope of her neck.

A shudder ran through her as you leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips, while cupping her full breasts in your hands. Your thumbs gently traced over her nipples which immediately hardened under your touch. Emily exhaled against you, her hands found your waist, steadying herself.

There was no urgency in the way you undressed each other, only patience. Reverence. Emily’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your sweatpants and panties, her knuckles grazing your hips as she eased them down, her breath warm against your skin as she kissed a path up your stomach.

You mirrored her, fingers sliding beneath the waistband and her warm skin, pushing them down with careful hands. Emily let out a quiet breath, shifting to help you. The way she looked at you as the last of the barriers fell away made your stomach flip, heat pooling low in your belly, not just from desire, but from something deeper. Something that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.

Bare, vulnerable, and inches apart, neither of you moved for a long moment. There was no hesitation now. No fear. Just the two of you, here, now, choosing this.

You leaned in again and kissed her slowly, deeply, savoring the warmth of her mouth, the way she sighed against you as if letting go of something she had held onto for far too long. Your hands traced the length of her body, fingertips gliding over the soft curve of her waist and down her sides.

Your lips moved lower, pressing gentle kisses along the column of her throat, down to the delicate hollow between her collarbones. You felt her shiver beneath you, her fingers threading into your hair, her breathing unsteady as you continued lower. You kissed her breasts, lingering there, feeling the way her body responded to you, how her fingers curled against your scalp as if grounding herself. Your hand cupped one, kneading softly, while your mouth worshiped the other, tongue flicking over her nipple before you took it between your lips, sucking gently. Then you switched, giving the same devoted attention to the other, savoring the way she arched into your touch.

A shaky breath escaped her lips, her body pressing closer as a soft whimper filled the space between you. Her fingers tightened in your hair, nails grazing your scalp as she gasped your name, lost in the sensation.

You took your time, worshipping her with every touch, every kiss, trailing lower down the smooth plane of her stomach. Her thighs shifted, parting slightly beneath you, inviting you closer. You inched between them, your lips ghosting just above where she wanted you most.

But before you could go further, Emily’s fingers tightened in your hair, stopping you. Your breath caught as you glanced up, finding her already looking at you, her gaze dark and filled with something unshakable. She cupped your face, her thumb brushing along your jaw as she whispered, “I want to feel you.”

Her words sent a new kind of warmth flooding through you—one that settled deep in your chest, wrapping around your ribs, making it impossible to breathe anything but her.

Emily guided you up, her hands gentle but insistent, coaxing you forward and adjusting your position. She guided one of your legs over her thigh, shifting slightly beneath you until your bodies were aligned in a way that stole the breath from both of you.

Emily exhaled against your lips as she let herself sink into the mattress beneath you, dark eyes searching yours in the low light. ”Do you trust me?” she asked, her hands holding your waist steady as your pussy hovered just inches over hers.

“With my life”, you answered breathlessly, your fingers skimming over the sensitive skin of her parted thighs.

Emily’s eyes lit up, there was only one way to explain the look in her eyes. Love. A love that made your chest tighten, made your breath hitch as if you were standing at the edge of something deep and endless.

Her fingers twitched against your skin, ghosting along your waist before tugging you closer, pulling you into her. When your bodies met, your clits kissing in a warm, aching glide, it was nothing like the first time. That night had been driven by tension, urgency, the need to feel something without fully understanding what it was.

But this—this—was different.

Your first movement against her was barely more than a whisper, dragging rather than sliding over her clit. You swallowed thickly, watching the way Emily’s lips parted, her breath catching as your slick bodies found each other.

"God, you feel so good," she murmured, her voice low and reverent.

You moved again, slowly spreading both of your arousal over your skin, the friction between you growing warmer, slicker, more intoxicating. Emily let out a soft gasp, her warm hands on your hips gently guiding your movements, encouraging you to press yourself harder against her.

The first time had been raw, electric: a clash of need and restraint breaking all at once. But now, with each slow roll of your hips, you weren’t just seeking pleasure. You were giving. Giving yourselves to each other in a way you had been too afraid before.

Emily let out a trembling breath as she moved with you, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles. Her lips parted with a soft sigh, eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

The strokes became smoother, more fluid, each crossing of your clits sending waves of pleasure through both of you. The friction deepened, filling the silence with soft moans, whimpers, and gasps.

Her hands guided you as much as yours guided her, your movements perfectly in sync. Every shift, every shuddering breath, was a silent confession of everything you had held back for too long.

Emily’s hands framed your face, pulling you down, her lips seeking yours in something tender and desperate all at once. "This—" she gasped between kisses, "—you and me, I don’t ever want to stop feeling this."

"Then don’t," you murmured against her lips, pressing your forehead to hers as your bodies fit together in perfect harmony, slow and deep, the heat between you a steady flame, consuming but never out of control.

Emily gasped softly beneath you, her fingers pressing into your back as her body met yours without hesitation, without fear.

With love.

Something neither of you had dared to name before, but in this moment, with the way you moved together, the way you fit, it became undeniable. No walls. No distance. Just you and Emily, giving yourselves over completely.

Emily’s grip on your hips tightened, her fingers pressing into your skin as your rhythm grew more desperate. The slow, languid movements that had defined the beginning of this had dissolved into something needier, more urgent.

The wet, sinful sound of skin gliding over skin filled the room, the air thick with heat and longing. Each drag of your clits against each other sent another jolt of pleasure up your spine, making you gasp, making Emily shudder beneath you.

"Fuck—" Her voice was breathless, her nails digging into your back as her body arched, pressing impossibly closer.

Your name tumbled from her lips, wrecked and needy, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs. Your body trembled, your movements beginning to falter as you felt it—the inevitable crest of pleasure building, curling tight in your core, ready to snap.

"Emily—" You moaned her name, the sound breaking between labored breaths, between the frantic roll of your hips and the way her body answered yours.

You could feel her getting close, too—the way her walls fluttered against you, the way her breath hitched in tiny, desperate gasps, the way her dark eyes were hazy with pleasure, unfocused except for you.

Still, her hands remained steady. Guiding you. Grounding you. Holding you right there on the edge with her.

"I’ve got you," she whispered, her fingers pressing into your skin, coaxing you to keep going, to hold on just a little longer.

And then—bliss.

The pleasure crashed over you in waves, white-hot and all-consuming, pulling you both under. Your body jerked against hers, a strangled moan escaping your lips as you felt Emily fall with you, her body shuddering, her thighs clenching around yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved, just held onto each other, riding out the aftershocks, feeling the heat of her, the weight of her, the undeniable reality of this.

Then, slowly, you collapsed against her, your body trembling, your heart pounding in sync with hers. Emily’s arms wrapped around you, cradling you close as if you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

She pressed a soft kiss to your temple, then another, and another, her lips trailing warmth over your damp skin. Her fingers traced soothing patterns along your spine, grounding you, reminding you that you were here, that she was here, and that nothing else mattered.

Neither of you spoke.

But the words weren’t necessary.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, the cold that had clung to you, that had buried itself deep in your chest, was gone—melted away by the warmth of her, of this, of finally letting yourself be loved.

𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝒹.

[keplercryptids]

listen. when i see posts spreading blatant political misinformation coming from a place of fear, which will certainly cause more fear, my hackles go UP. and that isn't because i am underestimating what conservative US leadership will do, and it's not because i am ignorant to the rise of fascism in the west.

my hackles are up because fear mongering is unhelpful, dangerous, and going to hurt the most vulnerable among us.

i read a thread recently (would link to it but i can't remember the source) about how we cannot let ourselves do the government's work for them. that means not complying to laws that haven't been passed yet, and then continuing to not comply, as we're able, even if they are passed. we need to resist. we need to make them actually enforce these laws. and then we need to take it to court, and appeal, and keep resisting. don't do the dirty work for the far right. don't PRE-obey fascist laws.

i view a lot of these "omg look what identity the government is banning now!" posts as a kind of pre-obedience. and what's really upsetting is what these posts can and will do to LGBTQ+ youth.

LGBTQ+ youth suicidality is already 4x the average (source) and LGBTQ+ mental health outcomes are worse when shitty legislation is in the news circuit/being passed (source). i worry about trans youth specifically when terrifying-sounding misinformation is spread. how are you supposed to resist and survive if everyone around you is doomsday'ing? how do you even know resistance is possible when the information you're getting is 1) incorrect and 2) the most frightening version of potential events possible?

we NEED to be actually informed on these matters, and we need to share information responsibly. it's truly and honestly a matter of life and death.

and if you're a young LGBTQ+ person: we need you to live. we need you to survive this appalling, hateful presidential term and every other to come. we need you to believe in a better world and build that world with us. we need you.

(here is a list of LGBTQ-friendly crisis lines that do not work with the police. be safe and let's take care of each other!)