#but here he is being worried about his pay

[venomhoundfanworks]

Hazbin Hotel - Breakfast

I heard someone use a pickup line along the lines of; "How about I have you for breakfast?" I thought it was both hilarious and got... strangely inspired from it? So here I am writing a Lucifer/Reader story using it as the prompt. (๑˃́ꇴ˂̀๑)

Summery: You wake up to wonderfully melodic Lucifer cooking you a breakfast fit for a king. However, food is the last thing on your mind with how the beautiful angel before you keeps sensually moving his perfect body without realizing it...

Contents/WARNINGS: Gender neutral reader; reader's genitals are not mentioned; no use of y/n; oral sex, male receiving; crying during sex; Lucifer protests a bit at the start but don't worry he is super into it and its all consensual (18+), MDNI, NSFW below the cut ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

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It was one of those mornings. Sleep attempting to drown you. Your mind cloudy as if you hadn't rested at all. It took awhile for you to fully wake up. But even before you did, the back of your mind knew something was wrong. Something was off. You instinctively reached for your partner, before you realized the problem.

He wasn't there.

Even in your foggy state, you started to grow concerned. Lucifer was not one to leave the bed without morning cuddles and several kisses (at the very least). If he left at all, that is. It was more accurate to call him a ‘bedbody' instead of a homebody. It wasn't until you started to get out of the bed that you smelt the wonderful aromas now filling the house. Ah, thats where he was.

You smiled to yourself as you quietly approached the kitchen. You could hear Lucifer’s singing even from down the hallway. Days like this were rare; when he woke up in such a jovial mood. But when it did happen, it made all the bad days worth it.

And today was certainly going to be worth it. You could tell by the way you were greeted by the adorable sight of Lucifer, who was still in his duck pajamas, wearing a very classic red and white heart apron. Your amused smile turned into a loving grin as you leaned on the archway, fully taking in the sight before you.

Lucifer was completely in his own head at the moment. Buzzing to and fro the entire kitchen, making three separate things at once. You highly doubted he would have noticed you come in, even discounting his morning singing and little dances around the room. You had to admit, the view from where you stood was nice. Lucifer mostly had his back turned to you, and the apron he wore accentuated his waist nicely. His ass always looked nice; but the red of the apron drew the eye and seemed to frame it perfectly.

Part of you felt bad. Here Lucifer was, making a three course breakfast for you. A experience fit for actual royalty. Yet you were too busy leering at him to care or even pay attention to what he was making. But the other part of you had to admit the truth; even if you were paying attention, you would have no idea what he was making. You were neither a chef nor royalty. Anything past eggs or pancakes was beyond you.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when you noticed Lucifer clearing down. It amazed you how efficient the angel could be when he wanted to. His decades, maybe centuries, of practice showing in how fast and precisely he put things back in their rightful place. Yet, his usual air-headedness also showed in how he simply dumped everything that was even kind of dirty into the sink to be dealt with later. You held back a chuckle, watching Lucifer grumble as he attempted to wash his hands in the now over-flowing sink. Guess it was now or never...

“Good morning, Luci.” You felt your face start to burn and you tried to subtly clear your throat. That came out much more… husky then you intended.

Lucifer must have really been in his own world. He visibly jumped and squeaked when you spoke. But as soon as his eyes landed on you, his entire being relaxed and softened. A loving, dopey grin taking over his face. “Good morning, Duckie! I made breakfast~”

His love for you was infectious. You felt yourself returning the look as you made your way across the room. Lucifer sidestepped, quickly drying his hands on a nearby towel. You wrapped your arms around the cheerful angel, hugging him from behind and resting your head in the crook of his neck. Lucifer hummed and swayed gently; nuzzling up into you and placing his hands upon yours.

The moment was serene. The moment was perfect. You would have loved for it to last forever.

But as it stood, you had a very happy; very beautiful; very handsome man in your arms. One who was sensually rubbing his ass against you without realizing it. After a few moments, you began to feel a familiar heat rising in your chest. Once again, Lucifer was completely lost in the moment; snuggling up against you. Unaware of how your eyes started to drink in his form; his still sleep tussled hair; his exposed neck…

That was what did you in.

“I missed you in the bed this morning…” You practically purred. You kissed and licked at Lucifer’s jawline. Judging by the way the angel went from practically limp in your arms one moment, to completely rigid the next; he had finally caught on. You chuckled against his skin as Lucifer let out a surprised whimper, unintentionally lolling his head back and exposing even more skin. You took the opportunity to latch onto his neck, drawing out a rather hapless, breathless cry.

Your grip on his waist tightened. Now locking his body to yours. One of Lucifer’s hands went to brace himself against the counter, while the other went up to your head as if to push you away. But when you bit down on his neck, Lucifer seemed to change his mind. His claws gripping at your hair instead.

“Oohhh-Duckie…” Now that wouldn’t do. ‘Duckie’ was your ‘cutesy’ name. The petname Lucifer used when one of you was being adorable or he was overcome with love. He never used it in the throes of passion. Clearly, you needed to try harder. You continued nipping at Lucifer’s neck, while one of your hands began to snake its way under his apron. “Duckie-Darling…” There it is.

Lucifer’s mind had started to grow cloudy once he felt your fingers on his thigh. Once you began to palm his half-hard cock, he was gone.

“Ah! Ahh-oohhh… Please-” Both of Lucifer’s clawed hands now gripped at the counter for dear life. The sudden jolts of pleasure from your hand were like raw electricity right to his brain. “Darling…” Lucifer pleaded. You were sure it was intended to be a protest, but it sounded more desperate then anything. “Its early…”

Lucifer squirmed pathetically in your hold. He made no attempts to escape but was trying his absolute hardest to not thrust his hips into your touch. Which resulted in him grinding backwards against you instead. You didn't even think Lucifer was aware of what he was doing to you. So focused on his own dick…

“Oh…oohh…” Lucifer looked down at your hand disappointedly when you stopped rubbing him through his pants. But you felt his whole body tense in excitement as he realized your hand was instead now clumsily working to free his cock. Ever the impatient man, Lucifer quickly brought his own hands down to assist you in undoing the buttons of his sleep pants.

Lucifer threw his head back against you and cried out when you finally touched him; immediately setting a slow, steady pace meant to drive the angel mad. His claws were right back against the counter; bracing himself against it like you were actually fucking him. Like he could collapse at any moment. “W-wha-what’s gotten into you..?”

Despite his attempts at verbal protest, Lucifer’s traitorous body melted into you and his breathing quickly grew ragged. You worked his shaft with steady, practiced precision; and Lucifer was a weak man ready to break.

He turned towards you and attempted to gasp out another excuse, “We-we haven’t even had breakfast yet-ahHHH-!” Lucifer interrupted his own words with an arch and a cry; ripped from him as you suddenly swiped your palm over his leaking head.

You hummed in fake thought as his hands now desperately reached back and grabbed at you. One of them latched onto the bicep of the arm that was currently pumping him. You loved the way you could feel his claws tremble. “What if I wanted you for breakfast?” You gave a toothy grin as you heard Lucifer gasp. If it was even possible, the glow of his yellow blush grew even deeper and was now spreading down his chest. He must have really liked that idea, going solely off the way you felt his cock jump in anticipation.

Lucifer whined and pleaded, arching up to chase your touch as you pulled your hands away. Desperate cries of please, please, please poured from his mouth unrestrained. But they were cut off with a yelp as you hoisted the small angel into your arms.

Lucifer immediately wrapped his lithe arms around you, his mouth moving to kiss and lick at your neck. You wondered for a moment if it was vengeance for earlier. But quickly disregarded the thought. You doubted Lucifer could think that far at the moment.

Luckily, you didn’t need to carry him all the way to the bedroom. You had the perfect spot for this, since Lucifer had yet to set the kitchen table...

You gently detached Lucifer from your neck and laid him down on the beautiful, ebony table. Lucifer did little to resist you. His eyes clouded with raw lust, and his claws moving on their own to brace themselves against the wooden surface above his head. His half-lidded eyes followed you as you circled the table like a predator. Stopping once you were able to lecherously look down upon him from in between his legs.

Your face was starting to hurt from how wide you were smiling. But you couldn't possibly help it. Not with Lucifer, the King of Hell, the Sin of Pride; sprawled out and limp on the table below you like an actual meal. Like he was the lamb being offered to a hungry god on the face of an alter.

Lucifer's face was blush stained and his eyes were pleading. Part of you wanted to tease him and make him beg, but the other part of you wanted to overwhelm him until he broke. Lucifer knew he was completely at your mercy too, with the way he trembled under your hot gaze as your eyes dragged over the sinful display he was making. You swore you could hear the faint sound of scratching against wood as your eyes roamed. Lucifer looked away in embarrassment when your eyes finally settled on his cock.

A lustful growl erupted from your throat. The apron did little to hide Lucifer’s cock; standing nearly perfectly upright, at proud attention. You could feel Lucifer’s anticipation in the air as you lifted the apron up to bunch against his waist. Quickly, you finished what the two of you had started earlier; removing his pants and tossing them carelessly to the side.

His cock was gorgeous. Subtle curve, with a wonderfully flared head. Precum dripping steadily from the tip. In that moment, you made your decision.

You were going to overwhelm him.

Lucifer let out a absolutely obscene sound as you took as much of him into your mouth as you could in one go. You heard the -CRACK- of Lucifer’s restraint snapping; the sound of his claws breaking into the surface of your once flawless table. Instinctively, Lucifer’s trembling legs spread impossibly wide for you. Your grip on his thighs tightened as you locked Lucifer in the new, wonderful position he had put himself in.

“Ah-AH-ahhh…” Lucifer’s moans had become more of a chant as you mercilessly sucked him down. There was no easing into it. It was just suddenly all tongue and throat and oh god, how did he get this lucky?

It was too much. It was not enough. Lucifer’s claws dug deeper into the wooden table, undoubtedly leaving discernible grooves of his fingers now. Lucifer felt like he was hanging on for dear life as he screwed his eyes shut, a few overwhelmed tears escaping. His entire torso twisted and writhed underneath you while his legs shook uncontrollably. He was desperate for more. He was desperate to get away. Yet, all his squirming did nothing with the iron grip you had on his pelvis.

But just as quickly as you had descended on him; you were gone. The only sound Lucifer was able to make was a protesting, wanton whine. It was as if you had sucked the very air from his lungs, leaving him panting and out of breath. Lucifer’s lust fogged eyes fluttered open to look into yours. To see why you had stopped.

“Lucifer?” You said his name so sweetly. So… unfitting of the lewd position you two were currently in. Him, spread eagle on the table in front of you; an apron the only thing hiding the shameful sight of Lucifer’s weeping, twitching cock from his own eyes. You, absentmindedly rubbing Lucifer’s inner thighs with your thumbs as you kept him spread nice and wide; the innocent look on your face betrayed by a smear of precum on the side of your mouth.

Lucifer swore you had to be an angel in that moment. Someone destined for heaven but sent here for him. Just for him. “Y-yes, Dove?”

You placed a gentle kiss to the side of his knee before smiling at him tenderly. “I love you.”

It was as if those words, those three simple words, set every nerve ending inside Lucifer alight. He simultaneously felt too aware of his own body, and as if you had suddenly knocked him out. Lucifer felt his heart stutter and skip when the words were uttered. Then each rapid pound against his ribcage that followed. But his mind was being drowned by the echoing of rushing blood. Not to mention the heat that Lucifer felt suddenly burning him from within.

“Ooohh…” It was as if the words themselves had granted Lucifer physical pleasure as he arched off the table and groaned. “I love you too…”

You gave a pleased smile before promptly returning to your previous position, taking the entirety of him into your mouth once again.

Lucifer thrashed as he brokenly cried. Maybe your words really did set his nervous system on fire. Everything felt so much more intense now. Lucifer’s eyes were wide, yet unseeing. His vision cast in a blurry haze due to the overwhelmed tears that were now streaming down his face. “Oh god, I love you.”

He didn’t last long. You knew he wouldn't either with his convulsing body and delirious declarations of love. Lucifer arched off the table, screwing his eyes shut, nearly screaming as he came. His legs shook violently and he tried in vain to spread even wider as you drank him down.

Lucifer finally went limp. Gasping for air like it had been knocked out of him. He whimpered and convulsed from oversensitivity when you pulled your mouth off him. Lucifer had cum so hard that you couldn't possibly swallow it all; leaving a coating along the side of his dick and a rather scandalous trail on the side of your face. But you paid it no mind as you went to dampen a nearby washcloth so you could clean up your lovely angel.

It took a few moments for Lucifer to gather the energy to sit up. Still leaning on his arms heavily as you returned to the table. Lucifer stared at you with complete adoration as you wiped him down. You couldn’t help but chuckle at the involuntary twitches and gasps Lucifer let loose as you cleaned him. Lucifer softly kissed your forehead, then gently brought his hands up to cradle your face as you finished.

His eyes gazed into yours lovingly. His thumb stroked your cheek, swiping away some of the cum that was left there. “So beautiful…” He murmured; making your heart skip. Even with your debauched face, Lucifer still saw you as perfect.

You had to kiss him. You couldn't resist. Lucifer met you in the middle, for a passionate, yet surprisingly chaste kiss. But you were reminded for a moment of what a devil the man in front of you actually was. When you parted, his serpentine tongue flicked out across your cheek; cleaning your face of his own spend. Lucifer laughed and licked his lips. Enjoying his own taste.

You were frozen. Ironic; considering the burning blush that had now taken over your face. Lucifer lent forward, resting his forehead against yours as he affectionately grinned.

“How about we have a real breakfast now?”

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AN: Some details that either didn't make it in or I took out because they ruined the flow:

Lucifer is singing in a “language you can’t understand”

Lucifer’s pajamas are those like button-up type pajamas. They are slightly too big so they bunch up around his ankles, he can hide his hands in the sleeves, and he can do that flappy thing with them (YOU KNOW WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT EVERYONE HAS DONE IT). But yeah just overall comfy vibes with it

The apron is like one of those stereotypical 50s housewife heart aprons lol

I might draw a picture of the pajamas and apron at some point? Who knows

LINKS AND FURTHER READING ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡

Check out my other writing on my masterlist >>HERE<<

AO3 Archive Link: >>HERE<<

If you want a combo of sweet and spicy Lucifer content, you should check out the Lucifer dating headcanons by @/twinkling-moonlillie that can be found >>HERE<<

Or if your now feral and just want more sub!Lucifer; there is a wonderfully delicious post by @/redr0sewrites over >>HERE<< that I totally haven't read multiple times (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)

[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. 

Next part 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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@whimsiwitchy @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @martinys-world

[quarterlifekitty]

wifey here again with stepdad!Nik, so I think SD would insist on finishing college since she only has like a year left anyway and because she feels like she'll be able to get a job easier with a degree, she doesn't wanna be a burden. Nikolai ofc lets her finish college, it keeps her busy while at home, settling in nicely to their house. He takes care of her every need, and slowly starts to convince her that she doesn't owe him anything, she's his wife now, or soon to be at the very least. All she needs to do is stay home and worry about their little one. Anytime she has doubts about how much he wants her and wants to provide for her she gets reminded thoroughly. It's when SD's bump is getting noticeable that Nik really steps it up. "What if we both miss the important moments?" and SD eventually is like "yeah, okay, but if it ever becomes a burden I'll get a job" and Nik is real proud of himself. SD also becomes very needy, in just the way Nik loves, she wants to be with him as much as possible and needs help a lot because hormones are fucking with her. And she definitely thanks him plenty for his help whenever she can. Bonus NikPrice x SD reader John decides to visit Nik and his new bird since on their last mission Nikolai wouldn't shut up about her and he immediately gets why when he sees SD, she's so sweet and nurturing and she looks gorgeous all round with Nik's kid, stays a few nights and gets drunk one night and jokingly (sorta) tells Nik he'd love to put the next one in her and Nikolai just hums with a smile "why not?" and reader is suddenly being flirted with by her fiance/husband's friend. Is real worried about it cause she likes it and guility goes to Nik who is 1. Very pleased by her honesty and 2. reassures her and tells her that he's okay with it if she is. (Totally wasn't his plan to get his two favorite people together so he could have them both, nope, that's totally not why he raved about her to John and not one other soul. Mmhm)

Also im really sorry if once again this doesn't make sense, stress has got me by a chokehold lately and its making my brain bad lol

Ooooooh wifey you are killing me. Isn’t that the perfect solution, though? You’re so worried about being a burden, let’s bring in another source of income!!

You know. Maybe it’s kinda degrading. But I totally imagine Nik comes up with little tasks for her. Let’s be real, it’s so easy— he saw what her mother was like, he can see how starved she is for approval, it practically blinds her. Things like “I want us to get a new car with some more space before the baby comes— can you research what models are best for family? You have a better mind for things like that than me,” he says with an almost sheepish smile. You’re practically wagging your tail with excitement— and you just look so happy when you present all of your work and he seems so pleased with you.

Also, in a bit of darker move, I can imagine if you’re not as into John as all that— they come up with a story. They say that John wants to have a baby of his own, but he’s not married, and he wants to have a kid before he’s too old and his career gets in the way of romance. So he would love for you to be like a surrogate for him. You’ve done so well with this first pregnancy, and you’re still so young— plus! John would be willing to pay, so it’d be like you’ve got your own income to help out!

The only thing is that John believes in natural conception. And he wants to live with you both during the pregnancy to help out. And he doesn’t actually plan on leaving once you have his kid. And Nik knows how sensitive and caring you are— when you confess to him your doubts about giving the baby up for good once it’s born, he comforts you. Of course he’ll talk to John about it, milaya, he’s sure they can come to an agreement.

[katyawriteswhump]

love and other catastrophes at the omega cafe (1/8)

So I posted about this idea before here, (and was overwhelmed by the response—thank you!) but basically a cat café opened near me and inspired this:

Summary: Steve is a runaway Omega who gets a job at an Omega café, where he’s basically paid to curl up and purr in Alphas’ laps. It’s legal, and he earns a living, rents his own place. He’s getting along fine for a packless Omega. Then Alpha rockstar Eddie Munson turns up for an hour of ‘kitty’ petting, and shatters Steve’s fragile little world…

Rating: M (will be E); No major warnings; Tags: omega steve, alpha eddie, a/b/o dynamics, fluff and angst; (It won't get tooooo angsty, I promise, and I should probably write a shorter version, but this seemed to want to get bedded in for some plot, so...) read on A03 and thank you @lexirosewrites for being so patient with my weird belated questions about what do with my idea!

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

Chapter 1

Steve clocked in with Carol at the coffee counter and cosied up on a beanbag waiting for the first customer to arrive. He couldn’t stop yawning and struggled to keep his eyes open.

He didn’t usually work the Monday morning graveyard shift at ‘Kitties’—otherwise known as the Omega Café. Carol usually put him on the weekends, which were their busiest times. Plenty of Alphas—and sometimes Betas—were free then, to pass an hour with a cute Omega purring in their lap.

For a cost, naturally.

Steve, though, had called in sick yesterday and needed to make up his lost earnings. He’d been in heat. So, three days of cold sweats, congealed slick, and crippling cramps. At least the blockers he used for this job curbed his desperation to be fucked. All the same, a dull gnawing pain in his pelvis persisted, he’d barely slept and…

…Ugh, this beanbag was, if anything, too inviting and soft.

He’d gotten his most comfy, stretchy shorts on, his most butter-soft collar, and an only-slightly-cropped-at-the-midriff vest. His feet were bare, which was fortunate. Right now, only his icicle toes were keeping him awake. He was tempted to grab one of the many fluffy blankets scattered around the café, pull it up over him and snooze.

He was torn between asking Carol for a double espresso or napping—to be fair, it was unlikely anybody would join them till noon—when the bell on the door tinkled.

So much for a peaceful snooze.

Fortunately, rather than a hungover Alpha, Robin burst in. On spotting Steve, her shoulders sagged with obvious relief. She hurried up to the counter and presented Carol with her Apple-Pay. “Flat white with an extra shot, and an hour of kitty cuddles, please.”

“Sure.” The payment bleeped through, and Carol turned to grind the coffee beans. She never bothered with great customer service for Steve’s best friend. That said, customer service wasn’t Carol’s strength at the best of times. Steve liked that about her. For an Omega, she was a bitey feral, and she sure had their boss, Tommy, under her claw.

Robin sat down at a table, pulled a cushion onto her lap. Steve shuffled over on his knees and laid his head on the cushion:

“Jesus, Robin,” he whispered, as she started to pet his hair. It was usual practice for Omegas to wait till the customer spoke first, but this was, well, Robin. “You don’t have to pay to see me, you know that?”

“Apparently, I do, Dingus! I’ve been going out of my mind! Why didn’t you return my, like, billion texts?”

“Shit. Sorry.” Her fretful pettings only made him feel more guilty. “I’m out of data, and you know how shit Wi-Fi is in Sunshine Village. Plus, I had really bad cramps this month—I could barely crawl out of bed this morning.”

“Yeah, I guessed that. God, I’m sorry, too.” She slowed her strokes, as they both relaxed a little. “I worry about you all the time, living there. Working here. I wish I could take you home with me. Damn, I should rent somewhere you’re actually allowed to live.”

“No way. I’m fine, Robin. Seriously, I’ve landed on my feet. I like having my own little home. The heating is working in my block this week, and this is a pretty cushy gig.”

Steve didn’t even say that for the benefit of Carol, who’d just dumped Robin’s coffee on the table, slopping half of it into the saucer.

Steve had arrived in the city four months ago, down to his last few dollars. He’d soon realized that acceptable Omega jobs—teaching assistant, nanny, seamstress, junior positions in retail and catering—would all require handing over too much information about himself. He’d also swiftly discovered that Sunshine Village, the district he’d heard about where single Omegas could live unmolested, was little better than a slum.

He’d been caught between the terrifying choices of fleeing back home, starving, or sex work. Then he’d stumbled across this place.

If Tommy had checked the fake name Steve gave, he hadn’t cared. Steve got paid in cash after each shift and earned enough to rent a small place in the Village. Which, despite its shabbiness, turned out to be full of friendly, supportive Omegas.

It all meant he didn’t have to worry about Robin being evicted from her pleasant ‘beta’ neighbourhood for harbouring an unregistered Omega.

Robin chatted on, while sipping the remnants of her coffee and petting Steve idly. While she complained about how unfair the world was for Omegas—they’d met when Steve had turned up at an Omega soup-kitchen she volunteered at—her speech also underlined his point.

His life could be a shitload worse.

This morning, he was being paid for his best friend to give him much-needed bodily contact in a no-strings-attached fashion. While he didn’t have to force fake purrs for her, like he did for the majority of customers, soft sleepy purring happened anyhow.

After Robin left for work, the café was empty again. Carol made them both hot chocolate then turned her attention to doing her nails. Steve breakfasted on an out-of-date lemon muffin, which was still nice and gooey in the middle, then slipped out to the washroom for the second time since Robin left. He needed to re-check his hair.

He was reapplying his eyeliner, when he heard the bell tinkle again.

So much for the ‘graveyard’ shift. He pinched his pale cheeks, bracing himself to face whoever wanted to cuddle him next.

A high-pitched squeal from Carol pierced Steve’s hearing—one that was probably only audible to other Omegas.

And the scent snatched his breath.

The Omega café was flushed with scent-neutralising air fresheners, for obvious reasons. Whoever this Alpha was, his musk was potent enough to punch straight through. It nearly floored Steve with low notes of leather and woodsmoke, and high notes of… Christ, Steve didn’t know what that was.

Plums? Fine Californian wine?

It set his mouth watering, for all of a split second.

Carol! Was she okay?

He rushed from the washroom and peeped from behind a thick velour curtain.

Carol was fine. She was taking payment from an Alpha with long, slightly-frizzy retro hair, a jean jacket—who the fuck wore those?—and dark soulful eyes.

Steve’s heart rate spiked.

The Alpha was pretty damn good-looking, and young too, maybe only a year or so older than Steve.

He was also faintly familiar.

Did Steve know him from back home? Would he recognise Steve?

“So, how does this work?” asked the newcomer. His drawling accent sent a shiver down Steve’s spine that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. His voice was as sexy as the rest of him… and that definitely wasn’t a North County accent. Steve relaxed slightly, ogling the guy who was literally setting both his and Carol’s legs wobbling.

“You pay up front for an hour of kitty cuddles,” she said. “You have to order a minimum of one drink, and all new customers must read and sign our rules and disclaimers.”

“Ma’am, it’s Monday morning.” The Alpha sounded wearily amused, gesturing to the three-page fine-print document she shoved across the counter. “Do I really have to read all this?”

“How about I summarize for you.” Yup, Carol was being helpful and polite. Either someone kidnapped the real Carol, or this Alpha really was special. “You’re not about to go into rut, I take it? Because if you are, Sir, I’m really, really sorry—we can’t take that risk here, or we could get shut down.”

The Alpha shook his head. While Carol reeled off a few pertinent points—“no scenting, obviously. No kissing,”—his gaze snapped onto where Steve skulked, half-hidden behind the drapes.

Steve jumped back out of sight.

“Soooo,” said the Alpha, when Carol finally stopped talking. “To summarise—I can stroke the pussies, but I can’t stroke the pussies?”

Carol giggled. Though they’d all heard that joke, and every variation on it, at least a billion times.

“Pretty much,” she said. “We’re absolutely NOT a brothel. And don’t expect cat-ears and whiskers and all that jazz. Thursday is usually full-costume night, and… erm, right now, we only have one kitty, and he seems to have strayed. Boy kitty okay with you?”

“Yes, thank you, Ma’am,” said the Alpha.

“Cool. I’ll go coax him out with a saucer of milk or something.”

She found Steve backed up against the dingy back-corridor wall, knees basically jello. “Get out there! Christ, you do realize who that is?”

Steve shook his head, throat too tight to speak. He honestly didn’t know what was wrong with him. Alphas moseyed in and out of this place every day. He was usually able to keep himself together.

“It’s Eddie Munson! Lead singer of Corroded Coffin? Super-hot and super-famous bad-boy Alpha rockstar? Jeeees, you really did live in a box till you got here, didn’t you? Look, get out there—before I tell him boy kitty is off the menu, grab my skimpiest bikini, and burrow into that scorching lap myself.”

She nudged him through the curtain. Eddie Munson had already settled onto one of the cafe’s roomiest couches, arms splayed along the back.

Legs splayed too.

Eddie glanced up and those gorgeous eyes raked Steve, head-to-toe, stripping him so bare he might as well have forgotten his shorts. The Alpha’s grin spread slowly, revealing glinting incisors, and creasing up into the sexiest dimples Steve had ever seen.

Steve wasn’t sure how he made it across the room. Somehow, he did, shuffling the final few feet on his knees.

“Hello, Kitty,” said Eddie. Possibly taking pity, he closed his legs. He shoved his thighs forward so Steve could easily lay his head in them.

Steve did so, facing out across the café. His heart skittered like a little prey animal’s. It was only then that he realized Eddie hadn’t placed a cushion on his thighs. Well, if Carol hadn’t highlighted that part of the rules, Steve was hardly in a position to do it now.

Eddie didn’t mess around. Strong fingers plowed straight into the springy mass of Steve’s hair. “What’s your name, Honey?”

“Uh… St-steve?”

Who fucking stammers answering his own name?

“Hi, Steve. I’m Eddie.” He leaned a little closer, hot breath joining those strong fingers to send Steve even deeper into fluster. “How do you put up with the stink in here? I mean, I get it. All those Alpha-Omega scents battering each other would make this place a real fleshpot. Shame, though. I bet you smell real sweet. I mean, I think I get a whiff of you, even now.”

“You get used to it,” squeaked Steve, cutting that line of conversation off pronto.

“You get used to the diabolical plinky-plonky piano music too, Steve?”

“Honestly, I don’t even hear it anymore.”

To be fair, Steve didn’t hate the perpetual loop of movie theme-tune classics for exactly that reason. Even the smoochiest love songs—like the instrumental version of “Everything I do, I do it for you,” currently playing—didn’t mess with his emotions in the way music so often did.

Eddie snorted a dry chuckle, leaning back against the cushions again. Steve’s eyes fluttered closed.

“You’re right, Steve,” drawled Eddie, massaging deliciously into Steve’s scalp, “it’s pretty easy not to hear it. You have got the cutest purr.”

Steve’s eyes flew wide. He hadn’t even realized he was purring yet! Yeah, he could fake purr, but he’d been too befuddled to get to that. Now, he shook with loud rattling purrs that he could barely control.

Omegas purred when they were happy and relaxed, and also when distressed, to comfort themselves. He’d been reduced to that over the weekend. These purrs, though, grew couch-quakingly loud and felt different from anyway he’d purred before.

“You okay there, Honey?” Thank heavens Eddie was nice, though that made Steve’s weirdness all the more inexplicable. Eddie ran the back of coolish fingers down Steve’s burning cheek.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Steve. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” His hormones must still be doing weird things after his chemically fucked-up heat.

He probably should’ve called in sick today too.

“Don’t apologise,” Eddie said. “Look, it’s freakin’ Monday morning. I’m the weirdo Alpha checking this place out. You’re just doing your job, and you’re mighty fine at it, I’m sure.” The words washed through Steve, their brutal truth leaving an awkward residue. “Listen, I’m just gonna sip my coffee and chill. You reckon you can chill too, little kitty?”

“Yes, Alpha,” murmured Steve. The preening growl that jostled from Eddie was enough to make Steve desperate to obey.

He didn’t usually call anybody Alpha on the job. It wasn’t strictly against the rules, but unless a client demanded it—and only the real a-holes did—the kitties avoided it.

Eddie, though, had dragged it from Steve before he could think about it, much like those purrs.

And much like how, a minute or so of petting later, Steve found himself purring effortlessly, and totally relaxed. He wasn’t even stressed by the fact that his cheek rested dangerously close to Eddie’s Alpha dick. Which appeared to be ballooning slightly beneath his thick pair of sweatpants.

This was exactly why the cushions were compulsory. Though Steve barely had time to worry.

“Steve,” said Eddie, fingering around the edge of Steve’s collar in a fashion that literally made Steve’s eyes cross with yumminess. “Are there any rules against you getting in my lap for proper cuddles?”

“No. Absolutely not.” There really wasn’t, though of course, it only worked with the larger Alphas. There’d been no way Steve could’ve fitted into a Beta like Robin’s lap, for example, without some level of squishing. Eddie was, to be fair, not the largest Alpha around, but he was certainly large enough.

After some not-too-awkward manoeuvring—and guided by Eddie’s hand in the small of his back—Steve soon found himself sitting across Eddie’s lap. Eddie scooped him close, and his arms curled around Eddie’s neck.

He stared point-blank into the fathomless depths of Eddie’s dark eyes. Nope. Too much. He dipped his gaze, then squeaked. Now, he fixed on Eddie’s jawline and throat, dusted with scruff, and which drew him like, well, catnip.

Steve inhaled oaky-smoky plums and… Holy crap, what even was that? He was in serious danger of burying his face there and violating the no-scenting rule himself.

Once again, Eddie sensed his discomfort and guided Steve’s head down onto his shoulder, holding him there. “Hey, any chance of another coffee,” Eddie called to Carol. “Extra-large mocha with marshmallows, please, Ma’am? Think I might be settling here for a while.”

After that, Eddie appeared to go out of his way to make Steve even more comfortable. Perhaps noting Steve’s squirmings over getting too close to his scent gland, he slid a thin throw cushion beneath Steve’s cheek. He then settled them both back against the comfiest, most enveloping part of the sofa. He pulled one of those fluffy blankets up over them both. Soon, a floaty weariness, bone-deep but pleasant, overcame Steve.

Even his ovaries had stopped bugging him. God, this was nice. He really got paid for this? Damn, he’d fallen on his feet and Eddie smelled divine. He couldn’t help but daydream about that huge Alpha dick nestled stupid-close to his pussy, with only two layers of fabric between them. He was too sleepy to get too excited, tho’. He soon floated on the surface of a calm ocean, safe and serene…

When Steve began waking up, a honeyed glow saturated his head and heart and previously aching pelvis. He couldn’t remember his dreams, but they must’ve been good ones. He felt complete and happy and… he flicked his eyes open. Oh shit! The cafe buzzed with conversation. Several other kitties had come on shift and were snuggling with Alphas.

He’d fallen asleep on a customer’s lap.

Steve’s focus snapped onto the clock behind the counter, where Carol and her assistant, Chrissy, who also did kitty duties, were rushing around making lunches.

1.57 pm.

He’d been asleep on the job for nearly three hours.

Asleep in the lap of…

“Hey there,” drawled Eddie, “somebody’s a sleepy kitty.”

Steve daren’t look up. Was Eddie pissed? He didn’t sound it.

Steve opened his mouth. Shut it again, dabbing the corner. His head had slipped off the pillow and rested against Eddie’s chest. The Alpha’s booming heartbeat mingled with an amused chuckle.

Steve wasn’t laughing: “Oh shit, I’m so sorry. I drooled on your t-shirt!”

“I know.” Eddie’s low rumbling sigh was one of the most contented sounds Steve had ever heard. “You gonna charge extra for that, Honey?”

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛ I have got quite a bit of this fic drafted, so hopefully more soon. If you’re enjoying, please let me know, or like and reblog... it means a lot to know somebody would like to read more *purrs hopefully* and thank you soooo much for reading this far 💚

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

When You're Ready

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.3k

Warnings: being a single mom, the hard side of being a parent, overstimulation?

Summary: Being a single mother hasn’t always been easy, and life catches up to you whether you want it to or not. You have so much on your plate that you’re not even thinking about being in a relationship. Spencer likes you and he makes it clear that he’ll wait for you no matter how long it takes.

Square Filled: huddle for warmth for @anyfandomgoesbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3

x

Today could not be any worse than it is right now. You didn’t have time to brush your hair, you barely got your teeth brushed, your clothes are wrinkly because you forgot to iron them last night, the heater is broken in your house so all your daughter does is complain that it’s too cold, and you’re trying to get both her and yourself ready for the day.

“Mama, I’m hungry!” she whines.

“Food is coming, baby,” you say.

As you try not to cry, you plate more breakfast for her and set it on her tray. She immediately digs into the pancakes like she’s never been fed before. The TV is blaring in the living room as it plays yet another episode of Spongebob, her favorite TV show. Right now, that little sponge is giving you a massive headache. The coffee machine beeps for the tenth time, and you have an overwhelming urge to chuck it out the window. The machine has been broken for quite some time now but will make a cup of coffee every once in a while.

Today is not one of those days.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings and you just about stop and cry right there. What now? Who could this possibly be while you’re already running late for work? You leave Casey in the kitchen and walk to the front door. On the way, you almost slip on one of her toys, and you kick it harder than you should have. You open the front door and see your housekeeper standing there. You barely have enough to pay her since you had to downgrade a bunch of stuff since the divorce, but she stayed and accepted the new salary.

You’re honestly not sure what you would do without her.

“Oh, Shelly, it’s you.”

“Rough morning?” Tears well in your eyes at her question because you’re forced to think how this morning has been in a sea of bad ones. “Oh, Y/N, don’t worry about a thing. I’m here now.”

“Thanks,” you whisper and close the door behind her. You turn down the TV so that you don’t have to shout at Shelly. “Um, Casey has a field trip today. I looked at the weather and it’s going to be cold so make sure she packs a jacket. She’ll fight it but make sure she has one, okay?”

“Y/N, how long have I been looking after this little girl? I’ll be okay. Don’t you have work?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Here, let me.”

She fixes your hair until it looks presentable, and you give her a warm smile.

“Thank you. The coffee machine is broken. I’ll pick one up on the way home.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get a new one. I have a few other things to pick up at the store.”

“Okay. Bye, Casey! Mommy is off to work. I love you!”

“I love you!” she sings back.

Despite how hard it’s being a single mom, she always brings a smile to your face. Not only is it hard being a single mom, but you work in the FBI where your job is demanding and requires a lot out of you. It’s why you needed to hire Shelly. Before, she was here because your ex-husband paid to have her clean the house. You both had jobs and weren't home enough to keep up with it. Now with Casey, she’s a blessing in disguise.

Hotch makes it look so easy. Since Haley was killed, he’s been doing a good job at raising his son and being the Unit Chief. He has Beth and Haley’s sister, but it’s just him most of the time. You have no one but Shelly, and she only comes three times a week. Casey’s father fled the second you told him you were pregnant so you had to do this entire thing by yourself. All Casey knows is the team because you have them over ever so often.

She’s more familiar with Hotch since he brings Jack over for playdates because they are around the same age. Though, she loves Spencer more than anyone on the team. You’re only friends with him but he’s expressed interest in you. He’s made it clear that you’re on his mind, but you can’t be dating right now. There’s no time for boyfriends or flings or whatever Spencer would be. Your life is too complicated. Add in a toddler and a lawsuit for child support, and it’s too much for someone else to handle.

You told him this much, and he seems okay with being your friend. You still catch him watching you and blushing when you give him a compliment, but he’s been respectful of your boundaries.

You walk into work and notice everyone inside the briefing room. You practically throw your shit down on your desk and run to the briefing room.

“So sorry I’m late. Traffic,” you white-lie.

“It’s okay. We’re just going over updates on our cases and finishing files,” Hotch says.

The B Team must be out right now, and you sag your shoulders in relief. You need a chill day right now more than anything. After a rundown of the open cases, you take yours back to your desk to get started on them. Spencer does the same but he approaches your desk from the front.

You barely look up at him. “Oh, hey, Spencer.”

“Rough morning?” You scoff but don’t say anything. You don’t want to hurt his feelings. “How is Casey doing?”

“She’s good. She has a field trip today at the aquarium.”

Spencer is about to say a fact when he sees the look on your face. Maybe he shouldn’t be himself right now.

“That should be fun.” Again, you don’t respond. All you want to do is focus on your work and not on the headache you have. Instead of going back to his desk, he sits next to yours. “You know, if you ever need someone to watch Casey, I’m more than happy to do it. Even for an entire weekend. It’ll give you time to yourself.” You stop typing and look at him. “Only if it’s okay with you, of course. Or maybe I can come over and hang with her while you get some sleep or something.”

“What are you doing?”

“What? I’m just trying to help.”

It’s the way he said it that makes your back crack under the pressure. You know he doesn’t deserve this but you’re saying it anyway because he’s here.

“You’re not her father, Spencer!”

“I know, but--”

“Look, that’s nice of you to offer but I have been raising her by myself since she was born. Even before she was born. I didn’t need help then and I don’t need it now. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

You gather your finished files and walk away from your desk. Tears threaten to spill but you won’t let it. Not now.

“Okay,” Spencer says, his voice small.

Yep, you hate yourself now. Truth be told, he kind of scares you. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted in a man, and that scares you. He’s safe and predictable and dependable, everything you never had, not even with Casey’s father. He messed you up so badly that you learned you can’t depend on anyone for anything.

Not even Spencer.

After putting your files away, you slip into the bathroom and just cry. All this stress shouldn’t be good for you. The bathroom door opens and you immediately wipe the tears away. JJ frowns when she sees the tears, and you splash some water on your face to get the redness to go away.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“I was just wondering if you could come over to my place at two instead of four. Will is having his boys come at two, and I figured my girls could be there at the same time to get coordinated with them.”

“What?”

“Please don’t tell me you forgot about my wedding. It’s next weekend. You’re my maid of honor.”

Shit. You completely forgot about that. You’ve been so focused on not breaking down that her wedding has completely slipped your mind.

“No, I didn't forget.” You wince at the lie. “Okay, it slipped my mind, but I will be there. Two, not four.” You’re about to leave when you remember Shelly telling you she is going out of town next weekend. You don’t have money for a babysitter. “Would it be okay if I brought Casey? Shelly is going to be out of town.”

“Yes, the more the merrier. I love Casey, and I know Henry does, too.”

“Thank you, JJ,” you sigh.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m just stressed is all. I don’t think I slept more than a few hours each night, my hair needs a cut, I need an everything shower, and I don’t have time to do any of it.”

“Yeah, motherhood can be tough.”

“Tell me about it. Not to mention, I think I might have hurt Spencer’s feelings. I yelled at him. He’s just trying to help.”

“He’s a big boy. He’ll get over it. What did he say?”

“He offered to look after Casey for a weekend.”

“It might be good to take him up on the offer.”

You shrug. “I gotta get back to work.” You leave the bathroom and notice Spencer at his own desk. “Spencer?” He looks up and smiles when he sees you, making you feel even worse than you do. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you or said those things.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. You were just trying to help.”

“The offer still stands if and when you want to use it. Think about it.”

The rest of the week is pretty chill since the B Team is still out, giving you and Spencer more time to strengthen your relationship. He shows up to work with an extra coffee, a breakfast sandwich, and a smile just for you. He wants to make sure you eat because that’s the only thing he can do right now to help you.

On the day of the wedding, you know he is going to be right there in the audience. He agreed to look after Casey while you stand next to JJ, so you’re getting her dressed in her pretty pink sparkle dress.

“So, while Mommy is up with Aunt JJ, you’re going to be seated next to Spencer in the audience. Right there in the front.”

“I like Spencer,” she grins.

You smooth down your hair and smile. “Me, too.”

“Are you gonna marry him?”

“No,” you laugh.

“I bet he’d make a great dad.”

You choose not to say anything to that and lead her down the aisle where Spencer is seated. The wedding is located in JJ’s own backyard, but it’s perfect. It’s everything she’s ever wanted and more. Casey has a strict bedtime but the wedding goes past that, so naturally, she gets cranky by the time the reception happens. She’s hungry and restless, two things a toddler should never be at the same time.

“Just another hour and I promise, we can go home. I promised JJ we’d be here.”

“I’m hungry, Mama, and I’m bored.”

“Hey, what’s going on here?”

You look up and see Spencer approaching you two.

“Sorry, she skipped her nap today, and it’s past her bedtime. She’s just bored.”

“May I?” You nod. “Hey, Casey? Would you like to dance? Just one, and then maybe we can get some cake.”

“Okay,” she grins.

Spencer takes her to the dancefloor while you stay seated at one of the tables. He whispers something to her and she eagerly steps onto his shoes. He dances around in circles with her on his shoes, and she giggles happily. It doesn’t matter how much of a shitty week you’ve been having. She’s smiling and laughing and that means you’re doing a pretty damn good job. Spencer picks her up and holds her close so he can dance properly, and she leans her head on his chest.

Would it be so bad to let him in? Maybe not, but you’re clearly not in the headspace for it. Is he willing to wait? You don’t want to keep him from other relationships even though it doesn’t look like he’s rushing to be in one.

After two songs are over, Spencer lets her down. He whispers something to her and she runs off in search of either Henry, Jack, or both. He walks over to you and holds out his hand.

“Care to dance?”

“Yes,” you smile.

You grab his hand and he brings you to the dancefloor. The next song is a slow one, so he pulls you in close to him. One hand in yours and the other low on your back. Has he always smelled this good?

“Thank you for what you did. She likes you a lot.”

“I like her a lot.” He dips his head lower so that his forehead barely touches the top of your head. “I like her mother, too.” Your heart thumps but in a good way. It’s like everyone else around you disappears until it’s only you and Spencer. “I’ll wait however long you need me to.”

You look up at him with tears. “What?”

“If time and space is what you need, I’ll give it to you. Just know that I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

“You might be waiting a while,” you whisper.

“I’m a patient man.”

You rest your head on Spencer’s chest and let the music guide you. He runs his hand up and down your back, creating a safe and warm aura about him.

“You make me feel safe,” you whisper.

Whether he hears it or not, he doesn’t respond. He just continues to dance with you long after the song has ended.

x

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[ldydeath]

Let's Make This Count | Kang Dae-ho

Summary: You've entered into Squid Game to help pay off some debts, not expecting your best friend, Daeho to be there. You both will do anything to proect each other, no matter the cost.

Warnings: Typical squid game stuff.

Author's Note: This is my first time writing Dae-ho. If you'd like to be tagged in future fics of his, please let me know.

Life has been hard lately, which is why when you’d been presented a chance at fixing at least one of those things, you’d jumped at the chance. You however, hadn’t been expecting this to be a game of death. You’d heard player 456’s cries to listen to him at the start of the game, but like everyone else you had ignored him. That was until that girl moved during red light, the chaos that had ensued after that had you praying to gods you didn’t believe in to keep yourself safe. You’d been in Squid Game for a few hours now and already had the blood of your competition splattered over you. You were definitely in over your head and needed to get out. 

Thankfully, the pink suits had announced a vote and you prayed everyone would agree to send you home. You’d been standing for what felt like hours waiting for your number to be called, listening to play 456 plead with everyone to leave the games. He’d been here before so you were definitely going to take his advice. Once your number was called you made your way quickly to the front, voting to go home. You may have needed money, but you’d find another way. You weren’t going to die over some debt.

As you were putting your x badge on your jacket your eyes caught sight of a familiar, gorgeous face and your breath caught in your throat. No. He couldn’t be here. Why was he here? Daeho’s eyes met yours and his brows crinkled in confusion. You shook your head and made your way to your spot. There were too many people around to talk comfortably yet and you weren’t exactly sure it was safe to announce that you knew someone else in the games. That mother and son duo seemed to be the only exception to that rule, and you weren’t about to chance it. After play 001 voted, the pink soldiers announced that there would be another game in the morning, panic rising in your body.

Trying to act normal, you turned to head towards your bunk when you felt a hand on your arm “don’t touch-“ you let out a breath, thankful you didn’t have to fight for your life when you came face to face with your best friend. “What are you doing here?” He hissed, panic in his eyes. You shrugged out of his grip, crossing your arms defensively. “I needed money. What are you doing here?” 

His hand went to his hair, fixing the bun that sat on top of his head and nodded in the direction of some empty bunks.  “I also needed money, why else would I be here?” You raised a brow as you followed him towards the private spot. You wanted to know what he could possibly need money for, but Daeho was so private you knew you’d never get that answer. Even if you were his best friend. “You shouldn’t be here, Dae.” You sighed as you leaned against the wall. 

You couldn’t protect your best friend, not from this.  After Daeho enlisted in the Marines you had a never ending supply of worry in your body for him. Constantly fearing the worst, him being here was going to distract you from staying alive. Your heart raced at the thought of either of not making it out and your eyes found his. “I can’t lose you.” It came out as a whisper but you knew he’d heard you as he moved closer to you.

His hand moved to cup your cheek, “Come on, I’m a Marine, I’ve got this. And I’ve got you. We’re going to get out  of here. I promise.” You nodded, moving to lean your head on his chest. You knew it would be bad if anyone caught you panicking but as Daeho's hands wound around your body you allowed yourself to take a few minutes to collect yourself. Perhaps it wasn’t normal to feel so much comfort from a friend, but you weren’t ready to dive into those feelings, not yet. “We don’t die.” He murmured against your hair. “We don’t die.” You repeated. He grinned at you before walking you over to your bunk, making sure nobody messed with you as you got sleep. 

The next game was a team game, Daeho took the lead in finding you a group, being the friendlier person in your duo. You’d somehow managed to end up with player 456 and player 001. You said a nervous hello and stuck close to your best friend. After you completed your task perfectly, the team cheated, Daeho pulling you in for a quick side hug as you marched forward. For a second, with his arm wrapped protectively around you, you almost forgot that you were fighting for your life inside these games. 

After the game had ended you stood with your newly found team, waiting for the next vote. You had all agreed to vote to go home again so when it was your turn to vote, you proudly hit that x and put the badge on your jacket. Almost as if on instinct, Daeho moved to stand next to you as you awaited the rest of the votes. As the final four players made their way to the front, your hand reached out, grabbing his, he gave you a squeeze in response. Your heart raced at the touch and you looked down at your entwined hands before meeting your best friends’ eye.

So, maybe you had a crush on your best friend, maybe that was why you were so afraid to lose him. Either way, this wasn’t the time to start admitting your feelings, so when he smiled at you you smiled back and pushed those thoughts down, hoping that these votes would go in your favor and you’d be able to go home. A groan rang out amongst your peers and you looked up to see that there was only one vote left and you’d lost. Your mouth hanging open in shock as you turned back to Dae.

Another game? Why would anyone want to stay here? “Let’s Go!” someone shouted from across the room and you looked around spotting the purple haired man high fiving his friend. Of course he’d be excited to stay. “Hey, look at me.” Daeho’s hand was under your chin moving your gaze back to him, your heart racing as you locked eyes. Daeho had always been in tune with your mood, and would do anything in his power to keep you calm and safe. You were the most important person in his life and even in a game of literal life and death he was going to do whatever it took to make sure you weren’t living in constant fear. “We’ll get through this one together too, okay?” You swallowed the lump in your throat refusing to let the rest of your team see you so defeated and nodded. “Yeah.” You agreed. 

“Let’s go get some food and talk strategy for the next time.” He held his hand out for you, a reassuring grin on his face and you eagerly took his hand following him to your new found team. You weren’t sure you wanted to be close to anyone else in the game, but you also knew you couldn’t keep Dae alive without some help so you were going to do whatever it took to keep him alive, even if that meant making nice with people who all had one goal in mind. You scooted closer to Daeho, your hand resting on his leg and he grinned at you as he started eating his food. You didn't care if you made it out of here or not, so long as he did.

[hurtspideyparker]

Inspired by @sunnysideprincess post "young Tony Stark sleeping with a stranger at a gala and turns out that stranger is now his bodyguard?" a winteriron 2.5k fic (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes, Protective Bucky Barnes, Possessive Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Tony Stark/Tiberius Stone

Bucky doesn't know much about the current pop culture climate. All he knows is Howard has a son who likes to get into trouble, but due to recent threats against the family it's no longer safe to go out alone.

—

Bucky attends the gala to meet with Howard and be acquainted with the venues and protocols he'll be expected to know, including dress and social custom. He's still reintegrating into civilian life after an honourable discharge, but Howard worked with him during his prosthetic trials and wanted to hire him immediately.

Bucky meets a pretty thing at the gala, something charming and mischievous, and hey, he hasn't exactly had time to take advantage of the civilian world and all it's private space and willing bodies just yet. Howard won't be able to meet till the end of this thing, and who's to say fooling around in an empty office doesn't count as "integrating into higher society".

He doesn't even get the man's name. Doll, sweetheart, and pretty boy seem to do him just fine for the hour they spend together (half at the start, and a second time during a boring speech when they make eye contact; Bucky can't resist the cute little smirk and head nod towards the exit).

Everything goes smoothly with Howard, and he's expected at the house tomorrow morning at 8am to meet the infamous Tony Stark. From what he's told he's too smart for his own good, resents authority, and has no idea he's about to get a permanent babysitter. To say Bucky is hesitant is an understatement, but the pay is good and things haven't exactly been easy since coming home, so he's up for a challenge.

What he couldn't have predicted to go wrong, however, is the pretty thing that turns around the corner the following morning in boxers and a Metallica t-shirt, sees Bucky and Howard in the kitchen, and immediately lets out an adorable squeak before hiding bashfully behind his hands and running out of the kitchen.

"Well, that was certainly unexpected. Tony, get back here!"

Bucky agrees, although with an entirely different surprise.

Bucky can't help but be endeared by the sudden shyness and petulance of the previously confident and forthright man, but things turn awkward over time as they settle into their new dynamic.

Bucky spends half his time checking up on Tony in the lab and making sure he eats. Definitely a bit too close to the babysitter mark, as Tony calls him with annoyance, but it beats his nights out.

When Tony goes out, he goes all out. It's loud crowded clubs, it's mansions with boozed up nepo babies, it's sketchy drug-hazed apartments. Bucky starts to understand the controversy about Stark Industries upcoming CEO while watching him do body shots off of random college girls in a dive bar, but all he can do is threaten to smash cameras and make sure Tony gets in his car at the end of the night.

SI has nothing to worry about in the grand scheme of things; Tony practically runs the thing already, considering how most of the tech updates have been his for the past decade (when Bucky was a dirt poor teen with no future but carrying a gun and being expendable, Tony was building the fighter jets that flew above his head. He hadn't even begun puberty yet). Tony's also the one who made Bucky's arm, not Howard, and he only finds out because he starts blabbing on about "missing the human trials, how's the fit, any cinching? Wow, my baby is smooth," a few weeks into their arrangement.

The worst part, though, is Bucky learns real quick that he wasn't special.

The young Stark's charm seems to be quite universal; women, men, college students, business associates, strangers too old for him, creeps too touchy with him. He gets them all with his pretty smile and long lashes.

Bucky doesn't say anything. Doesn't do anything. It's not his place, and besides, they both knew when they met it was a one night thing. He's most definitely not jealous at all.

Okay, he wants to slam every man who touches Tony's ass before even introducing themselves face into the bar counter, but that's neither here nor there.

Thankfully dark and broody is his default, so Tony never comments on the rage and possessiveness in the watchful man's eyes.

Bucky realizes he has a serious problem when Tony starts dating Ty Stone.

Their fathers are friends, Tony calms down with the partying, and everything seems to be going well for SI.

But Bucky's there; on the expensive dinner dates at a nearby table, leaning against a golf cart while they play, standing beside the exit at a charity gala. He hears how Ty talks down to Tony, the hands he can't seem to keep off even when Tony squirms a bit, or how Tony asks for permission to do the simplest things.

"Honey you're such a messy drunk, don't go embarrassing me again."

"It's just wine with the meal Ty—"

"Did you not hear me? Get something else."

Tony resigns himself to sparkling water while Ty gets a perfect red to pair with his steak.

"You look like a whore, god, button that thing up. People are going to think you're for sale or something," Ty says as he steps into Tony's space and does the top buttons of his shirt.

"I can do it myself."

But Ty doesn't move back, instead taking the words as a challenge and tugging the now too-high collar till Tony chokes a bit.

Bucky steps away from the wall, ready to rip his hands off when—"Buck, don't."

Bucky just barely settles back at Tony's instructions, who's fidgeting with the uncomfortable collar.

"That's right doggy, sit."

Bucky can only glare at the arrogant man.

Bucky still gets Tony the most. He gets to see his light come back in the lab at night, eyes shining as he explains what he's doing to uneducated ears. He notices the way Tony perks up and smiles when Bucky comes over to chat during boring work events, making fun of how many times the team can say "efficiency" and "blue sky thinking" in a single meeting.

Bucky knows how many polite smiles Ty gets on their dates, and he knows how much real laughter he pulls out of Tony just on the drive home.

The bodyguard has come to peace with his role as the observer. Spending the rest of his life glued to Tony Stark's wall is worth the ache slowly eating him alive from the inside out.

Things change rapidly though. Bucky finally gets to dust off his knuckles to defend Tony's honour, but it doesn't feel good like he thought it would, nothing feels good when Tony's on the verge of tears.

Bucky had attended another date of the famed couple; a launch party where Ty had finally "let" Tony get tipsy on champagne. Bucky hadn't realized how much tolerance Tony had lost these past months limiting his alcohol, and it hit him hard and fast.

The pair were now giggling in the backseat as Bucky drove them home. Kissing, a little heavy petting. Nothing Bucky hasn't seen before, although it felt even more disturbing to witness with Ty.

"Mm, not here," he hears Tony mumble.

They continue kissing, then—"Ty I said not in the car. Bucky's right there," Bucky glances in the rearview mirror at his name. Ty has pulled Tony into his lap, a hand trying to sneak into his waistband.

"Half the media has seen you slutted out on poppers Tony, it's not like you have any modesty. Just wanna make you feel good baby," he says as his hand slides back down Tony's waistband.

Tony grabs at the hand awkwardly, fingers too weak in this state to pull it away.

Bucky doesn't even think about it. He jerks the steering wheel to the side with only the barest of glances that the road is clear, pulling into a ditch and slamming on the breaks.

The un-seatbelted pair in the back go flying, Tony landing on the floor with a yelp and Ty falling on top of him with an ugly awkwardness.

Bucky hops out of the driver's seat and yanks the back door open with his metal arm so hard it comes flying off. He tosses it somewhere behind him, reaching in and grabbing the scruff of Ty's suit jacket and dragging him out of the car.

"Get off me you fucking psycho! You could've killed us all, what is wrong with you!"

Bucky shoves him flat on his ass, hands scraping on the damp asphalt.

Bucky chases after him, and Ty has the intelligence to scramble backwards, fearful.

"Hey hey hey man, I'll sue you to all hell for this! Don't come near me, get back freak!"

Bucky's metal fist groans at the tightness as he gears up, but suddenly gentle hands are wrapped around his arm and Tony is stepping in front of him.

"Don't be stupid."

The pair make eye contact, a pleading in Tony's eyes that splashes water on Bucky's, a sizzling sound in his mind as he cools off.

"If you go to jail on a murder charge who's gonna watch The Fresh Prince with me, huh?"

He gives Bucky a soft smile, but Bucky only has those brimming tears in his vision.

Turning back to Ty the bodyguard speaks in a gruff voice, "get out of here before I decide to run you over."

Ty doesn't hesitate, clambering up and slipping around in his fancy leather shoes, running through the middle of the road as a car honks a near miss at him.

Tony drops Bucky's arm and speaks with resolution.

"Let's go."

Bucky watches the back of Tony's body walk defeated to the passenger seat.

Bucky gets in without a word. He starts the car, checks his mirrors and lights, and ignores the giant hole in the back of the vehicle. With a glance he turns to Tony and clicks the younger's seatbelt on for him before pulling back onto the road with an awkward rocking as the car struggles out of the ditch.

When they pull up to the Stark mansion neither of them get out, just sitting there in the dark with the metaphorical wall between them.

"My dad's probably gonna fire you for that. The Stones own nearly a quarter of our stock."

Bucky grunts, "I don't care. Anything to get his grubby hands off you."

He can feel Tony's stare burning the side of his face, but he doesn't meet it.

"If. If he fires you, can we still be friends?"

It's hope in his voice, but Bucky can't help but feel a tad disappointed. Friends.

"Of course. I'm always gonna be here to protect you doll, doesn't matter who's paying me or who's threatening me. I'll babysit your ass for free."

Tony smiles at that, "hug?" he asks with open arms.

He looks so sweet like this. Ruffled clothing, shy smile, earnest eyes. Bucky could never deny him, leaning over and hugging the other.

It's a bit awkward, but it suits them. They pull back slowly, hesitant to let go. Bucky meets those warm brown eyes, lashes clumping from the rainfalls of sadness earlier, and then suddenly he's being kissed.

It's hard, a starving thing. Bucky can't get a word in edgewise, everytime he moves away to speak Tony follows him, crawling over the cupholder right into Bucky's lap.

Bucky grabs his hips, strong and possessive. Decides to kiss back because oh god is it a million times better now that he knows what he looks like with a pillow imprint on his cheek, how he gets giggly from sleep deprivation, how he sings along to the Fresh Prince theme song, the resignation whenever his father speaks to him, the kindness to every waiter and the sass to the paparazzi when he steps into their flash, the way he shovels breakfast cereal into his mouth like a sport, the chatter in the middle of the night to his robots when he thinks Bucky is asleep on the couch.

It's Tony, it's really Tony, finally his.

Tony pulls back gasping for air because he kisses like a drowning man. He rests his forehead against Bucky's collarbone and the bodyguard kisses the top of his head before wrapping his arms around him. If he had a choice this is exactly how he'd do his job, with Tony trapped between his arms as often as possible.

"That's okay right?" muffles Tony from the mouth pressed to his shirt.

"Beautiful, I am so much more than okay right now."

Bucky can feel the way his lips upturn on his skin, so he grabs Tony's head between two large palms and pulls him away to see.

Tony's face is gloriously bathed in peace and warmth. Blinding toothiness, cheeks so plump they almost obscure the eyes that dart back and forth on Bucky's face as he listens to the man.

"I am so in love with you I was prepared to put up with that bag of dicks just to be able to watch you from the sidelines. To see you happy in that lab doing what you love."

"SI could burn down tomorrow for all I care, I don't need Ty, I don't need his money. Was always looking at you, god you look hot when you're jealous."

He kisses Bucky again, less hurried but just as passionate, wet and slow with probably too much tongue; Bucky is already so close to devouring the boy whole he doesn't care.

"S'not jealous," Bucky slurs between kisses.

Tony sends him a playful glare.

"Okay, maybe a little. He doesn't deserve you."

"Oh, and you do?" Tony only teases, but Bucky's heart twinges.

"No, but at least I can protect you."

Tony's eyes go soft and he cups Bucky's face, forcing him to meet his warm eyes.

"You're probably the only person in the world who would take a bullet for me, but would also listen to me rant about the coding bug I couldn't find for thirty minutes."

Bucky smirks at the memory.

"You were huffin and puffin like a toddler, it was adorable."

"Do you know how hard it is to find an extra period in 70 lines of code!"

Bucky gazes up at the worked up man with a look of pure adoration that turns Tony's ears red.

"No, but I know how to kiss someone who does."

"Oh. That's good, you should do that. You should do a lot actually," Tony breathes desperately.

Bucky kisses him while opening the car door, stepping out with Tony still koala-ed to his front. He only clings tighter, with more intention as his arms pull Bucky's neck closer.

"Mm, not tonight doll. You've had a rough night. In the morning though..." Bucky trails off with a possessive tightening of his hands on Tony's thighs.

Tony gasps, pressing closer.

"Yes. That's, that's a good plan. Take me to bed," Tony speaks with their lips still brushing.

"To cuddle."

Tony let's out a frustrated groan.

"Ugh, fine. And to make out too."

Bucky can't say no to him.

[ryoko-loves-roses]

Mind Your Business!

Lee!Jun-Ho + Ler!In-Ho

A/N: Ok so - I did change a tiny thing - I am now going to state the lee and ler for the fanfics i write like i did above ^^. After this is successfully posted, I'm going to edit the other fanfics! ANYWAY - This was extremely fun to write -! I hope the characters weren't too OOC. Ily guys <3 Summary : After weeks of In-Ho avoiding phone calls, and talking to his loved ones in general, Jun-Ho decided to go the extra measure and find out what's been bothering his older brother... but something surprising happens... ═════════════════════════════════════════ Months ago, In-Ho’s wife who he loved dearly was diagnosed with a deadly disease. Hospital bills stacked on top of eachother in his tiny dorm, and with no way to pay for his wife’s treatment, he began to distance himself from reality, including the people he once held close - which included his youngest brother, Hwang Jun-Ho. They were 16 years apart, which one could say was a long age gap. Surprisingly, the two had been close since Jun-Ho was a child, so when In-Ho stopped talking to him, it struck a nerve. When Jun-Ho was younger, he was also diagnosed with an illness, meaning he could only be saved if he had a proper kidney donor. In that time of need, In-Ho stepped up. If he never did what he did, Jun-Ho wouldn’t be alive today. God - Jun-Ho knew this, and it was eating him alive. He truly thought that if he didn’t donate his kidney, he could pay for his wife’s surgery by selling it. This little fact made Jun-Ho feel a tiny bit guilty. - Hwang In-Ho is 38, meaning Jun-Ho is 22 - One year before In-Ho learned about the games.

- The lights were off in In-Ho’s apartment. Not because he hasn’t paid the bill, but by choice. He let out a tired sigh as he sat on his well-made bed. He was stuck and didn’t know what to do. He hid his face in his hands, thinking about his wife, who was currently still at the hospital, and the fact that he hadn’t answered his phone in weeks. He just didn’t have the energy. The man was too deep in thought to hear the doorbell ring as well - and who was on the other side of the door? Well - Jun-Ho let out a sigh, crossing his arms impatiently. He stood there for a few more seconds before muttering something under his breath and reaching into his pocket, pulling out a spare key that his brother gave him for ‘emergencies’ “Goddamnit, In-Ho …” He quickly unlocked the door, opened it, and walked in, a worried look on his usual stoic face. Jun-Ho really didn’t want to enter his older brother’s dorm like this, but he had no other choice - He gently opened the door- “In-Ho?” He called out softly, which was a large contrast to his usual stoic tone. In-Ho froze, immediately standing up from the bed, right in tune to when Jun-Ho opened the bedroom door. “Jun-Ho - What the hell are you doing here..?” His tone was strict, as well as his face. There was a reason In-Ho wasn’t answering his phone, and Jun-Ho knew that reason all too well. Jun-Ho just stood at the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he grew irritated.* “You haven’t answered my calls, hyung. I got worried.” The younger male admitted, crossing his arms as he stared at his older brother. You know, despite being the older one, In-Ho was shorter than Jun-Ho by only one inch, which was irritating to say the least - but he didn’t mention it. In-Ho let out an irritated sigh. “There was a reason I didn’t answer. I wanted to be left alone.” Jun-Ho raised an eyebrow. “To sulk? Alone? You should’ve known I wouldn’t let you do that -” It was true - when Jun-Ho was growing up, he was practically attached to In-Ho’s hip. You’d think that the big age gap would put a space in between them, but no. In-Ho was basically the boy’s idol growing up. He wanted to be like his big brother. In-Ho stared at Jun-Ho for just a moment, his expression softening as he sighed. “Yeah. Should’ve known.” *He said sarcastically, sitting back on the bed, which this time, Jun-Ho decided to join him; sitting beside him.

“Tell me what happened.” Jun-Ho blurted out suddenly. He knew about In-Ho’s wife, but he did not know about the financial struggles. “Why haven’t you visited mom and I? You wanna know how worried we both were !!?” As Jun-Ho blabbered on and on, In-Ho let out a frustrating sigh, then - something clicked. Keeping his amusement in checked to not look suspicious, he replied. “You really don’t know how to mind your own business, huh?” As he said that, Jun-Ho raised an eyebrow, about to retaliate with a response, but froze when he felt that familiar sensation of a brotherly hand on his side - “Wait - Hyung… Hyung nOO-” Jun-Ho’s sentence trailed off with a squeak as he felt In-Ho’s fingers dig into his sides, and as much as In-Ho didn’t want to admit it, he missed this. He smiled when those foreign but familiar childish giggles flowed out of his brother like running water. In-Ho then added his other hand, - Now, both of Jun-Ho’s sides were getting attacked with ten fingers. He shrieked, trying to curl up on himself, but that one action just made In-Ho chuckle deeply. “You should know by now that won’t work…” He teased, his usual stoic tone vanishing as a teasy tone replaced it. “Hyuuhuhung - PleheHEHEHehase-!” Jun-Ho giggled and squeaked with every dig, his feet drumming on the dorm floor as he tried to kick, but it was useless. Despite being in the police academy, he was still a victim to his brother’s fond tickles. “Please what, little brother?” In-Ho taunted, managing to lock an arm around Jun-Ho, effectively holding him in place as he drilled both of his thumbs into Jun-Ho’s armpits. He fucking screamed. “FUHUHUUCK-! NOHOHOHOO!!” Jun-Ho squealed out, throwing his head back and kicking wildly, but he knew he wasn’t getting out of his brother’s hold anytime soon - In-Ho’s smirk widened, a bit brotherly sadisticness taking a toll as he tickled his younger brother. “Language, Jun-Ho.” He scolded playfully, feigning sterness as he drilled his thumbs deeper, knowing damn well this one spot got Jun-Ho excruciatingly bad. “IHIIHIm SOHOOHORryEHEe-! IHIihi WOHOOHNT AHAHAHASK ANYMOHOHOORE!!” As Jun-Ho apologized through his cackles, In-Ho let out another low chuckle. “Apologizing already? May I say brother… I think you got more ticklish the last time I saw you.” He taunted, not only continuing, but deciding to nuzzle his face into Jun-Ho’s neck, which In-Ho’s stubble managed to tickle the younger a lot more than if In-Ho’s face was cleanly shaved. Jun-Ho screeched with a new wave of cackles and squeals of laughter as In-Ho doubled down on the tickling. God - In-Ho knew he should stop, but to be honest - he needed this. They both do.

Currently, Jun-Ho was trapped in In-Ho’s hold, basically snuggled up against him as the older man brutally taunted him, nuzzling his stubbly face deeper into Jun-Ho’s neck, and the excruciating fact was that even if Jun-Ho wanted to scrunch up his neck, he couldn’t - cause In-Ho’s head was in the way, giving him the tickles of a lifetime. “PLEhEHEa- GHAhAA -” Every time Jun-Ho tried to beg, he would burst into hysterical squeals and pleads, which In-Ho only smirked at. The 22 year old was now a puddle of extreme embarrassment and ticklishness; his brother wouldn’t have it any other way. “I can’t hear you, Jun-Ho… you’ll have to speak louder.” The older man taunted, smirking as Jun-Ho’s blush deepened by several shades of red. “PLE - PELehEHEASe-! HYUUHUHNG-!” God - What could be more amusing than watching a stoic, serious cop lose his shit? Nothing, i’ll tell ya. In-Ho let out another deep chuckle, deciding to blow a deep, ticklish raspberry on Jun-Ho’s vulnerable neck, making him scream with laughter. Hah… it was surprising the neighbors didn’t hear him. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, In-Ho relented, retracting his hands and letting the younger man sit up. Jun-Ho laid idly in his spot for a bit as he tried to gather his breath, but once he finally caught it, he glared at In-Ho.* “Dick.” Of course… the first word to come out of Jun-Ho’s mouth would be an insult. In-Ho rolled his eyes, the playfulness and tenderness of the situation never leaving his face. “I can start again, you know.” At that, Jun-Ho sat up - “Nonono - I’m good -!” Jun-Ho sputtered out, dusting his formal attire off with his hands. In-Ho’s smirk turned into a fond smile, reaching a hand out, and playfully ruffling Jun-Ho’s hair, which made the younger groan. “Seriously, though.” In-Ho began to speak. “Don’t worry about me, namdongsaeng. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” As much as Jun-Ho wanted to believe his older brother’s statement, he couldn’t help but have a bit of worry. “I don’t want you to do anything reckless, hyung…” 

It was clear that the love the brothers had for eachother was real, and that it could never be broken. Nonetheless, Jun-Ho didn’t even think about it when he hugged his older brother, holding him firmly in his arms. In-Ho’s eyes widened for a brief moment, surprised at the action, but then relaxed, deciding to hug his younger brother back. “I won’t be reckless… not when I have you breathing down my neck.” In-Ho joked, which earned a light chuckle from Jun-Ho as he pulled away from the hug. “Damn right.” As much as In-Ho hated to admit it…. He was glad Jun-Ho barged in uninvited.

[thebalmasque]

Finding A Spellbook: I

Ed

Ed would never have admitted it, but his decision to attend college had been to make a new life. He wished to live differently now in a new state, in a new town, and in a new culture. Away from all his peers from high school and a state away from his family, he wanted to be someone new. Someone who wasn’t the introverted honor student that passed by unnoticed. Yet two years in, he remained largely the same person he’d been.

This year his first big resolution had been getting a job. He had gotten a full ride and his parents had told him they’d help pay for what he needed so that he could focus his time on his studies. But he figured getting a job would also help him reinvent himself. So he’d started working at the school library. He was naturally a bookish person but he’d hoped the environment would make him turn that trait into a more social one. Sadly it had yet to bear fruit.

One day while shelving and thinking, a book had fallen from the top shelf. It had thucked him in the head relatively hard. When he’d picked it up to inspect it, he found it was a weathered leather book with no title on either the spine or the front. When he opened it, he found nothing to suggest it’d belong in the nonfiction section he’d been shelving.

He began flipping through the pages trying to make out what the book was about. He found what seemed to be a few notes scribbled around the inside cover and the first page. They all looked to be different handwritings however, suggesting it had traded hands over the years.

“This journal is the property of Ryzam Magus, containing the translation of Uturiel’s De Arte Mutationis.” The oldest most faded note said.

“Keep to yourself and don’t share it with another while under your possession.” Another one said.

“Do not trust Ryzam.” Another said, scribbled on the border and barely legible.

Ed was transfixed and turned the page to find the first journal entry.

“I, Ryzam the Mage, here account the art of change as introduced to humanity by Uturiel. As presented in the original manuscripts, I shall break it down in three sections and supplement each with the fruits of mine own work. First comes the Transformation of Self-“ Ed began to read before he was jolted by a voice behind him.

“Hey man hate to bug you but where’s the printer?” The voice asked.

Reflexively Ed closed the book and hid it in the book cart. “Oh- uh no worries. It’s- around the corner from the study rooms. By the Waithe Collection.” He replied slightly flustered.

“Cool. Thanks man.” The other student replied and walked off.

Ed looked at his cart, now mostly finished shelving. He kept the journal in it as he finished shelving and brought the cart back down. When he returned to the front desk, he placed the journal in his backpack and signed off. He needed more privacy to read the journal.

—————— • ——————

Ed returned to his apartment. This year he had decided to move out of the dorms and live off campus. It was definitely a new experience with all the extra responsibilities he now had on top of his academic ones. But by far, the biggest change had been his roommate. His first and second year roommates had been mostly absent. They spent maybe a few nights in the dorm but the rest of the time they were somewhere else. He hadn’t really bonded with them.

This new one was different. Friendly, attractive, fun, and very… active.

As Ed prepared to slide in the key to the door, he was interrupted by the door being swung open and a girl coming out huffing and apparently mad. She acknowledged him for a second, but it was clear she wasn’t really paying attention to him as she turned her head back to yell.

“And fuck you Luke!” She yelled, storming off in anger.

Ed looked inside his apartment, seeing his roommate half-naked standing in the doorway of his room looking bored while reading his phone.

“Uh you got another one?” Ed asked, trying his best not too stare too hard at his attractive roommate.

“Hey Ed.” He said with a smile as he noticed his roommate. He had such a cute smile. “Yeah this one’s not gonna be a regular though.”

Ed took out his phone pretending to get a text and walked towards his room. “Oh ok. I got a lot of homework so I’ll talk to you later.” He said and prepared to lock himself in.

“Bet. Oh yeah I’m going out tonight with the boys. I won’t be back till tomorrow morning so don’t wait up haha.” Luke said and went back to his room, locking his door at the same time as Ed.

Ed flung himself back on his bed and sighed. ‘God I’m such a loser. I can’t even talk normally to my fucking roommate. Who just so happens to be a hot guy that likes talking to me. Ughhhhh’ he though with frustration.

After a few minutes of thorough mental self-deprecation, he remembered the reason he’d come home straight from work. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out Ryzam’s journal and began reading it now free of distractions and prying eyes.

After an hour, he’d gotten through the first chapter of the “Transformation of Self” section. He didn’t really understand much of the context but it seemed to be some sort of occult book with lots of references to magic and alchemy. Having little knowledge on those fields, Ed was largely lost. The first chapter had ended with a lead up to the following chapter “Physical.”

Outside his room, Ed heard Luke’s door open and his footsteps coming out. “Hey man I’m heading out now… Yeah I’ll meet you at the Casa… Haha yeah it’s gonna be wild…” Luke said probably on the phone with one of his friends. The door opened and then closed again.

Ed focused back on Ryzam’s Journal and flipped the page. It listed a set of instructions that appeared to be a magic spell of sorts. Ed didn’t really believe in magic but he was curious to try this out as he was curious.

“To metamorphose, it is best to start with something familiar to oneself. To catalyze and inform the transformation utilize a fragment of the desired form and will it over yourself with an incarnation and a witness to the change. In lieu of a witness, a mirror may be used to observe the change.” The instructions dictated.

On the margins, an annotation had been scribbled. “For beginners, transform into another person. Wear something that contains a piece of them.’

With the clarification, Ed thought of who to transform into. But with the instructions, there really was only one ideal candidate. He left his room and walked around the apartment, making sure the coast was actually clear. He headed towards Luke’s room and opened the door.

His roommate was trusting and didn’t bother employing extra security measures like locking the door. As Ed went inside he realized he’d never actually been inside. He’d seen the room from the outside but never actually seen it in any detail.

Unlike his neatly organized and tidy room, Luke’s was messy. It had the college boy room personality: unmade bed with sheets balled up, dirty clothes scattered all over the floor, a pile of what Ed assumed was clean laundry on his desk chair, and a musky scent in the air that combined body odor and deodorant. Ed was strangely entranced by it all rather than repulsed. Just one more thing about his roommate he found attractive, even if in anyone else this would have been repulsive.

Ed looked around quickly for whatever he could grab before settling for a pair of sweatpants that smelled like they’d been used at the gym.

——————- • ——————

Back in his room, Ed stood in front of the mirror staring at his reflection. Ed was thin and lacked any definite muscle definition. He was a “perfect twink” as he’d heard someone refer to him in high school once. He’d always wished he could put on some weight or muscle but he’d been gifted very different genetic traits.

He stripped off his clothes and focused more on his own reflection. He looked at the sweat pants and brought them up to his face. There was a lingering smell of sweat inside that drove him hot. It was Luke’s smell. Luke, his hot roommate who he was about to try becoming. He felt his dick twitch and begin to harden and rise. He sniffed Luke’s dirty sweats and rubbed his erection.

“Mmm Luke you smell so good. Let me smell like you too.” He muttered, now in heat.

He slid the sweats on and looked at himself in the mirror. The size difference became more apparent than ever. The sweats wouldn’t even stay on if he wasn’t holding them. His waist was much smaller. His thighs and his legs were thinner. He couldn’t even fill them in properly. But not for much longer, he thought now committed. He stared at the mirror and spoke as instructed in Ryzam’s journal.

Ed closed his eyes. “Farewell to the form of Edward Newell. Before thee witness myself, Lucas Martin.” He said with a voice that didn’t quite sound like his own yet was his own.

He opened his eyes again and stared at the mirror. It was still himself, Ed the shy nerd. He sighed in frustration, embarrassed he’d even thought this was real. Yet just as he was about to drop the sweats, a tingling emerged all over his body. It first started over his legs then intensified. It felt like the last time he’d gone to the gym and did an intense workout, his hamstrings burning and his legs barely able to support his weight. He collapsed on the ground.

His legs shook and the fabric of the sweats now felt more tight against his legs. He saw his thighs expanding under the fabric, his legs thickening as muscle was building up. His feet, uncovered, expanded. His thin toes widened and a coat of fur grew over them. These were definitely not his own feet.

Looking down at his bottom half, Ed concluded that this was definitely not part of his original body. Below the waist where the sweats sat was somebody else’s body and it now existed in an awkward attachment to his own skinny body. But he was still aroused by this. A new dick imprint created a tent. He slid down the sweatpants and pulled out the new dick.

“Holy fuck. So this is Luke’s dick…” He said in surprise and flicked it, a shiver going through his body.

Then the change seemed to resume. The same burning feeling spread above his waist, now concentrating on his abdomen, chest, and spreading across his arms. His stomach bubbled and churned, his skin expanding with fat and muscle filling up the space. His chest ballooned out and he could feel his ribcage grow underneath. He winced through the process and heard the other change.

“My voice…” Well not his voice. But it was definitely Luke’s. The sensation had spread into his neck now, hijacking his vocal chords and his throat. He looked at the mirror again, now erotically entranced by his transformation. His body was shifting in such an interesting way. The skin altered slightly in coloration, his chest and stomach bubbled like water over a stove. New mass came with it. He reached for his, no… Luke’s cock and couldn’t help but stroke it.

The mirror displayed such a bizarre scene. Something that looked like Ed, yet not Ed, that every second showed more and more traits and features of Luke.

“Hey there Ed, you’re doing great. You’re starting to look just like me. How do you like this juicy cock?” Ed told himself, obsessed with the reflection in the mirror. “You like my big arms? My pits?” Ed raised a muscled arm to expose a pit and took a whiff. Yeah that definitely wasn’t his scent.

“Yeah baby boy. Take a big whiff.” He said, now breathing harder. He loved Luke’s voice saying these dirty things.

The changes had now come to his head. His hair darkened a bit, going from his original blonde to a dirty blonde. His face widened, with his cheeks taking on some extra flesh. This was no longer Edward Newell. This was definitely Luke.

He began panting and furiously jerking Luke’s cock until a heavy shot of cum exploded out and dirtied the mirror, breaking Ed from the trance. “Fuuuuuuucckkkkk. You did so good, Ed.”

His body sore from the transformation and slick was sweat now expunged a new musky odor that Ed was very pleased by. He stood up disoriented by his new height and approached the mirror. The thick cum was wiped away with his tongue that found Luke’s baby batter tasted amazing. No wonder he had so many hookups coming and going. Ed had been missing out.

With the mirror cleaned out he could get a better look. And a what a nice delicious look it was. Hehe. “Luke” eyed himself up and down. This was definitely his hot roommate. And he now wore him exactly. He grabbed his phone and snapped a pic.

“What’s up world? It’s me Lucas Martin. But y’all can call me…” He said flexing into the mirror. “Luke. Hit me up for a good time.” Ed grinned cockily. This was an expression he couldn’t see his roommate doing but he found it suit him.

[innerempire]

{starkercest}

Tony doesn’t know what to feel about Peter being in a relationship with a married man. Granted, his track record of affairs (a thing of the past) was something he couldn’t scrub clean, but hey, he’s been happily somewhat happily married. The people closest to him would know that Tony still wears that ring on his finger and plays his role of husband to perfection was because of Peter.

“Are you bothered that he’s dating someone married, or are you more upset by the fact that, you know…” Rhodey pins him with a meaningful look. “…it’s not you? Him dating was never a issue when it was boys his age.”

Tony scowls.

Bullseye.

His best friend is unfazed.

“Look - I’m sure it’s nothing you need to worry. Once his wife finds out, he’ll dump the kid and you can swoop in and play the role of the doting dad.”

But it doesn’t happen. Tony looks the man up, annoyance prickling at his skin when he finds out that this man in his mid 40s wasn’t some boring nobody. Of course, Tony had always taught Peter better than that (lesson number one, kiddo, financial stability. Love comes after that).

“…isn’t he too old for you?” Tony brings it up one time over breakfast. “You’re only 20- do you really want to see someone who’s probably got a foot in the grave?”

Peter eyes him over the rim of his juice glass, “Dad, he’s only 46. He’s going nowhere yet. Besides, it’s nothing serious. “

Tony eyes the newest addition to Peter’s wrist - a Tiffany bracelet, and he highly doubts that. Jealousy pricks at him. He musters a smile when Peter walks around the island and comes to stand before him, placatingly placing both hands on Tony’s shoulders.

“You don’t have to worry, daddy.”

“How can I not? You’re too precious, kiddo.” Tony sighs as he places his hands on Peter’s hips. “Maybe a lil jealous that you might forget all about your old man here.”

Peter fakes an outraged sigh, looping his arms around Tony’s neck instead, “I could never. Don’t be silly. Or maybe, this just means that you need to start paying more attention to me so that I don’t need to look at other men.”

“So…you’re saying that if I do something about it, you’ll stop paying attention to other men?” It comes off as overly possessive, but hey, it’s Peter. “Huh, maybe I should get rid of him then. Daddy’s never been good when it comes to sharing.”

“Well…” Peter sounds coy. “Maybe I’m just acting out because I want your attention.”

His wife walks in then, brows furrowing slightly at the close proximity. Tony knows she thinks that he coddles their boy too much, even saying that it was odd for Peter to still address him as “daddy” at this age. But she also knows that Tony gets very defensive when it comes to Peter.

They’ve had far too many arguments because Tony will not back down when it comes to his son. He doesn’t miss the faint annoyed huff coming from Peter as the boy moves away.

Tony doesn’t really need to give it much thought. He’s someone with power and influence, and he wasn’t above using it for…personal gains. If a certain company happened to shut down, say, due to lack of funds whatsoever, it was only natural, right?

[loafysainz]

Animals Chapter 1 | LN 4

cast: lando norris x minji newjeans

warn: PLS DONT READ IF U NOT INTO DARK FIC! SMUT 18+, NSFW, MDNI, toxic relationship, manipulation, obsession, controlling behaviors, mention of rape, suicide, and sa, rough sex, no-consent, kidnapping, full of madness, stepbrother lando!, stepsister minji!

song rec: animals - maroon 5

chapt 1/8

PLS DONT READ IF U NOT INTO DARK FIC!

"Papa!" 

Bianca barged into the VVIP hospital room, her heart racing as she spotted her father sitting on the bed. Without hesitation, she threw herself into his embrace, not caring that the book he’d been reading slipped from his hands. Nor did she pay any attention to his assistant, who was quietly standing by the window. Her worry overshadowed everything else. 

"Why didn't you tell me? How could you keep this from me?" she demanded, her voice trembling. 

Her father chuckled softly, running a hand through her disheveled hair. "You were on your way to campus, weren't you? Telling you would've only made you more anxious. But now you're here, and I'm fine."

Bianca pulled back, seeing her father's face. His calm demeanor unsettled her, as if nothing was wrong. But before she could ask more, his assistant coughed lightly, signaling the need for discretion. 

He gestured toward the man, raising an eyebrow. "Speaking of surprises, you want to tell me what I've been hearing about you and Daniel? Meeting at a hotel of all places?" 

Her stomach dropped. "Papa, it's not what you think! We ran into each other by coincidence. We only talked about work, nothing more." 

Her father's stern expression softened, but only slightly. "You know how it looks. The media doesn't care about coincidences, Bi. And Daniel…he's a sharp man, but I'm not sure he's above using this to his advantage."

"I promise, nothing happened," she insisted. "I was completely innocent."

"I believe you," her father sighed. "But next time, be more careful. In this world, even innocent moments can be scandals."

***

"Bi," her father called gently, breaking the silence in the room. 

She looked up from the couch where she had been sitting, her arms folded tightly around her knees. Her eyes were still clouded with worry. 

"It’s late," he continued, glancing at the clock on the wall. The hands showed it was nearing midnight. "You should go home and get some rest. You’ve had a long day."

"No," Bianca protested immediately. "I want to stay here with you, Papa. What if something happens? I need to be here."

Her father sighed, a mix of affection and exasperation. "Bi, I'm fine. You've seen for yourself that there's nothing to worry about. The doctors are excellent, and I’m in good hands. Besides," he added, gesturing toward the door, "I won't rest properly knowing you're here, sitting on that uncomfortable couch.

"But, Papa-"

"No buts," he cut her off firmly, though his tone remained kind. "I need you to take care of yourself too. Go home, sleep, and come back tomorrow. You'll feel better after you've had some rest."

She hesitated, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her father reached out, taking her hand in his. "Please, for me. You being healthy and well is the best thing you can do for me right now."

Reluctantly, Bianca nodded. "Okay," she whispered. "But you have to promise to call me if you need anything. Anything, Papa."

He smiled, squeezing her hand. "I promise. Now go, and drive safely."

As she gathered her things and walked toward the door, she glanced back at him one last time. He gave her a reassuring wave, his smile steady. It didn't completely ease her worry, but it was enough to make her step out into the night, the sound of his calm voice echoing in her mind.

***

Bianca got home at almost 12 a.m. Its because she had to do something for her assignment in her studio, making her late.

Bianca sighed and dragged herself up to the second floor. The house was unusually dark, which immediately annoyed her. Sure, one of the house keeper had texted saying she was at the hospital with her dad, but why were the lights off? Bianca hated the dark, especially when she had to feel her way along the walls to

“Wow. Amazing Bianca.” 

She froze. Every nerve in her body screamed. The lights suddenly flickered back on, and that voice… it came from behind her. Her breath hitched. 

“Out having fun again, huh?” 

Bianca turned slowly, her heart racing as the shadowy figure came closer. The heat of his presence suffocated her. 

“Still early, though, isn’t it?” he sneered, now circling her like a predator. His voice was icy and sharp. “Finally remember you have a home to come back to? Answer me, damn it!” 

“L-Lando,” she stuttered, her voice barely a whisper. Tears welled in her eyes, and her legs felt like jelly. He was terrifying, like a nightmare brought to life. His piercing gaze burned with anger, and Bianca was powerless against it. 

Lando Norris, her older brother that she could never escape. He leaned closer, his movements unhinged. 

"What Bianca? You don't want to see me?" he spat, his tone escalating. "Then maybe stop acting like a spoiled brat!"

Bianca flinched as his voice echoed through the house. 

"You think my life revolves around cleaning up your messes?!" Lando's furious words hit her like a truck. His breathing was ragged, and his expression was pure fury. Bianca couldn't even muster the courage to defend herself. His presence always turned her world gray, making her wish she could disappear. 

"I had to fly back from Monaco because of YOU! Do you even realize how much trouble you've caused? Papa in the hospital because of your nonsense!"

Bianca wanted to explain, to say something, but her voice was trapped in her throat. Her silence only fueled Lando's rage. He grabbed her jaw, his grip harsh and unrelenting, and shoved her to the floor. The impact made her wince, but he didn't stop. He stormed off, leaving behind the scent of bold notes of earthy amberwood, which only added to her pain. 

The housekeeper rushed over to help Bianca up, her voice trembling with concern. "Miss, are you okay? Come on, let's get you up."

But Bianca couldn't even stand. Her tears streamed silently as her heart shattered into a million pieces. 

"You know how much money I've spent cleaning up after your scandals?" Lando's voice echoed from across the room. He looked at her like she was nothing. "You're a disgrace to this family. Why do you always have to shame the family?"

Bianca's silent sobs only grew heavier. Every word cut deeper than the last. She couldn't even scream, though her soul was begging to. 

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps on the stairs broke the tense atmosphere. 

"Sir, stop. Please. She's had enough," the housekeeper pleaded, her voice breaking. 

But Lando didn't even flinch. His cold, piercing stare was locked onto Bianca. In those few seconds, she wished she could disappear. 

This wasn't just a bad day it was a storm that would leave her drowning.

next chap

[youknowwho-mustnotbenamed]

February 01 - Honey | word count: 672 | @black-brothers-microfic

They are sitting in the common room, a bottle of firewhiskey making it’s rounds. Regulus had already regretted agreeing to come when he first entered the Room of Requirement to find his brother and his friends already gathered around the fireplace. But he had already been spotted, and he could hardly deny his boyfriend as he made grabby hands to pull Regulus onto his lap. That’s where he sits now, in one of the two chairs while his brother and Remus occupy the other, leaving Barty, Evan, Dorcas, Marlene, and Peter on spare cushions and pillows on the ground.

He rests his head back against James’ shoulder, letting himself get lost in the feeling of James’ fingers in his hair, gently soothing the building ache. He’s been undeniably lucky with James, who somehow always manages to sense what Regulus needs, and gives it to him without question.

“What’s the worse injury you’ve had?” Marlene asks, and Regulus instantly tenses up. Out of all the questions that could have come from her mouth, it is the one that a majority of the people in this room would find uncomfortable. “I sprained my collarbone while playing rugby in primary school.”

“I fell from a tre—wait, no. My worst was when that bludger knocked me from my broom and I broke like ten bones.” James says, almost boasting as though the memory of that day doesn’t put an ache in Regulus’ bones. He had been worried sick, afraid the other boy might not wake up, or if he did, that the damage would be too severe to ever play Quidditch again.

“Mrs. Norris caught me while in animagus form last year.” Peter shudders. “I still have the scars from her teeth.”

“I think we all know what mine is.” Remus says, voice heavy. Sirius shifts in his seat, curling around Remus the best he can, as though that will shield him from the monster living in his own body. He tucks his face into Remus’ neck, muttering something there. Cheeks burning as he unwillingly intrudes in a private moment, Regulus turns to James.

“Potion explosion because somebody wasn’t paying attention.”

“You can hardly blame me when you are far more interesting than any potion we could have been brewing.”

“Uh, huh.”

“My blood oath with Evan.” Barty says, drawing everybody’s attention to him. He merely grins, wiggling his eyebrows at Evan.

“Your what?” How could he have missed two of the most important people in his live taking a blood oath? His curiosity lasts for as long as it takes for the devilish grin to materialize on Barty’s face. “You know what, I don’t want to know.”

“What about you, Sirius?”

“I think… oh! The time I was attacked by a nest of hornets.”

“I’m sorry, you were what?”

“I haven’t told you guys this one? Oh, its great!”

“It’s not great, Sirius. It was stupid and unnecessarily risky.”

“Well now I have to know.” James insists.

“Well, little Reggie here wanted honey on his toast, but we didn’t have any.”

“And instead of asking Kreacher like anybody else would have, the idiot went and—”

Sirius reaches over and clamps his hand over Regulus’ mouth. “Don’t spoil the story. Stop licking me, Reg. Anyway, I was, I don’t know, nine? ten? either way, there was this bee’s nest in the garden. Nobody ever told me there were different kinds of bees, let alone different kinds of nests. I thought they were all the same thing. Honey came from bees, and bees lived in that nest. So, I climbed on a nearby bench and pulled it down.”

“Sirius.” James gasps through laughter. “Why?”

“I thought I was being a good brother! I had no idea I was going to be attacked.”

Regulus pries Sirius’ hand from his mouth, “The idiot was bedridden for a week.”

“It was worth it.”

“How? What part of that entire incident was ‘worth it’?”

“We got to spend that whole week together, and mother couldn’t do anything about it.”

[heartofalifer]

being in a relationship really drives you mad huh because here I am worried sick about my partner's safety and all he could think of is the fact that he couldn't draw his arms and how his pay is going to be affected

[vaguely-concerned]

walking through lucanis' mind prison. the tam lin of it all

[lokh]

every day im reminded that though my parents may have wanted a dog they clearly did not want to take care of a dog

[beastsovrevelation]

My Good Omens fanfictions are kicking off. Or, should I say, Lady Crowley is. In one of the stories, she was supposed to end up with Hastur. No, she decided she wants to be with Michael.

I guess, I'll need to come up with a seperate F!Crowley x Hastur storyline, because I'm not letting go of that ship.

F!Crowley x Michael... I like the sound of that. I really do.

Has happened to all of us, hasn't it? Your superior in the military waltzes in, and seduces the love of your life. Not to mention, that's his pregnant girlfriend, and when he finds out, it's too late.

Whatever, Calla Crowley can still end up an astronomy-obsessed, equestrian pastel goth, if General of the Heavenly Host is her stepmother.

I must say... In one story she's with Satan, in the other she'll be with Michael... Lady Crowley, honey, you keep pulling the Olympians. Good for you.

P.S. - I don't know how accurately to Good Omens I'll portray Michael, since I haven't seen season 2, and it doesn't matter. I have a very particular way I like to see the figure. Honestly, if she isn't the General, and the leader of angels in Good Omens, it's a crime. Because, if she is, why haven't I seen her in armour/uniform in any of the screencaps?.. Either way, her version I intend to paint is amazing.