#but now he's got a new friend and is ignoring me so. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

not-neverland06 · 3 days ago

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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.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris @soupvender00 @warmsideofthepillow03

@whimsiwitchy @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @martinys-world

#Arthur Morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 x you #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 #Hell Hath No Fury

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deansbeer · 2 days ago

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i've never introduced fuckboy!jensen to yall, but i am now 👹

⎯⎯ adult content | mdni eighteen plus. + disclaimer! if this does not sit right w u pls click tf away <3

fuckboy!jensen is the kind of guy your mama warned you about. unhinged, cocky, and reckless in all the ways that should make you run—but instead, he's the one you keep opening the door to. he's bad news wrapped in a perfect smile, with hands that know their way around a car engine, a joint, and your body.

tonight's no different.

you're sprawled across your bed, your room cloaked in the soft haze of weed smoke that still lingers in the air. the window's cracked, but it does little to clear the space, the scent of the joint you shared sinking into everything: the sheets, your clothes, and his skin.

fuckboy!jensen's in your chair, leaned back like he owns the place, his long legs stretched out in front of him. his charcoal 501s jeans are baggy but sit low on his hips, his black t-shirt hanging loose enough to tease the muscles underneath. the silver buckle of his web belt catches the light every time he shifts, and his white nike air max 90s tap lazily against the floor.

he's been watching you for the past ten minutes, his green eyes heavy-lidded, dark with something you've learned to recognize. you're lying on your stomach, your mini denim skirt riding high as you scroll through your phone, texting some friends you are planning meet up with tomorrow.

you know the way you look right now—legs bare, the curve of your ass peeking out from under the hem of your skirt, your tank top tight and low-cut. you know he's watching, and you're pretending not to notice.

but fuckboy!jensen's never been the type to play along.

the air shifts before you even hear him move. one second, he's lounging in the chair, the next, the mattress dips under his weight, and he's behind you.

"you always ignore me like this, or just when you're tryin' to piss me off?" his voice is a low drawl, rough around the edges from the joint, and it slides down your spine like warm honey.

"you weren't saying anything worth listening to," you reply, not bothering to look up from your phone.

his laugh is soft, dangerous.

"that so?"

you don't respond, scrolling through your messages like his presence doesn't make your skin hum.

but then his hands are on the bed, bracketing you, boxing you in. you can feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his chest pressing closer, his breath brushing the back of your neck.

"you're real mouthy when you're high," he murmurs, his voice low, teasing. "you know that?"

"and you're real annoying," you shoot back, but your voice falters when his hands slide closer, his fingers grazing your bare thighs.

"yeah? think you can keep that attitude when i've got you begging for me?"

your breath catches, your hands tightening on your phone, but you don't answer.

you don't have to.

his hands are on you before you can think to stop him, sliding up your thighs, rough palms dragging over soft skin.

"this fuckin' skirt," he mutters, almost to himself, his fingers curling around the hem. "you know what it does to me?"

you shiver, your body betraying you as he pushes the denim higher, exposing more of you.

"jensen—"

"what?" he cuts you off, his voice a low growl. "don't touch you? don't fuckin' ruin you? or don't stop?"

you bite your lip, your face heating as his hands slide higher, gripping your hips, pulling you back against him.

you feel him—hard, thick, pressing against you through the rough denim of his jeans.

"fuck," he mutters, his fingers digging into your hips. "you feel that, baby? feel what you do to me?"

you let out a shaky breath, your phone slipping from your fingers as his hands slip under your skirt, dragging it up until it's bunched around your waist.

"you gonna tell me to stop?" he asks, his voice softer now, almost mocking. "or you just gonna lay there and let me take what i want?"

you know you should say something, tell him to stop, tell him this is a bad idea. but the words don't come.

instead, you let him pull your hips higher, angling you just the way he wants.

"that's what i thought," he says, his voice dripping with arrogance.

fuckboy!jensen doesn't waste any time, his hands sliding under the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. the cool air hits your skin, and you hear him suck in a sharp breath behind you.

"fuck," he mutters again, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you open just enough to make you squirm.

you bury your face in the mattress, your cheeks burning, but you don't stop him.

"you're so fuckin' wet," he says, his voice rough, wrecked. "you like this, don't you? like me touching you like this."

you nod, barely, and he chuckles, low and dark.

"say it," he demands, his hand coming down hard on your ass, the sting making you gasp.

"i like it," you admit, your voice muffled against the sheets.

"yeah, you fuckin' do."

you feel the mattress shift as he leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear.

"you're mine tonight, baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with need. "gonna make you feel so fuckin' good."

his hand slides between your thighs, his fingers finding you slick and ready. fuckboy!jensen groans, low and deep, as he pushes two fingers inside, curling them just right, making you cry out.

"that's it," he says, his voice a mix of praise and possession. "take it, baby. take everything i give you."

you're shaking, your body arching into his touch, and he's relentless, his fingers fucking you slow and deep, his thumb circling your clit in a way that makes your head spin.

"you're so fuckin' tight," he says, his voice rough, almost reverent. "can't wait to feel you around my cock."

you whimper, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you, and he laughs softly, the sound dripping with satisfaction.

"you ready for me, baby?" he asks, his fingers pulling out, leaving you empty, aching.

you nod, breathless, and fuckboy!jensen wastes no time, undoing his belt with one hand, the sound of metal and denim making your pulse race.

you feel him behind you, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, and then he's pushing in, stretching you, filling you in a way that makes you see stars.

"fucking shit," he growls, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll bruise. "you feel so fuckin' good."

you can't speak, can barely breathe, your body trembling as he sets a rhythm, slow at first, then harder, faster, each thrust driving you closer to the edge.

"that's it, baby," he says, his voice rough, wrecked. "take it. take all of it."

your moans fill the room, mixing with his groans, the sound of skin on skin, the bed creaking beneath you.

when you finally come, your body clenching around him, he follows close behind, his grip on you tightening as he buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a low, guttural groan.

you collapse onto the bed, your body spent, your mind hazy, and he falls beside you, his arm slung over your waist, his lips brushing the back of your neck.

"you're fuckin' perfect," he murmurs, his voice soft now, almost tender.

and for a moment, you let yourself believe him.

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pinksugarberries · 2 days ago

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🪷 could I rq a nam-gyu x reader where he’s your toxic, annoying ex trying to win u back :33

Obsessed? nah.

nam-gyu being a shitty ex towards fem!reader

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﹒　૮꒰◞ ◟ ꒱ა　⸝　new upload!　❜

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　⸝⸝　　◦　　tags: toxicity, female reader intended, jerking off, manipulation, slight mentions of cheating, nam-gyu being annoying, stalking?, mentions of sex, drug use (i’ve never used a drug in my life so i just tried to describe it the best i can)

　⸝⸝　　◦　　a/n: HI NOONIE!!! i hope i did this like how you requested, i apologize for being slightly late, i was feeling a bit like a BUM!!!! if this wasn’t what you wanted, you should msg me and critique me lol

not proofread… pt.2?

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you hated him, as you should’ve. he was extreme controlling, possessive, and overlay friend to any other girl!

going through his phone during the night and finding nudes from other girls was NOT what u expected.

as anyone would, you broke up with him and he.. well… freaked the fuck out.

after you leave you shared apartment, , changing the lease so it’s only in his name, he didn’t realize how fucked he was.

a couple hours after you leave, or even days he would continue to text you.

“wtf did i do to you?” “baby talk to me” “hello? are you gonna keep fucking ignoring me?” “all i’ve ever done was love you, but you never cared.” “was i not enough for you?” “who r u fucking now?”

after he realized you were gone, he didn’t decide to remise on what he did that was bad. why would he do that? instead, he started doing harder drugs and going to more clubs than he did while you to were dating.

while he was leaving one of the clubs he visits 6 out of the 7 days of the weeks, he sees you walking out.

he walked towards you with a cheeky smirk as he tapped your shoulder.

“hello—“ you said, cutting yourself off as you saw nam-gyu, he looked ever more of a mess. you shoved his hand off your shoulder and looking at him with an annoyed face. “nam-gyu what do you want?”

he looked at your with his completely stoned eyes as the hung low. he still had that shitty ass smirk on his face you wanted to slap off.

“well, what happened babygirl..?” he said, his speech slurred from all the drugs and alcohol he’s consumed in the last few days. “you know you can talk to me.”

you simply said “you know what you did.” and walked away.

he was too drugged and drunk to chase after you, so he just got in a rental car, which he used to follow you around without you knowing.

as he continued to follow you, he found your new apartment complex, writing it down in his notes app and driving back to the apartment he used to share with you.

as he went home, he crashed on the couch and had an idea.

he opened his phone, going on instagram, making a new account and immediately searching your username up.

he took his pants off, now them lying somewhere in the trashed apartment, opening your photos.

i’m sure you know how this went.

he started to jack himself off, imaging it was your hand. even though he “hates your guts”, he would like to have sex with you again.

when he finished, he finished directly on his phone, holding it tightly in his other hand as he looked up at the celling.

he put his phone down as he reached for a pill bottle, his duck still out.

he reached for the ecstasy , popping a few pills as he looked at all of the nut on his phone.

#nam gyu #player 124 #squid game #squid game 2 #nam gyu x reader #nam gyu squid game #squid game season 2 #namgyu #se mi squid game #jae won roh #fem reader

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yourlocallunatic · 1 day ago

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You're Insufferable

Ridoc Gamlyn x Fem!reader 18+

Summary: Ridoc is a tease and everyone knows it and deals with it. But for some reason he drives you absolutely insane. The bickering is constant but there is something else lying underneath all the arguing. (follows Fouth Wing plot! I'm only halfway done with OS but I just love Ridoc sm)

Warnings: minor character deaths, smut! piv, oral sex (f receiving), light choking, a spank or two. sorta dom!Ridoc domsub dynamics. our boy is a relentless tease.

wordcount: 12.5K

notes: reader is described to have long hair because this is entirely self-indulgent. there is just such a lack of Ridoc stories, I needed moreeee. (yes it's long I got carried away)

Ridoc fucking Gamlyn. The bane of your existence. It started the day you crossed the parapet, you were determined to get across if only to spare your family from seeing your dead body on day one. The first rider of the family meant you were already dead to them, no one was there to prepare you for the onslaught you would face. And that day on the parapet was too close, the wind and rain caught you off guard, but it was your stupid long hair that was almost the death of you.

Your arms were out at your side to keep your balance while the wind whipped around you. You could hear the soon-to-be cadet behind you cursing with every step he took, his nervous laughs filling the air. It was hard to keep your balance though with your hair flying into your eyes every five seconds, and moving it away from your face took away precious time, the boy was getting closer. In a swipe of your hair, you glanced behind you quickly catching the dark-haired boy's eye, and he fucking grinned at you. Was it meant to be intimidating? No. But with how much adrenaline was coursing through your body the only thought you had was that he wanted to throw you off the edge to get rid of you early. You tried to pick up your pace but it only caused the wet strands of your hair to fly back in your face quicker resulting in you momentarily losing your balance. You crouch closer to the rocky surface trying to regain your balance slowly, a shaky breath leaving you as you hear the boy approaching closer.

"Better chop off that pretty hair when we get across or you're as good as gone when challenges start!" he shouted over the wind, his voice was teasing but you couldn't help the fear that was still running through your veins.

"Shut. Up." you grit out. You'd recovered your pace but he was still behind you.

"Hey, just trying to help. Or you can fall and I'd have one less cute girl to talk to and that would be a shame," he was so close to you you could feel his laugh on the back of your neck. But you ignored him, trying to focus on getting across the last quarter of the parapet. "You excited?" you give no response, again tucking your hair behind your ears, "can't say I'm thrilled with being potentially killed but hey, the lives we choose to live." You roll your eyes your pace now quickening with being so close to the confined walls of Basgiath once more. "Wait up! Don't want you running off without your new friend!" you were so close, ten more steps.

A deep exhale leaves you as you jump the short distance from the parapet to the grounds, a girl sits at a table with a sheet of paper and a pen waiting to take names. She jots down your name and gives you a tight-lipped smile before calling the next person.

"Ridoc Gamlyn," that gods-damned voice again. You try to speed away before he can get to you after giving his name but you don't make it. "Hey!" he calls to you. That's it. Better to get him off of you now before it becomes a habit.

"Hey?" you turn on your heel and stare him down causing him to almost run into you with the stride he was going at, "What the fuck was that back there?"

"Uhm I'm sorry?" he questions confusion taking hold of his face.

"I said, what the fuck was that? You were right behind me shouting in my ear! I know we're not supposed to root for each other but you're trying to kill me already?" you knew your face was going red with the anger consuming you. Gods, you couldn't wait for this guy to be gone.

"Woah, princess, I was just helping. Your hair is going to get in the way, take a look around, who else here has that long of hair?" you don't want to but you look around anyway. Every person, male, female, or otherwise had either short, cropped hair or it was tied back tightly. He gives you an I told you so look before speaking again. "That's because they're all at the bottom of the river, I was just there in case you lost your sight again. Whatever I'm done with this shit." He rolls his eyes before turning away and walking elsewhere.

You sigh to yourself. This was going to be a long three years and you've already made an enemy. With your luck, he would try to kill you that night.

Your first night as Basgiath started better than you expected. You'd managed some small talk with some other first years and the two girls invited you to sit with them at supper that night. One of them was the Sorrengail girl you'd heard everyone talking about, she was slight but with her stubborn determination you had no doubt she would try to cheat death in here. The other girl was taller, her hair braided back in dark cornrows, Violet was also smart enough to have her long, silver ends tied up. Shit. Maybe Gamlyn was right. You did your best to keep your eyes on him throughout supper, he sat a few tables away from you with some other first years, but clearly, you weren't being very discreet with your wandering gaze.

"Already found someone worth sleeping with?" Rhiannon questioned teasingly, turning to look at who you were staring at, "He's cute."

"No. He's a fucking asshole is what he is." You grumble, stabbing some lettuce with your fork.

"Ridoc, I talked to him earlier," Violet speaks up, "he was nice to me. Bit of a smart-ass but he's funny. What happened with you two?"

"He tried to kill me up on the parapet!" you say, definitely louder than you wanted to, and shit of course he looked up right as you said that. He excused himself from his table and made his way over to you guys. You swear your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head. His stride was confident, a smirk playing on his lips as he brushed his dark curls away from his forehead. No. You internally scold yourself, he may be attractive with his lean frame but he was annoying as hell.

"Is the princess telling lies about me?" he smoothly slides between Rhiannon and Violet throwing his arms around their shoulders a grin eating up his face.

"You tried to kill her?!" Violet shoves his arm away from her, looking at him incredulously.

"Of course not!" rage consumes you, "I was just staying close to her, her hair kept flying in her face, was just there in case she lost sight completely and fell," he says as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

"No. You were fucking distracting me!" your utensils clatter on your plate, "telling me to 'chop off my pretty hair'" You lower your voice to imitate him and he dares to laugh at you.

"Well...what do you girls think?" he says looking between the other two, their minds processing.

"I hate to say it...but Ridoc is right, it'll probably make it easier if you cut it, or at least tie it back like Violet," Rhiannon gives you an apologetic look and a shrug.

"That settles it then princess, just trying to help," Ridoc shoves himself away from the table before walking back to his seat, turning around halfway to meet your gaze, and winks at you. You roll your eyes in response before turning back to the girls. They share a look before going back to their meals.

The next morning in the barracks Violet had offered to braid your hair back for you and you begrudgingly agreed. You hated Ridoc being right. Zihnal was not with you because when first years began being added to squads you were thrilled to be with Rhiannon and Violet, but your excitement was short-lived as Ridoc was the next name called to Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing. He takes his place behind you and you do your best to ignore him as he talks to Sawyer–another member of your squad.

"Ah, look who took my advice!" you feel a tug on one of the two plaits Violet had done on you and you turn with fury.

"Take your hands off me Gamlyn," Rhiannon turns from where she stands next to you, grabbing your hand in an attempt to calm you.

"Someone's fiery this morning," he laughs, "looks good on you princess," he winks again, and before you or anyone else can stop you, the hand Rhiannon didn't have a hold on flew and slapped Ridoc straight on the cheek. He raises his hand to hold his face as you hear a shout a couple of rows ahead of you. "What the fuck?!" Ridoc shouts the shock evident on his face.

"Cadets!" your new squad leader–Dain Ateos–approaches the two of you, "You're a part of a squad now! Act like it. There will be plenty of time to fight during sparring, now behave yourselves." You turn back into formation hearing Ridoc grumbling behind you. Holy shit. What've you just done...? You hit your squadmate! You'd unknowingly unlocked months of intense rivalry between the two of you, all because you couldn't hold your temper.

The weeks went by slower than you thought, days of intense training and studying. Being a rider was a hell of a lot more difficult than you imagined it to be. But the most difficult part was trying to keep your temper around the man who was trying to make your life a living hell. Your other squadmates were fed up with your bickering. It ranged everywhere from trivial arguments about homework to betting who would make it up the gauntlet first when the training was to start. Challenges were going to start soon too, no longer assigned fighting partners and you knew Ridoc would challenge you only to bring revenge on the slap you'd landed on him the first day. But you were smart, you'd started studying his fighting style the moment he stepped onto the mat during the assessment. He held up alright, eventually knocking a tooth out of Aurelie's mouth, but that was before the daily training. As annoying of a squad leader that Dain was, he worked you all hard, and with gauntlet practice approaching too, he ensured you were all eating more than your share of food. Ridoc had gone from a lean floppy-haired boy who teased you on the parapet, to a now filled-out man beating most of his opponents in challenges.

But the most annoying part about Ridoc is that you didn't mind him...he was kind to the people he cared about and there had been more than one occurrence where you had to hold back your laughter from one of his jokes. But it was already over, you'd already hit him and he'd already decided that he would get his retaliation. So now every morning at breakfast you'd have to hear his taunting voice tease you.

"Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"Does that scowl hurt your pretty face?"

"Seems like the princess hasn't gotten any this week, she's grumpy."

Day after day. Thank the gods when it came to serious moments he seemed to hold back. You were halfway up the gauntlet, about to cross the shaking posts. Only moments earlier Ridoc had been arguing with Tynan about Barlowe, you and Violet had shared a glance, never seeing him lose his temper and it was...kind of hot. He was taunting Tynan from the ground, and you'd expected the same when you began, but he stayed oddly silent. You'd surprised yourself after making it to the top, the training was paying off.

The next week, challenges began, and you were ready. Just as you'd expected Ridoc challenged you. Rhiannon gave you a nervous look as Sawyer tried to talk him out of it.

"Are you sure?" Rhi asked you as you stripped off your flight jacket, leaving you only in your training top and pants with half of your daggers strapped to your belt.

"It's fine, Rhi. We all knew that this was going to happen. Maybe after this, he'll give up and stop annoying the shit out of me." You approach the mat, Ridoc already standing ready, his arms swinging at his sides to pump himself up. Did his shirt get tighter somehow? No. Not the time for that. You shove the thoughts to the back of your mind, trying to bring all the memories of the times he irritated you to the forefront. You take your stance, a dagger in each hand just like he did.

"Ready, princess?" He teased, that gods-damned annoying smirk splayed across his face.

"Begin," Emmeterio announced, and Ridoc pounced. You'd been watching him, he always skirted around his opponents waiting for them to make the first move, but not this time. It caught you off guard but you were able to move away in time, moving around him before throwing out a leg to knock him off balance. It worked for a moment but he was on you again in no time. He was moving fast, but you could move fast too. You hit each other with a series of blocks before you were able to knock a dagger out of one of his hands. He cursed, but that only freed up his hand to be able to grab your wrist, twisting until you dropped a dagger of your own. A gasp left your lips from the pain, and he eased up with the sound. He was going easy on you. Well fuck that. With his guard down you pull him closer, close enough that you could smell his sweat. Damn, why did he have to smell good too? You used that closeness to wrap a leg behind his knee to take you both down to the ground. You were on top of him now, his face contorted in frustration, only the second time you'd seen him lose his temper. He grunted and cursed.

"Fuck!" he shouted from between his teeth. Did you really get him this worked up? You grappled with each other, both of your remaining daggers lost somewhere on the mat, you tried to reach for your belt to grab another one while you were still on top but it made you lose your leverage. He was still stronger than you and you roll so that he now has the advantage above you. All these months he'd been preparing just so he could beat you. He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head. You've lost all semblance of control and tactic, now just thrashing to get out of his hold. He holds your wrists with one of his hands, his other shooting out with the speed of light to grab the dagger closest to him and bring it to your throat, "Yield!" he shouts louder than necessary. You stared into his eyes above you, his gaze was concentrated, and he knew he'd won. But you continue to stare at him before swallowing thickly, your eyes burned, tears threatened to spill over and his gaze softened, and the pressure of the dagger at your throat lightened significantly. You could use his moment of softness to try to gain back control but it was over, you'd already been humiliated.

"I yield," it was barely a whisper, only enough for him to hear. He gathered himself quickly and reached his hand down to help you up but you ignored it and picked up your daggers from the mat. You were missing one and you knew it was in Ridoc's hands. You turn to him, your gaze still low to the ground refusing to make eye contact. He mutters your name quietly, gently, and holds your dagger out to you, but you just push it back to him before rushing off the mat and gathering your things, leaving the training room. He'd won it, fair and square. You lost all control in that match, what was happening?

The next few days were awkward, to say the least. The rest of the squad tried their best to keep things normal, but nothing was normal without the banter between you and Ridoc. Slowly he seemed to regain some confidence in teasing you, it started light with you just rolling your eye in response, but by presentation day the two of you were in full-on arguments again.

"So how many of us do you think are going to be dragon lunch today?" Ridoc asks as you and the rest of the first years in your squad are waiting for your turn on the gauntlet.

"That's cruel, Ridoc," you reply, not in the place for humor this morning with how nervous you were, and you were sure you were not the most nervous, Violet still couldn't get up the wall.

"We live in a cruel world, princess," he mutters shaking his head. You groan in annoyance, trying your best to hold your temper instead of retorting, instead turning your attention to Violet.

"How are you doing Vi? Is there anything we can do to help?" you weren't much taller than her but those couple of inches were enough for you to bridge the gap to get up the wall.

"I'll be okay," she takes a deep breath, strangely calm for the situation you were about to enter. Luca was behind you two beginning her rant on the dragon she would be choosing. As if. Presentation was for the dragons to decide who was worthy and who would be torched. The past months had all led up to this. Every breath you took was shallow the entire way up the gauntlet, so aware of every step you were making and how fast you were making them. You released a breath once you reached the top, the rest of your squad cheering for you. Ridoc was right behind you breeching the top of the sloped wall, he whoops and gathered Rhiannon and Sawyer into hugs, the three of them laughing before he turned to you, a huge smile still on his face.

"Nice work Gamlyn," you say giving him a forced smile.

"Ah, a compliment, that's the first one I've received from you, I could get used to this!" He throws an arm around you squeezing you close.

"Way to ruin it," you grumble removing his arm from you before turning your attention back to Violet on the course. Oddly, you miss the warmth of his arm on you. He's always been touchy with the rest of your little crew, often embracing them or keeping an arm on them during meals or classes. You'd even see him press a kiss to Rhi's head after she'd helped him with physics. But with you, he didn't cross that line. Did he hate you that much? Or was it just because he knew how you would react? Your thoughts race as you watch Violet do the same, right before she grabs a rope from the side of the course and hauls herself up. Then using her daggers to climb her way up. This girl was something special. You grin and clap your hands as the rest of your squad cheers.

"That's our girl!" Ridoc shouts, obviously proud of his friend. Some of the other wings began groaning complaining that she cheated but all the noise falls into the background as the rest of your squad huddles up. That was the easy part. Now the next could very well mean your death. You try to calm yourself, hold it together, and keep all semblance of control before the dragons can sense you.

Now at the top, you waited for the other squad to finish before you entered the flight field. One of the other wingleaders stood before you preparing you to enter, instructing you to make small talk so the dragons would get a feel for you as well as recommending staying at least seven feet apart in case another squad member got torched.

"Nice day for presentation," Ridoc jokes 'small talking' with the senior wingleader.

"Not with me, with them," she rolls her eyes at his antics, and gods of course Ridoc will be right behind you annoying you the whole way. You knew you'd have to try your best to be in control or else you'd lose your temper in front of the dragons.

"Lucky me I have a wonderful view to distract me from our impending dooms," Ridoc laughs, anger swelled in your chest. You hear Rhiannon scold him and smack him upside the head, a smirk grows on your face but you stay facing forward.

Your senses feel heightened as you make your way onto the flight field, dragons surrounding the edges, a smile gracing your face at the pure wonder that these creatures held.

"They're pretty incredible aren't they?" you hear the awe in Ridoc's voice behind you, no humor or teasing, just... Ridoc.

"They really are," you respond to him and turn to face him, he was grinning, clearly he was made to be a rider. He turned slightly and met your gaze, his smile not faltering. His eyes shined in the sunlight this high atop the cliffs and you turn back to watch where you're walking before you get caught up in staring at him any longer. Why did this keep happening to you? As you neared the end of the field before turning back you caught sight of the illustrious feathertail, Violet was enthralled, her eyes not moving away from the creature. But your eyes wandered to something else going on only feet away.

A red scorpiontail on the smaller side was sitting peacefully in the sun, she was practically glowing. But what caught your attention was the brown swordtail a little larger than her that approached where she sat. He nudged her with his nose, seeming to almost mutter things at her before he rolled on top of her putting what seemed to be his entire weight on her. The red reared up, a deep growl leaving her throat, drawing the rest of your squad's attention to the two dragons. The brown stood again, circling the red while making grunting sounds to her, right before she swung her neck and snapped her massive teeth at the swordtail.

"Hey, princess," Ridoc is right beside you now, his voice hot on your neck from where he leans down close to your ear. "That red looks like you during math lessons, so grumpy," he's whispering to not draw attention to the two dragons, but you make the deadly mistake of reacting.

"Well if you helped me like you did everyone else maybe I'd be fine!" you turn to face him, a scowl traced between your brow, unbeknownst to you two it drew the attention of the two dragons.

"Woah now you look even more like her!" he laughs quietly before reaching out a finger to poke right between your eyebrows where your scowl formed.

"Ugh! You're insufferable!" you turn on your heel expecting to walk ahead of him again before coming face to face with the red scorpiontail. Your breath stopped and fear coursed through you. You heard Ridoc gasp your name.

"Don't fucking move," his words are seethed between his teeth but you barely resonate them. You feel the dragon's hot breath on your face, the smell of sulfur strong. "Please don't die, please don't die," Ridoc repeats the mantra as if it will help seal your fate. You keep your eyes low to the ground not daring to make eye contact, knowing that would be your death sentence. The dragon's gaze moves from you and you take the opportunity to look at her face. She was incredible. And her eyes were locked on Ridoc. Shit. But you didn't have time to assess your feelings before the massive creature was tackled to the ground by the brown swordtail.

You released your breath staring at the creatures fighting in front of you. Their roars echoed through the field as the chuffs of other dragons were heard from the edges as if they were egging the two on. You felt someone grab your hand and you were tugged to the beginning of the field again. You meet up with your squad about 20 feet ahead where Rhiannon is standing in front of the burnt corpse of Pryor, you hear Luca start to say something about him right before she gets torched right in front of your eyes. You gasp holding on tighter to the hand in yours, Ridoc's hand. Once you realize you dropped it immediately, but not before Violet could notice. You risk a glance behind you to look for the red scorpiontail again, praying she is alive. But the sight you were fixed with was not one you were expecting to see. The two dragons were still on the ground fighting, but they were both still alive, the brown was a bit bigger, you had expected him to take the red down fast, but there they still were.

"Come on, let's go!" Ridoc urges you, pulling on your arm yet again.

"Wait, Ridoc, watch them!" You were captivated, and surprisingly, Ridoc stopped pulling and watched the dragons with you. "They're playing."

"No, they're fighting, let's go," he tugs again, and this time you comply. His hand doesn't release yours until you're off the flight field.

The mess hall that night seemed a hell of a lot smaller after having lost so many first years in one day. You were sure there would be even less after threshing. Your squad was down two more people now. You sat with Rhi, Violet, Sawyer, and Ridoc who were all discussing the dragons you'd seen today. Rhiannon talks about a green that had been all up in Violet's business while you and Ridoc were being intimidated by the red scorpiontail, while Violet says she didn't feel a connection to any of them.

"What about you?" Rhiannon says your name, drawing you into the conversation. You open your mouth to speak but before you could Ridoc interjects.

"Well, I for one think that red scorpiontail already loves you. You two even have the same frown and grumpy demeanor!"

"Shut up, Ridoc," you turn your attention to Rhi. "But yeah, I did feel drawn to her..." your voice went quieter.

"Well you might as well go for that brown then, Ridoc," Sawyer speaks up. "with how annoying he was being to that red those two dragons are practically you guys already." He laughs, the girls nodding in agreement.

"You wound me," Ridoc puts a hand to his heart, "but unfortunately I think that guy took down the red so the princess is gonna have to find another dragon." No. He didn't, you knew that both of the dragons were still alive, and it pissed you off that Ridoc decided to taunt you about it when you'd just said you were drawn to that red.

"They were just playing Ridoc!" you shout, sounding almost childish with your insistence.

"Yeah right," his words muffled by the food in his mouth.

"They were! Don't you think one of them would've already been dead by the time we turned around? And neither of them were going for death blows, it was almost like they were sparring or something..." you mumble out the end, brows knitting as you think about it.

"Maybe it's their form of flirting then," Ridoc jokes, earning him a groan from Rhiannon. "What? If I were a dragon that's how I'd try to get a girl, relentless teasing, tackling her to the ground, you know that sort of thing." Ridoc shrugs and the wheels in my brain start turning.

"And that's why you mostly sleep with men..." Violet says under her breath, she and Rhiannon start to giggle.

"Hey! I'll have you know I can pleasure a woman just as well as I can a man. The women at Basgiath are just too controlling, I like to be in control," Ridoc smirks, leaning back in his seat. Why did he have to talk about this... now that's all you could think about. Your memory shifts to when he challenged you, his hands pinning your wrists, his body on top of you. You shake your head to try to clear the thoughts, this was your rival for god's sake! Why were you thinking like this?

"Really? You're the controlling one in bed?" Sawyer scoffs in disbelief.

"Don't sound so shocked. From my experience, everyone needs to give up control every once in a while, and the bedroom is an excellent place to do it when you have someone like me to be in charge." Oh. Fuck. You try to take a drink of water to cool your burning nerves but all it does is cause you to choke on it. You sputter trying to catch your breath, "You okay there, princess? Not scaring you off am I?" Ridoc winks at you. Okay. That's enough. Time for a cold shower and bedtime, surely you wouldn't feel like this in the morning. You ignore his comment and excuse yourself from supper before rushing to the showers.

It was late when Violet and Rhiannon returned to the barracks, you lay there pretending to be asleep. Even when Violet brought up the fact that you seemed off at dinner. Fuck, you really had to pull yourself together before threshing next week, or Ridoc was going to make your life miserable with his teasing.

You managed to make it through the week without drawing too much attention to yourself, though Ridoc was still relentless when it came to teasing you. But the morning of threshing was...rough to say the least. Everyone's nerves were on fire, even the ever-confident Ridoc was vomiting behind a tree. You grimaced feeling sorry for him, he might not show it but he wanted to succeed, just as you all did. Professor Kaori advised on what to do when approaching a dragon, he also said that if a dragon had already chosen you they'd be calling you. Okay, what is that supposed to feel like? You snark internally. You had no idea what to expect when entering the valley. It was happening too fast, you heard Ridoc instruct the rest of your squad to stay alive and you all went your separate ways.

You'd been walking through the valley for hours now, and the sun was falling low on the horizon giving you one maybe two hours maximum. If you were any other person you'd be wondering if there were even any dragons left out here, but you felt in your bones that your dragon was still out here, you just had to find them fast enough. You neared the ends of the boundaries only a few miles left within them, you'd managed to avoid other dragons thus far and only ran into one other cadet–a girl from Third wing–who looked so frightened that you would kill her that she ran off right away, like a dragon would choose that. The further you walked the stronger the hum in your body felt, you were getting close. The setting sun shone through the trees illuminating the path and if it weren't for the sun, you would've entirely missed the glint to your right side. You turned, hand ready on your dagger, but once you met her gaze you knew the beautiful creature wouldn't hurt you.

The red scorpiontail stepped out of the shadows of the forest, the sun glinting off her scales making them look like rubies. It was the dragon from presentation. You couldn't help the smile that grew on your face as she walked closer to you, she was alive. You stood, watching her in awe as she circled you sniffing you and feeling you out before a warm grumble sounded in her throat.

"Will you come with me?" her voice echoed in your head, elegant but firm, she was not asking you, she was telling you to come with her, or you would not return.

"If you’ll have me…" You didn't want to scare her off so you held your palm out to her, letting her run her face along you, the warm scales felt so naturally under your hand. She turned to the side in a silent order to climb on her back. You made the movements and took your seat. This was unlike anything you'd felt, you were a rider.

"Now hold on, squeeze your legs, and keep your grip," you don't know if you'd ever get used to hearing her voice in your head. You do as she says, you keep your grip and hold on. The wind through your hair is like nothing you've felt before, tears sting your eye from the brightness of the setting sun. As you climb higher into the sky you look around you, you're a good five miles from the field where all the new riders are landing their dragons. Over the wind, you're able to hear the loud shouts of someone all too familiar. You look to your left and see Ridoc on the top of a brown swordtail, again the same one from presentation. What are the fucking odds?

"Look at us, princess! We're riders!" the joy in his tone is infectious and you can't help but smile as he risks throwing one of his hands in the air to feel the wind. Despite your joy, you feel grumbles beneath you and look down to see your dragon shooting sideways glances at Ridoc's dragon.

"Are you alright?" you shout over the wind, "Do you not like that dragon? We saw you two the other day!"

"Not so loud girl, I can hear your thoughts just fine. I know you saw me, dragons remember much better than humans," Her tone is short, clearly she's irritated.

"That's Ridoc, he hates me." you give the whole 'mental talking thing' a go.

"Don't be stupid, girl, I said I saw you two that day, he was begging for me not to kill you."

"Well I saw you two that day too, you're practically shooting fire through your eyes at his dragon now but the two of you were rolling around in the grass together the other day..." Shit. Maybe you shouldn't have said that, red dragons are known for being notoriously angsty. A grumble reverberates through her chest as she flies faster, and out of range from Ridoc and his dragon.

"Aotrom has been trying to mate with me since we were adolescents, we're both still too young to mate but he doesn't seem to give up,"

"Oh so he likes you, that's what this is about."

"Yes but he's insufferable about it, you saw him, he laid on top of me!" her body seemed to grow even hotter with the annoyance running through her. This conversation was all too familiar.

The two of you continued talking until you landed most of the cadets already back. It was odd but strangely comforting talking to Cairistìona, the two of you feeling the same things.

Ridoc had landed just after you, running over and pulling you in a hug before spotting Rhiannon and doing the same to her. He was too excitable, you don't even know if he noticed it was you he was hugging. Rhiannon came over to you and gathered you in her strong arms.

"I'm so happy!" She squealed. "Fierge told me that's the same red you saw in the field the other day."

"Yeah, Cairis," You return her embrace and turn your head to look where you left her. Aotrom–Ridoc's dragon–was rubbing against her like a cat and chortling, she whipped her head around and blew a small cloud of fire at the brown dragon.

"Hey!" you hear Ridoc shout, running over to Aotrom. "Tell her to back off!"

"Oh he's fine," you defend Cairis walking to where she bares her teeth at Ridoc. "Dragons are fireproof, and besides, he was in her personal space."

"He likes her, can't you tell her that!" he cries, Aotrom lowering his nose to receive attention from Ridoc, gods these boys were going to be menaces.

"Tell the boy I already know and don't want to talk about it." Cairis turns her head in a pout.

"She knows Ridoc, and she doesn't care, maybe you should tell him to leave her alone!" you fold your arms across your chest, watching Ridoc as he walks closer to you.

"Oh please, he's not going to give her up, she's his mate!" your voices arguing carried across the field, and out of the corner of your eye, you see Sawyer and Rhiannon approaching and you briefly worry about Violet.

"Not yet she's not! And I pray to Amari they never do mate because that means I'll have to spend the rest of my life miserable!" the two of you are inches apart now his warm brown eyes staring into yours.

"Woah, woah, calm down guys," Sawyer says as Rhiannon pulls you back.

"You have no idea, princess I'd rock your world," he smirks and you're sure your face blooms red, out of anger or because he flirted. You had not a clue.

"Want me to torch him? He reminds me of a certain dragon, maybe they can burn together..." you hear Cairis' voice in the back of your head.

"NO." Your response is too quick and you know it.

"Oh...you don't like him do you?"

"No, I just...he's still my friend...I think. He just annoys the ever-loving shit out of me. And don't pretend you'd kill Aotrom too, we both know you could've killed him already."

"Don't forget your place little one," Cairis' voice looms louder before she turns with a whip of her tail, the poison barb inches from Aotrom's face. "Now go to your friend she just returned, the Empyrean has much to talk about now."

Violet was certainly a force to be reckoned with, you'd learned that early on. But bonding two dragons? And one of them being one of the most powerful...gods, she was something. The Empyrean discussed while the rest of your squad sat in the grass and waited. Rhiannon and Sawyer separated you and Ridoc before you got into any more arguments. This was good because Ridoc was going on and on about how hard he was going to be celebrating tonight with the rest of the new rider cadets, as well as deciding who he wanted to take to bed. You couldn't help the annoyance (jealousy?) that came from it.

"Yeah right, Gamlyn, like anyone wants to go to bed with you after the long day we've had," you scoff, not able to hold back your comment.

"I can be relaxing, want me to show you, princess?" He retorts. How does he always have something to say back?!

"Down boy," Rhi jokes, "she already has to deal with you and now she has to deal with your dragon too, give it a rest." You throw Rhiannon a thankful gaze before your dragons approach you again.

"Time for you to sleep girl, we start flight maneuvers this week, rest up." You stand to greet Cairis and her head nestles in your hands. She seemed to have a bit of a temper but you knew she would do anything to protect you now. You were bonded. So you watched her launch into the sky before heading back to the caves of the Vale, Aotrom following behind her like a love-sick puppy.

-------

The next few weeks grew harder, all your free time thrown into school work and flight maneuvers, and since Violet was attacked Dain has ordered squad hand-to-hand combats every Tuesday night. You could tell that even Ridoc was getting weary, his comments to you had just turned to eye rolls. He would still throw one in now and again during flight, Cairis and Aotrom's petty snaps at each other made it difficult for you not to fight with one another. You'd managed to talk Cairis into being gentler with Aotrom–at least when you were around–if only to give you a slight sense of peace. But just like his rider, Aotrom was untamable.

It was a Tuesday night, you were in the training room and everyone began to spar with one another. Ridoc had tried to convince Liam to join him but Liam refused now that he was Violet's guardian so Imogen stepped in. You and Sawyer worked on your blocks with one another when Xaden and Garrick walked in. The two stripped their shirts off and began to spar with one another. You hear a low whistle as Violet and Rhiannon, even Imogen from where she held Ridoc in a headlock had their heads turned to watch the bulky, chiseled men fighting each other. To be fair it was boiling in the training room that night, the heat was cranked due to the cold December snows, and nearly every man had his shirt removed, including Sawyer across from you and the girls all in their training vests. Ridoc taps in fast succession before Imogen releases him and you're all dismissed by Dain for a water break. You chug from your bottle as Rhiannon approaches next to you.

"Did you see those two?" she asks you, talking about Xaden and Garrick. They were sure something to look at, their winding rebellion relics and dragon relics covering them. "Makes me feel way too straight looking at them..." she draws off and you giggle at her, looking over to see Violet who is practically drooling at Xaden.

"I don't know if I want to be them or be with them," you hear Ridoc speak from the other side of you. You turn to see him drinking his water, small dribbles falling down his chest–his now bare chest–as he pants heavily. You thought Xaden and Garrick were something sure... but Ridoc...holy Dunne. You knew he'd gained some muscle since he'd gotten here, but you didn't know he was fully jacked now! His body was fully carved by the gods. Maybe he wasn't as chiseled as Xaden or built like an ox like Garrick but he was...perfect. Your body grows hotter than it already was your mind racing. Why were you reacting like this to Ridoc of all people? Sawyer was just as attractive and way nicer. It had been happening way too often for this to just be a one-time thought.

"Ever occur to you maybe you like him?" Ciaris asks, listening to your thoughts.

"Not now," You reply quickly before putting up your shields and blocking her out.

"Hey, princess, want a rematch?" Ridoc asks, a grin plastered on his face. "No weapons this time?" You're sure your face was bright red at this point, your whole body at that. You just shake your head before gathering your stuff, haphazardly throwing your flight jacket on. You had to get out of here now.

"Hey where are you going?" you hear Violet call to you as you leave to ask Dain if you can leave early to finish homework.

"I have way too much homework, gonna see if Dain'll let me off 30 minutes early," you respond, still walking to your squad leader. He gives you the okay, and you go to walk past the rest of your squad before leaving the training room.

"I thought we were studying tonight for the math exam tomorrow?" Sawyer asks and you halt your steps. Oh shit, you'd forgotten, and Ridoc would have to be there, he was the best of you at math.

"Oh...um-yeah! Just wanted to shower first, just come to my room, we can study in there." Right a cold shower, would help. Then it would be fine to see Ridoc again, with his shirt on.

The cold water sprayed over you and you quickly cleaned yourself and washed your hair, rinsing away all your impure thoughts with the water. Once back to your room, you run oil through the ends of your long hair, still not having cut it since parapet, though now you'd kept it safely tied back. It was so much nicer to have your own room after being in the barracks for months. You sit at your desk and look over your workload, deciding to get some history done before the others come to study.

You hadn't realized how much time had passed before there was a knock at your door. You leap up from your chair, a smile on your face ready to greet the rest of your crew, but when you open the door your smile falls.

"Really? Are you that disappointed? I thought you were lightening up, didn't realize you were still a brat," Ridoc walks into your room and shuts the door behind him, flopping on your bed like he lived in there–at least he was clean, you could tell by his damp, tousled hair.

"Where are the others?" you ask turning from where you still stand by the door in your loose black sleep pants and a vest.

"'Hi Ridoc, hello, nice to see you' would be the appropriate response," he taunts, tossing his bag on the ground before laying back on your bed, his hands behind his head. You don't even respond to him, only giving him an annoyed look before he rolls his eyes and answers your question. "Sawyer took a fist to the face from Ateos, Rhiannon is taking him to the healers, broken nose. And Violet has whatever she has going on with Riorson...I don't even want to know. They said to go without them, that you'd need the most help with math anyway." He sits up again on your bed scooting to the edge, seemingly not able to sit still.

"Whatever, I'll just fail, you can go back to your room," you complain heading to your desk and shutting your history books.

"No, it's okay, princess. I can help you."

"I don't want your help, Ridoc, just go," You turn and face where he sat on your bed, his face unreadable.

"Seriously? You're that proud?" his words strike you across the face, his mouth turned downward in a frown as he stands and takes a step towards you.

"I'm not proud!" you fumed, "I just know you're going to tease me for being so shitty at math!"

"You think that little of me?" he takes another step forward, "Sure, I like to tease you but don't mistake me, I wouldn't tease you over something you struggle with!" this is the most serious you've seen him. But you still have some confidence left.

"Really?! Because you've already done that!" you shout back at him, thankful that you have a sound shield on your door so no one hears you seething at each other.

"When?!" he retorted, throwing his arms to the side in confusion. You wrack your brain, looking for the right words to describe how it had made you feel.

"Every-fucking-day Ridoc! It's constant taunting and I just don't know how to respond! With everyone else, you're nice and funny but you just have it out for me! I know I started it when I slapped you, and I know I don't make it easy with how I respond, but I thought at least when you humiliated me after challenging me you would let go!" tears are welled up in your eyes from the amount of anger you feel. You thought you'd get Ridoc with that, you thought he'd break and apologize like the nice guy you know he is, but a terrifyingly playful smirk grew on his lips.

"Ever take a moment and think it's cause you're always acting like a brat, princess?" he takes another step towards you and another, and another, until he's hovering over you, your back pressed against your desk, his face only inches from yours. "Yes, I tease you, I tease all our friends, but you're the only one who stays acting like I'm some sort of fucking villain when I stop." You think about it. Truly think about it. Were you the only one? He was an over-confident smart-ass he made comments to everyone, so why did it bother you so much?

"Ah, cat got your tongue?" your breath is caught in your throat and you watch as he raises a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Y'know, I saw you staring at me tonight, you're not nearly as sly as you ought to be..." he was fucking teasing you again. But the way he was doing this...gods your body was on fire.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you lie, your voice barely a whisper. You look up and meet his eyes, his warm eyes, pools of chocolate that you could just melt in, and he is looking at you, really looking at you. In this moment you felt as if he could read your soul on a piece of paper.

"We both know that's not true," his voice dangerously low and confident. "And I think we both know that all you need..." his hand that tucked your hair behind your ear moves and he begins to trace your neck with the backs of his fingers, "is to give up control." You know your heart is beating out of control now. His hand now moved to grasp the side of your neck tightly, his other hand braced on the desk behind you. You were trapped against his body, the same way you were trapped when he held you against the mat, and it felt so good.

Before you could ask him for more, or surge up to kiss him like you may or may not have thought of doing while you were in the shower, he moves away and your body slinks in disappointment.

"Wanna know why I tease you?" he asks, his back turned to you as he picks up the trinkets on your bedside table.

"Desperately," you sigh out, hoping for an actual answer. He turns again a smirk on his face as he looks at the absolute mess he'd made of you already. He backs up and sits on the edge of your bed again, his legs spread wide before he answers you.

"Because it riles you up."

"Well I think I gathered that," you roll your eyes and look down at your hands.

"That first day after the parapet, I couldn't get over how fucking sexy you looked with that annoyed face," Oh. You knew this was heading somewhere, but for him to flat-out call you sexy made you press your legs together, "I can't get enough of it, even now." he looked away, all of his confidence suddenly gone. "And I wanted to see if once, once, you'd lose it."

"Lose it?" you question, and he laughs at you before running a hand through his dark hair.

"It happened once when you slapped me, and I thought it was going to happen again when I challenged you, but instead, you melted in my hands like a fucking puddle," he shakes his head and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks again, embarrassment evident on your features, "Awe, don't be embarrassed, princess." Gods, why was every fucking word he was saying making the wetness pool in your core?

"Ridoc?" You ask him, taking a step away from the desk and towards him, he hums in response, looking you over from head to toe, studying every inch of you. "You said that night, after presentation, that if you wanted to get a girl, you'd just 'tease her' and 'tackle her to the ground' like Cairis and Aotrom," you felt a bit silly saying his same words over again but continued, your voice still quiet, "is that...what you've been doing with me?" You take another step forward, "all the taunting, then challenging me...was that you trying to tell me you like me?" You were close enough to him now that he could just reach out and grab you, and he did.

Ridoc grabbed your arm and pulled you straight between his legs, the largest smile you'd ever seen from him taking up his entire face.

"Took you long enough to figure that out, princess," and there you were, in the arms of Ridoc Gamlyn, the man you'd argued with and fought with for the past several months, and it felt incredible. He seemed like a completely different person, but he wasn't. It was you and your perspective that changed, you were feeling what it felt like to just give into him, letting him tease you and taunt you for his pleasure, giving up your control.

"And do you remember what I said after that?" your breath caught in your throat at the memory. He liked to be in control, in charge. You nodded shyly from where you stood between his legs, all your confidence now lost. His hands that held your arms moved up to cradle your face, and you melted. "Look at you," he hummed, "Tell me. I want to hear you say what I said." you gathered all your courage and looked him in the eye.

"You said that everyone needs to give up control at some point..." your voice still low and quiet. "and that in the bedroom with someone like you is a good place for it."

"Seems like someone remembered well. The look on your face after I said that, gods...made me so fucking hard to see you that flustered." you couldn't help but press your legs together at his words, thinking of him getting so worked up over your reaction to him. "I knew after I challenged you just how easily you'd give in, but that was when I realized that it was me and my words that were getting you so fired up and you just don't know how to respond other than with anger." he was reading you like a damned book. How had he gathered all this when you couldn't even realize the capacity of your feelings?

"Y'know you're a lot smarter than everyone gives you credit for, Gamlyn," you smile a bit, opening yourself up.

"Yeah? I think that deserves a kiss," your instincts take over and you roll your eyes at his comment. One of his hands that held your face moved lower, his long fingers wrapping deftly around your throat and applying slight pressure, the annoyance in your face dropped and you felt your body submitting to him, a whine leaving you at the feeling of his hand on your throat. "Really, princess? I thought you were done with the attitude?" His voice is deep and raspy and he licks his lips as he watches your expression. Oh to feel that tongue on your body.

"I'm sorry...I just..." you trail off, your body practically quivering at this point in anticipation.

"'Just-just' what?" He mocks you. Fuck it. You couldn't wait any longer. You surge forward and capture his lips in yours. He's taken aback for a moment but it doesn't last long before he's devouring you. It's a mess of tongue and teeth as he pulls your body against him, his fingers tangling in the hair at the base of your neck, "Still got some fire left in you? We'll see about that..." he mumbles out between kisses.

You're desperate for more, your hands moving all along his body before he picks you up as if you weigh nothing switches places with you, and pushes you back until you're laying against your bed. Your hands reach the bottom of his shirt and you begin to tug wanting more than anything to feel his skin on yours, but he stops you. Oh. Was he upset? You thought he wanted this...

"Huh uh, princess..." he drawls out, his voice like honey. Okay, he's still turned on, what was this about?! He takes a step back from you, his eyes raking over your body that was on the precipice of convulsing. "I've wanted this for too long, and once I have you...gods, I don't think I'll ever be able to keep myself away from you." your face scrunches in confusion, was he asking you to be his girlfriend right now?

"What do you mean?" you ask, looking for clarity.

Ridoc runs his palms over his face in exasperation before raking them through his still-damp hair. He seemed almost stressed. Whatever control he held just a moment ago, he was letting go of, show you his full, raw, emotions. "I mean that I like you. A lot. Probably more than I should. And I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I want you fully and wholly. I'll even stop teasing you if that's what it takes for you to say yes! Even though you look so damned cute with your little frown." he smiles at the end of his sentence as if remembering the specific look on your face. You couldn't help the smile that grew on your face, as if only now you'd recognize the capacity of your feelings. You'd been drawn to him before but your inability to give in to him was what was holding you back. But you were ready to let go.

"I don't want it to either..." You look him in the eye and reach out to pull him into you again, placing a small kiss on the tip of his nose before continuing. "I want you to have me, I'm done running away from you. Take me, Ridoc." You took his hands that were still nervously tangled in his hair and place them on your waist, a physical way of showing him what you just told him.

"I want you to be sure, sweetness. I don't know if I can hold myself back from you, I can get prettyyy...excited." He grips your waist harder, testing the waters.

"I want you to take charge, Ridoc, I want you to do whatever you want to me, I'm at your mercy," you're all but begging him at this point to just give you everything he's teased to you.

"Fuck..." He groans out, leaning down and burying his face in your neck causing the flesh on your arms to rise at the feeling. He places sloppy kisses there, searching for the spot that will drive you nuts. Once he hears your little moans as he kisses the spot right behind where your jaw and earlobe meet he begins to nip and suck, marking you for everyone to see. "Y'know when I pinned you to that mat, I was about certain you were going to finish right there, sadly I was mistaken. But I learned that you seem to really like being beneath me." Even then he could tell that you were lost in him, and he took this opportunity to put you in the same position he held you in that day.

You lay with your head at the top of the bed, Ridoc's hands pinning your wrists to the pillow behind you, his legs tangled in yours. You moan lightly at the sight above you as he works kisses down your chest and to your cleavage where your shirt cuts off. You try to move your hands to reach down and take off your top, but his grip on your wrists is firm. You hear him laugh at your attempt pathetically against your chest, the heat of his breath causing a shiver to run down your spine. You whine at the loss of your ability to move, your body on fire for him to touch you more, but he keeps lingering with his hot lips all over your neck and chest.

"What? Want more?" He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes glazed over and lips swollen. He looked utterly sinful.

"Please..." you beg, attempting to move your arms again to see if his grip has loosened.

"I think that's the first time you've ever used that word with me," he ignores your plea and licks down your chest, his teeth nipping the edge of your top, pulling it down slightly.

"Ridoc, please, you said you wouldn't tease!" your voice raises slightly a sliver of shame entering your body with how you were begging him.

"Well that wouldn't be as much fun," he states but removes his hands anyway and moves them to the bottom of your top moving it up inch by inch, feeling your warm skin beneath his hands, "you're so fucking hot when you beg for me." his hands reach the bottom of your unbound breasts and his fingers creep up tauntingly. Your now free hands shoot out and reach for him, you sit up your mouth going straight for his, you couldn't get enough of how good he tasted. "Slow down there, princess, mm-wanna take my time," he murmurs through your lips.

"You've made me wait long enough...please just take me," he seems to let go at your words, his hands fully enveloping your breasts and squeezing, a hum sounds from his throat at the feeling. His fingers move to pluck at your hardened peaks, and you move yours to the edges of your top, breaking the kiss to remove it.

"Oh, gods, knew you'd look this good," Ridoc says, his voice just as desperate as you felt. But you waste no time, as soon as your shirt is removed you start pawing at his to take it off. Once it's off you wrap your arms around him mouth moving to his neck to taste him just as he did to you, the feeling of your hot skin together driving you mad. He grunts at the sensation of your mouth on his neck, only giving in momentarily before grabbing you by the waist and pulling you to the edge of the bed as he stands up. As soon as he stood he reached for the waistband of his pants and removed his belt in one motion and undoing the button. He takes off his pants quickly, his painfully hard cock bouncing up to hit against his toned stomach. Wow. Ridoc talked a big talk when it came to his dick. You'd always thought it was a part of his jokes, but the evidence was here in front of you and he was not joking.

"Oh gods..." You moan out at the sight, not being able to hold back from sinking to your knees in front of him as he tugged at himself, "Please let me taste you."

"Hmph, not today," He says and reaches down to help you off your knees and shove you back onto the bed, "I'm about to finish just seeing you on your knees, and I want to cum inside you first." His words are filthy and it spurs you on more. You sigh dejectedly, your mouth watering at the sight of his leaking tip, you can't help but reach a hand out to try and feel him, but he slaps your hand away, pushing on the middle of your chest until you're lying flat against the bed. "I said, not today, or don't you want me to taste you first? Don't you think you deserve it? You've been so patient...but I can always take it back and wait till tomorrow to fuck you..."

"No! Please! I'll be good, I'll stay put!" you sit up on your elbows, an acute fear growing in your body at the thought of him leaving you here until tomorrow.

"Hm, that's more like it," Ridoc approves, removing his hand from his cock and to your pants, dragging them and your panties down far too slowly. You do your best to be patient and hold back your whines, you know that it's a test. He kneels in front of the bed and spreads your legs open his calloused fingertips running along the inside of your thighs, drawing up closer to your center. "I really did get you worked up didn't I?" Ridoc remarks before dragging a fingertip through your dripping wet core. You don't hold back your sounds knowing he's about to make you feel incredible.

Ridoc's mouth on your pussy is unlike anything you'd felt, he meant it when he said he knew how to pleasure a woman just as well as a man. Your hands moved and threaded through his mop of hair as he licked and sucked, hardly letting up at all. One of the hands that held your thighs tightly moved to your lower stomach and pressed down to keep you from squirming, a hard grunt coming from his throat in warning. The other hand moved lower and rubbed at your clit in slow motions. It was all too much, the pleasure coursing through your veins, the realization that Ridoc was the one making you feel that good. You were a mess.

The fingers on your clit slipped lower and teased at your entrance a finger slipping in at a slow pace. You whine, trying to buck your hips forward in an attempt for it to go deeper.

"Ah ah, what did I say?" Your whines echo through the room at his words but you comply anyway, stopping your squirming. He makes a noise in approval before continuing his ministrations, adding another finger and pumping them gently, all while switching between long strokes and little licks with his tongue on your clit. Your body convulses when he curls his fingers into a spot that makes you see stars. Ridoc doesn't move fast in this process and doesn't try to bring you to your peak immediately. His strokes are consistent and thoughtful, he notices your reactions to every single one of his movements and plays to them. He's deliberate with his motions and brings you to peak gently, continuing his gestures throughout.

"Please, fuck me now, Ridoc, I don't want to wait," You tug at his hair trying to bring him up to kiss you. But he stays, lapping up your release before pressing kisses to the insides of your thighs. Then your stomach. All along your hips. No place is untouched by his lips. "Ridoc!" you beg louder, pulling harder at his hair. His hands grip your waist tighter, fingers digging with a pressure that you were sure to feel tomorrow. But he doesn't stop peppering your body with kisses, ignoring your words. "Baby please..."

"That's enough," he scolds, pulling on your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. He grabs your ass roughly before bringing his other hand down on it in a slap. You squeal at the act but pleasure runs through your core all the same. "You want to be fucked? Hm?" His voice degrading. "Let's see how you handle it then." He says before slapping his hand on your ass again and plunging into you in succession.

"Fuck!" your voice pitches at the feeling of his cock stretching you out.

"Yeah? You begged for it, princess. Now take it," Ridoc's voice was rough and demanding, the sound of it made your mind reel. You let your body and mind give in to the feeling. The sound of his hips slapping your ass and the feeling of his balls hitting your clit with the angle made your head go foggy. All it was was you and Ridoc. Your bodies were one as he pounded into you. He fucked you hard, a contrast from just minutes ago when he was gently licking into your cunt, and you couldn't get enough of it.

You lean back and face Ridoc, watching the fucked out look on his face took you to a new level. You reached back to grab the back of his neck and bring his lips to yours. You needed him everywhere. "Please," you risk your words, "I want to look at you." His controlling guise fell for a moment as he gave in to your plea.

"Alright, sweetness" he listens, pulling out momentarily to turn you onto your front before plunging back into you. Moans tumble out of your mouth as you revel in the new angle, his cock pushing deeper into you. His head falls to the crook of your neck and he presses sloppy kisses all along you. You grasp at his face, needing to feel his lips on yours as you feel the resistance at your core pulling tighter. Your sounds get louder as you get closer and Ridoc's hand reaches down to play with your clit. "That's it, you're taking me so well." He groans out, his face turning up in pleasure. He was just as close as you were. It reaches you faster than it did the first time, the orgasm peaking quickly and hard. Ridoc fucks you through it, his thrusts growing sloppier as he gets closer. He looks at you with a questioning gaze.

"Fill me up, Ridoc, please," you answer his unasked question, knowing you were both on the fertility supplement that Basgiath provided. That was all the permission he needed before he thrust a few more times and spilled inside of you. The warm feeling almost brings you to finish a third time. His head falls to your chest as he breathes deeply, trying to catch his breath. You comb your fingers through his hair and press a kiss to the top of his head, a smile gently growing on your face.

He catches his breath for another moment before pulling out and standing. He picked through his clothes on the ground and slipped on his boxers and loose pants.

"Are you leaving?" you as suddenly, your voice tinged with fear. You sit up and try to cover yourself with your hands. Ridoc stands up straight, his long-sleeved shirt in hand.

"No, princess, don't worry," He smiles and hands you his shirt to put on before taking a tissue from your desk and moving closer to you. He gently pushes you to lay back again and brings the tissue to clean between your thighs. A soft gasp escapes you from the sensitivity, "Shh, sh, it's okay." Ridoc's voice was so soft, so thoughtful. Your heart melted as you thought of his earlier comments. He's liked you for so long now, more than he should in his words. You let him finish cleaning you and lay back in your bed, finding the covers and crawling under them, holding out the edge for Ridoc to come under as he walks back from turning off the light.

The moonlight that shined through the window barely illuminated your room as you lay next to Ridoc, he lay against your chest, arms wrapped around your waist. You rest your head atop his as your fingers trace the relic that Aotrom left him on the top of his muscular arm. He buries his head deeper into you before speaking.

"I don't think Cairis will be very happy about this," You laugh at his comment but know it's true, you let your shields down just slightly letting her presence flow through you.

"I'm not," her voice deadpan and sharp. Well, you can deal with it later.

"She'll get over it," You respond, letting your eye drift closed.

"Maybe, she'll learn from you and let Aotrom in," Ridoc thinks aloud, "He's very convinced that she's his mate and that she's going to give in soon enough. You did with me..." You smile, thinking of your dragons and the similarities you all share. You'd noticed it before, everyone had. Maybe it was just a matter of time before Cairis would give into Aotrom's relentlessness. You sort of hoped that she would if her feelings were anything like yours.

"Don't get your hopes up..." Cairis enters your head again, clearly annoyed.

You woke the next morning far too late, the early morning sun was shining through your window. Fuck. Your math exam. You sit up out of your bed quickly, noticing that Ridoc had already gone and you briefly remember him kissing you on the forehead before he left for his early watch duty before classes. You smile to yourself at the memories of last night, but only give yourself a second before rushing up and gathering all of your things for class and running straight there, knowing you'd already missed breakfast.

At least the math exam was first thing this morning so you could get it over with, but unfortunately, you were most definitely failing after not studying last night. The class was about to start as you entered and Violet waved a hand over to where she and the rest of the first years of your squad were sitting. Ridoc smirks at you and scoots over to make room for you. Your friends could tell by your panicked look that something was off.

"You okay?" Rhiannon asks from the other side of Ridoc.

"Yeah, you look tired. How was studying last night?" Sawyer says, turning from his seat in front of you to join the conversation, his nose only healed and not mended telling from the bruises. Before you had the chance to respond Ridoc interjects.

"We uh...didn't get much studying done last night if you know what I mean," he swings his arm over your shoulder and draws you close, planting a kiss on your cheek. You push him away out of annoyance.

"Ridoc!" you chide. "We didn't even talk about if we were going to tell anyone!" you say lower talking only to him.

"What the fuck?!" Rhi shouts, gaining the attention of the rest of the class before grimacing and quieting down.

"They were gonna find out sooner or later, princess, I can't keep my fucking hands off you," he explains, diving in again and pressing another kiss to your neck this time. Shivers run down your spine at the feeling before you remember where you are and push him off of you again.

"What happened?" Violet asks leaning in on the other side of you, Ridoc's hand now moving to grab at your thigh, she looks away in disgust at the sight, "Never mind, I don't want to know..." she fakes a gag, and Rhi and Sawyer look to each other with a mass of confusion before breaking out in laughter.

"They fucked, obviously," Liam says casually from the other side of Violet where he's working on a wood carving.

"Thanks, Liam, like they hadn't gathered that already..." you say sarcastically and bury your head in your hands.

"I'm scarred," Sawyer says, barely able to contain his laughs. You groan in embarrassment as the professor walks in and starts giving directions on the exam. Yep. You were failing. Ridoc caught the worry in your face and he leaned into you.

"It's okay, princess, you can cheat off me," he winks and leans back away, but leaves his hand on your thigh still, giving it a light squeeze. Shit. It was going to be hard to focus now.

#fourth wing #fourth wing smut #ridoc x reader #ridoc gamlyn x reader #ridoc smut #ridoc gamlyn #ridoc x reader smut #rhiannon matthias #violet sorrengail #sawyer henrick #ridoc and aotrom #iron flame smut

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mrsriddlenott · 13 hours ago

Text

~ Oh, It’s You ~

<<Prev THREE Next>>

[Series Masterlist][Main Masterlist]

Ex-Sneaky Link!JJ Maybank x Kook!Reader

This is an AU set 1 year after s4 however canon plot points won't really be mentioned.

After months of hooking up with JJ in secret, you both began developing deep feelings for each other, but when his friends, Kie especially, learn of your relationship and plot on it's downfall JJ leaves you reeling and confused as he enters a relationship with his best friend leaving you to wonder what you did to push him away so quickly. Unbeknownst to you however. the blonde was struggling more than he let on, wanting nothing more than to go his own path but feeling trapped with those who used to make him feel free. The only person he can think of now that makes him feel as open as he once did is.... you.

Warnings: emotional cheating(they almost kiss), ooc Kie, Depressed JJ but he doesn’t realize, lying and small amount of manipulation on Kie’s part.

~~~~

JJ’s fingers clenched against his phone, knuckles turning white as he waits for your response. Eyes darting between his phone screen and Kie’s angry face in front of him. “Don’t you want a life JJ” She spits at him like venom.

She seemed like such a different person now. JJ remembered when he trusted her with almost anything but whenever he thinks of her now he needs to stop himself from thinking of his dad. He can’t help but wonder if his mother was as easily manipulated by him as he’s beginning to realize he was by Kie.

Nothing he ever does is good enough.

“You said I needed a job and I have an interview, I don’t understand what the big deal is.” JJ sighed, still waiting for the feeling of his phone buzzing in his hand.

“I didn’t mean at some shitty little garage, that’s not going to get you anywhere in life. Working on cars is your hobby, you cannot make a livelihood off of it.” The way she said “you” so full of spite and anger made him feel so small, holding back his own anger as to not snap and make everything worse.

“I’m good with cars Kie, if I get enough legit experience I could open up my own garage.” JJ shrugs, only half enjoying the idea himself but wanting to please her. His eyes fall shut as she scoffs again, arms crossing over her chest while she gave him a disapproving look.

He didn’t want to do this, he hated when she talked to him like this. And when he got your text in the middle of one of their many fights, it felt so right that he should have known it was wrong. But he just couldn’t stay here, and he couldn’t admit to her that he had nowhere else to go after everything. His phone buzzed and his heart jumped, his eyes falling to the screen in his hand trying not to act weird as he read your text.

Y/N🤫💛 Are you sure that’s a great idea?

JJ wastes no time in typing out his response, ignoring the way Kie paces in front of him. She speaks angrily about him getting a job at Rafe’s fancy new nightclub instead, raising her voice with every word and glaring at his phone every second. His eyes roll despite how hard he tried to control them, knowing she hated when he did that but finding it harder and harder to be the perfect boyfriend she had imagined. “Are you seriously ignoring me? If you don’t want to talk about this maybe you should leave for the night.” Kie spat, anger clear on her face and JJ couldn’t blame her.

Jay Not sure if anything is a good idea anymore but ik u feel safe and i have nowhere else to go anymore

It took you much less time to formulate your next text as you read his. Your heart hurts at the pain he seems to be in, he seems so trapped in whatever worries he had right now. He seems hurt and lost, and you know him well enough to know he’s feeling like a burden so you quickly respond, leaving it up to him in the end.

Y/N🤫💛 The window will be unlocked, don’t feel like a burden Jay. I know things are weird between us now and they might always be, but I will never turn you away when you’re struggling. No matter what.

JJ read your text with slightly watery eyes, he felt lost and hurt, he was hurting the people around him just by his existence. He couldn’t be who Kie or John B wanted anymore, it was becoming too much. JB was a dad now and JJ understood why everything needed to become so serious so fast, he really did. But despite how happy he was for him and Sarah and their beautiful baby boy Jackson, he was terrified. The last few years felt like a blur, they went by so fast and JJ ignored it by telling himself he would be free in his 20s.

But he was wrong. It all kept piling on. He felt like in a blink of an eye he would be 30 and still feel absolutely nothing real. With a pang of guilt he bid a stressful goodbye to Kie as he left her house, knowing exactly where he would go, knowing he shouldn’t but knowing he couldn’t resist.

You were the only one that could slow everything down.

The sound of JJ’s bike outside your house had you shooting up from your bed, darting to unlock the window hoping your mom couldn’t hear the sound. She had heard too many tear filled rants about the blonde to ever accept him in her house but you just couldn’t resist him.

JJ quickly scaled the flower trellis on the wall outside your window just as you opened it for him, stepping back and attempting to discreetly watch him. His muscles were on full view from his cut t-shirt, constricting while he worked his way into your room, quickly turning to shut the window before looking back to you, catching you staring with a smirk.

“Hey Princess,” The nickname slips past JJ’s lips without a thought, so easily and smoothly as if he never stopped speaking it, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip as his eyes train themselves on you, “Thank you for letting me in.”

“You can’t call me that anymore JJ,” You breath out quickly before continuing, “And you don’t need to thank me.”

JJ watches you walk around your bed to retrieve the same blanket and pillow he used last time, handing them to him as you plop down onto your bed, “So what happened? You seemed different when we were texting earlier.” JJ scoffs at your words, sitting next to you, almost too close as he starts speaking.

“Me and Kie got into another fight,” He sighs, his eyes finding yours like a refuge before falling to his feet, “She’s been pestering me to work for Rafe so I got an interview at this garage close to her place to get her off my back but she doesn’t think it’ll be enough.”

“Well she doesn’t get a say, it’s your life Jay, don’t pick a job just to spite her. And I understand where she’s coming from, Rafe has basically become an overnight success in the last year but I agree that you shouldn’t settle for what she wants.” JJ watches you, waiting for you to push him one way or the other, but you dont. You wait for him clearly wanting him to choose for himself.

And JJ can’t remember the last time any one accepted, or even wanted to hear, his opinion.

“I don’t care how much everyone thinks he changed or how easily he can convince people, hell I don’t care if he has actually changed. A Cameron will never be my boss.” JJ states matter of factly and you smile up at him, his reserve and certainty always being some of your favorite aspects of his personality.

“I don’t doubt it Jay, and I personally think you’re too good to work for him anyway.” You giggle, and JJ takes note of the fact that is sounded exactly as it always used to. He almost forgot what it sounded like. JJ found himself reminiscing on every second he spent with you, how happy he was and how happy he could be again if he just took a leap of faith.

“I just don’t know what to do,” JJ averts his eyes from you, feeling lost in his own feelings and wants, “Nothing I ever do is good enough for her and it feels like this just wasn’t right, everything feels so forced.” The way his head falls into his hands almost breaks your heart, and you wish you could hug him even though you knew it was inappropriate.

“I can’t help with everything going on but my boss is hiring,” You grimace, your face twisting slightly, “I wasn’t gonna say anything because it’s for a janitor.”

JJ side eyes you with a weak smile making you laugh, turning on your bed to face him fully. “I’m serious JJ, it’s a good idea I swear.” You state with a bit of a giggle in your voice, instinctively gripping at his bare shoulder for only a second before retracting your hand quickly.

“How is that a good idea?” JJ laughs, the warmth of your hand lingering on his shoulder like a burn for far too long.

“Well A it’s not Rafe and B it’s not a random garage with no one you know. Mr.Barnes even grew up in the Cut, he’s way more down to earth than you would expect at first glance and he won’t treat you poorly. ” Your eyes meet his, a smirk growing on his lips at your words.

“So I’d get to work with you, every day?” JJ speaks slowly, words slipping off his tongue like they were somehow sultry. Against your better judgment you smile at his words, breaking eye contact while you try and form words.

“Well not every day, but I would be who shows you around and everything until you get the hang of the place.” You sigh, trying to ignore the excitement running through your body at his close proximity.

“What do you guys even do there?” JJ asks with a small laugh, wanting to hear you talk more than anything.

“Well I just answer calls and fix Mr.Barnes schedule mostly, and y’know take deliveries and stuff but it’s a security company so we more or less just give rich people protection.” Your eyes meet as he watches you talk, JJ can’t think of a better sight than your happy smile while you speak. He could listen to you talk about anything, genuinely. And he knew right then and there that he didn’t care if he was mopping floors and taking out trash, he was gonna take the job just to see you.

Your breath catches, your eyes meeting his again, this time letting them stay locked together. The intensity grows quickly making your chest feel tight, your irises feeling trapped in the strong blue gaze of his. A gasp escapes your lips as he begins to lean in instinctually, making you place a hand on his chest while you put distance between you both by standing.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” JJ stutters, eyelids closing tightly preparing for you to yell at him to leave, that he was a two timing piece of shit that needs to get out of your life for good. Instead you stay pacing in front of him eyes brimming with tears, ��I shouldn’t have even thought- fuck I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, lets just forget it,” Feeling bad for him, you stare to his reddening face feeling your own heat up. Knowing he has nowhere else to go, and despite the sense of worry settling deep in your chest as you decide to ignore this moment you let him stay. “We should probably get to sleep anyway.”

“Yeah yeah,” JJ starts, jumping up from your bed and avoiding eye contact as he prepares a spot to sleep on the floor.

~~~~

~ Taglist ~ (ask to be added❤️)

@slut4-gojo @cali-888 @marley1773 @agnxstic @apeachtea @juno2369 @bee-43 @definitelymentallyderanged

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moeitsu · 3 days ago

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The Dark Tide Siren!Arthur Morgan x Reader Modern AU Ch 2 - The Pearl Does Not Mourn The Shell Summary: Charles performs a delicate surgery on Arthur, carefully removing embedded fragments and stabilizing his condition while revealing startling details about his unique anatomy. As the procedure unfolds, you grapple with the profound connection you've formed with Arthur, confronting both the cruelty he's endured and the overwhelming pull between you. wc: 8k tw: blood, gore, descriptions of monster anatomy Swim Back! ↞ ﹏𓊝﹏ ↠ Sail Ahead!

In the several months I'd been working for Heartland's Aquatic Rehabilitation and Restoration Program, I had never seen Charles Smith—our unshakable, seen-it-all marine vet—look so utterly dumbfounded.

"Christ, John, you seriously weren't kidding." He muttered into his fist, resting his elbow on one knee as he crouched to Arthur's level, eyes scanning every inch of the impossible sight before him.

The minutes leading up to Charles' arrival had been tense, filled with John's grumbling about how much convincing it had taken to get him out here. Apparently, Charles thought the whole thing was a joke—until John's persistence, and maybe the sheer desperation in his voice, finally wore him down.

Now, watching his gaze trace Arthur's long, scaled form with barely concealed awe, I felt only slightly vindicated.

"He's some kind of merman, isn't he?" I asked before I could stop myself. The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. It sounded ridiculous. Childish, even. Magical sea creatures belonged in bedtime stories, not in the real world—not bleeding out on the beach beneath my hands.

And yet... what else could I call this beautiful beast dying before us?

Charles clicked his tongue, standing up to stretch his back as he slowly walked around Arthur's long torso and tail, taking in every detail. "I'm inclined to say yes." He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Or more specifically, a Siren. Though I'm nowhere near qualified to make that call."

Arthur's reaction was immediate. His slitted blue eyes narrowed further, dark and untrusting, watching Charles like a cornered animal sizing up a new predator. He tried to turn his torso to follow Charles' movements, but the motion sent a fresh jolt of pain through his body. He winced, his muscles seizing.

Instinctively I knelt closer, pressing a warm reassuring hand to his shoulder. I could feel John's eyes burning a hole in the back of my head as he took in the familial gesture. But I ignored it, Arthur seemed to welcome my touch, and right now he desperately needed a friend.

"We need to get him back into the water," I said, glancing at Charles. "His gills are drying up, and the salt will help clean the wound."

Charles gave a sharp nod. "Agreed. We can figure out what he is later. Right now, we need to move him." He turned toward the shoreline, motioning to the little pilot boat rocking against the current as it was brought up to the beach. "I've got the medical supplies on the Atlantis. Lenny's waiting for me onboard. If we can get him into the boat I'll take care of the rest."

Lenny Summers was Charles' veterinary technician assistant—a college intern earning credits over the summer. Bright, eager, and probably not even remotely prepared for whatever the hell this was. The more people we brought into this, the more the reality of what we were doing finally settled in. And that frightened me.

Or rather, it frightened Arthur.

The thought of putting him through more discomfort, of forcing him into the unknown with strangers, made my chest ache. But he was in pain, bleeding out and losing strength with every passing minute. I trusted these people with my life. When it came to aquatic rescues, we pulled together like a well-oiled machine. We had to. It was our purpose and our pride.

John, however, was the most apprehensive. And he wasn't sold on the idea of helping him yet.

"We're really doing this?" He shot me a look, exasperation written all over his face as he watched Charles jog toward the boat to push it back into the water in preparation for the move. "We're really bringing this thing back to central? Do we even know if this is .... safe?"

A huff of irritation slipped past my lips before I could stop it.

Thing.

The word felt wrong. Cruel, even. It reduced him to something lesser—something disposable. And yet, how could I call him anything else when I still didn't fully understand what he was? But I did know one thing: Arthur wasn't just some mindless creature washed up on the sand, some anomaly to be studied and cataloged like a rare fish. He was someone.

He had a name.

He had feelings.

He had pain. I could see it in the way his body tensed, the way his gills flared with each labored breath. In the way he reacted to my touch, that brief shimmer of light that sent my heart leaping. I could see it in the haunted depths of his eyes, dark and sharp, filled with something distinctly aware. He wasn't just reacting to the world around him—he was understanding it. He was understanding me.

Not only did he recognize my words, but he had trusted me enough to answer them. To give me his name. That alone meant something. It meant everything.

Because a thing wouldn't have done that. A thing wouldn't have looked at me the way he did, with wariness and fear, but also something softer, something vulnerable. A thing wouldn't have been able to trust. And if he could trust me, then I owed him more than being dismissed as some nameless thing.

"John," I sighed, shaking my head. "Come on. There's a risk that comes with every job, you know this."

He wasn't heartless. Just blunt, practical, and—if I had to guess—mildly horrified by the entire situation. And truthfully I couldn't blame him. John wasn't a marine biologist or a vet. He was a maintenance technician for the rehab center, responsible for keeping the lights, pumps, and filters running. Hell, the guy couldn't even swim! But more than that, he was Hosea's son, and his father had instilled in him the same core values that ran through the foundation of this program. And I'll be damned if that man didn't put his heart into every creature we rescued, no matter their size, their condition, or the risk.

So, I gave him a pointed look and asked, "What would Hosea say about this?"

John opened his mouth to argue, but I beat him to it.

"We save those who need saving. Protect those who need protecting."

John exhaled hard through his nose. I could see the moment he caved, his shoulders slumping in reluctant resignation.

"And give all creatures a fighting chance," he grumbled, finishing the mantra we all knew by heart.

Exactly. And Arthur? He deserved that chance.

I couldn't help but smile. Things were finally coming together—we were going to get Arthur some help, whether John liked it or not.

I glanced down at him. His body was trembling from pain and blood loss, but his focus wasn't on his wounds. He was watching the men's movements like a hawk, his sharp eyes darting between them, tracking every step, every shift in posture. It seemed like the male of my species was only good at setting him on edge.

"It'll be okay, Arthur," I murmured softly.

At the sound of his name, he twitched, his gills flaring slightly.

"We're going to get you the help you need. Just try to relax."

It felt strange, comforting something that wasn't quite human, yet it came as naturally as breathing. I didn't know why his well-being had become so important to me, why the thought of his suffering made my chest ache. He looked utterly beautiful and broken. How could someone do something like this to him? It made my heart fill with anger and a burning need for justice. All I knew was that I wanted to ease his pain. That I needed to.

When Charles returned, we quickly revised a plan to get him to the boat. With his sheer size and the wound sapping his strength, it was going to be nearly impossible to move him without causing more pain.

"Let's try dragging him into the shallows first," Charles instructed. "Once he's in the water, we can maneuver him onto the mat and move it back to the boat." He glanced between John and me, rubbing his chin in thought. "John, you take the tail. I'll grab his, uh... shoulders."

The moment the men stepped forward and took hold, Arthur reacted.

A sharp, fearful cry tore from his throat, the kind of sound that came from deep within the chest—primal, instinctive, desperate. His entire body locked up, muscles rigid as if bracing for a blow. His fingers twitched, then dug into the damp sand, claws sinking deep, scraping against the shifting grains as if trying to anchor himself, to stop whatever was coming.

Panic rolled off of him in waves, his chest rising and falling in erratic, shallow gasps. His gills flared wildly, his breath hitching like a drowning man just barely keeping his head above the waves. His tail trembled, not in pain, but in fear. I felt his mood shift like the wind. A fear so intense it crackled in the air between us like a coming storm.

I could see it in his eyes—wide, dark, filled with something close to terror. It wasn't just the pain making him react this way. It was them. It clicked in the back of my mind, a realization as cold as the seawater lapping at our feet.

He does not trust men. A man must have been the one to do this to him.

Oh, I should have known. Men have always had a way of ruining what they cannot control, of breaking what they cannot possess. I will never understand why—why something as breathtaking as Arthur, something so otherworldly and rare, could be seen as nothing more than something to take. To own. To conquer.

Power and greed have driven men to do unspeakable things—to the land, to the sea, to each other. History is littered with the bones of what was once beautiful, turned to dust in the hands of those who saw value only in domination. Arthur was no different, he was not safe from their cruel hands.

Someone had looked upon him, upon the sheer wonder of his existence, and instead of reverence, they saw opportunity. They saw something to be used, or worse—defiled. And like so many things before him, he had suffered for it.

"Wait! Stop!" I shouted, throwing my arms out in front of them. "He's afraid of you, afraid of your touch."

The urgency in my voice made them freeze, but John let out an annoyed groan. "Are you serious?"

"Talk to him," I insisted, glancing down at Arthur's rigid form. His tail twitched, the thick muscle spasming as if preparing to flee—but there was nowhere for him to go. "Explain what you're doing before you just grab him like that."

John scoffed. "You really think he understands a damn word we're saying?"

"Yes," I said firmly, eyes locked onto Arthur's terrified expression. "He does. He's just scared. I'm afraid whatever he's been through is far worse than we can imagine. Just talk to him, please. I promise he understands. He told me his name is Arthur."

Silence stretched between us. John looked skeptical, but Charles gave me a considerate look before nodding.

"Alright. But we need to move quickly—he's losing too much blood."

I moved into position near Arthur's torso, carefully placing my hands just above where his human skin gave way to shimmering scales. His breathing was uneven, and when I pressed lightly, I could feel the tension running through every fiber of him, muscles wound so tight they trembled. Trying not to stare at his gaping wound, I met his eyes and gave him a soft, reassuring smile.

Charles cleared his throat and crouched beside us. "Uh... Arthur. My name's Charles. I'm a vet. Well, a doctor I s'pose. I–um–I help sea creatures when they're hurt." He spoke slowly, making sure Arthur was watching his mouth, and his hands. "We need to get you into the water. It'll help you breathe better." Charles gestured to the water than to his own neck, inhaling and exhaling exaggeratedly.

Arthur's eyes flicked to him, his expression wary. I could feel his hesitation, his body still rigid beneath my hands.

"Once we get you there, we'll move you onto a rubber mat and tow you to my boat," Charles continued, motioning toward the water where the pilot boat bobbed in the waves. "From there, we'll take you back to the center where I can examine you—make sure you'll be okay."

Arthur didn't move. His shoulders remained tight, his jaw clenched, but something in his gaze flickered—uncertainty, trust warring against fear.

I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. "Charles wouldn't hurt a shark even if it bit his finger off. You can trust him. You can trust us."

To my surprise, John chimed in, albeit gruffly. "Charles is good people," he said. "You'll be safe with him. I can promise that."

Arthur's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his body still coiled with tension—but slowly, ever so slightly, he allowed it.

"Alright," Charles exhaled. "Let's move."

On the count of three, we lifted him.

A sickening suction sound came from the sand as his body peeled away, his thick, sluggish blood turning it into something almost cement-like, making every movement more difficult. Arthur hissed sharply, his claws scraping uselessly at the shifting grains beneath him before taking purchase against my shoulder. His movements were heavy, and I could feel the tips of his claws, but my body was the least of my concerns.

We didn't hesitate. The moment we had him up, we moved as quickly as possible toward the water, uncaring as the waves crashed against our thighs. My legs ached with the weight, but I focused only on Arthur, on his face, the way his dark blond hair fanned out in the wind, strands clinging to his damp skin.

But as soon as the seawater lapped against his wound, everything went to hell.

Arthur sucked in a sharp, wheezing breath, his entire body jolting with pain. His clawed hand squeezed my arm, his fingers trembling violently. I braced for the sting of his claws, expecting him to dig into my flesh again, but instead—

A guttural, pained noise tore from his throat.

"H-hurts..."

The rasping, barely formed word made my stomach plummet.

John recoiled, nearly dropping his lower half. "Holy shit!"

I barely had time to process the horror in John's voice before Arthur convulsed violently.

"Hold on—" I started, but before we could react, his entire body seized, muscles spasming.

And then—he retched. We lost our grip as he lurched forward, vomiting into the water, his entire frame wracked with violent tremors. The sudden movement sent us stumbling, struggling to steady him, to help him, but every jolt of his body sent another agonized groan from his lips. The waves crawled higher, their force threatened to pull us down. John couldn't go out much further or he risked drowning.

This was too much. Too fast. He was already so weak, and this was making him sick.

"We need to move now!" I shouted, my voice laced with panic.

Charles was already running toward the boat, grabbing the rope and pulling it toward us. The rubber mat was secured in a net, the same one we used to transport large animals from the shore to the rescue center. It had carried dolphins and sea turtles home before, but looking at it now, I wasn't sure it would be enough to hold Arthur.

Still, it was our only option.

John and I maneuvered Arthur toward the net as gently as possible, but every shift, every touch made him shudder in pain. He let out low, agonized whines, his hands twitching like he was fighting the instinct to struggle, to flee.

I wanted to tell him it was okay. That we were almost there. That this nightmare would be over soon. But the moment his exhausted body slumped into the net, I wasn't sure if he even had the strength left to believe me.

Now came phase two: getting him somewhere safe.

"I'll take him from here. Lenny's starting the engines now—meet back at central, yeah?" Charles called as he hauled himself into the boat, already jerking the rope-start until the motor roared to life, shattering the stillness of the night with its low, guttural rumble.

The moment the engine flared, Arthur flinched. His entire body tensed, his fins bristling, and before I could react, his hand shot out—grasping for something, for me.

My breath hitched.

His fingers, cold and slick from the seawater, wrapped around my arm—not forceful, not clawing, just holding. Seeking.

My heart thundered in my ears.

He was scared, and he turned to me. He was hurting, and he wanted me. The thought made my pulse race. What the hell am I even thinking?

His grip was firm but careful, as if afraid of causing me more harm. His deep blue eyes, dark as the depths he came from, locked onto mine, wide and pleading. The unspoken desperation in them clenched something deep in my chest. He didn't want me to leave.

"It's alright, honey," I whispered, curling my fingers over his. "I'll be right behind you. It's a short ride—we'll see each other again soon."

But my reassurance wasn't enough. His hand tightened ever so slightly, his silent plea pressing into my skin. I looked up at Charles, who was watching the exchange carefully from his seat in the boat. He saw the look in Arthur's eyes. The same look that was making it impossible for me to let go.

Charles exhaled sharply, then nodded.

"Get in."

I didn't need to be told twice.

I barely registered the way the boat dipped under my weight as I climbed in, my attention still locked on Arthur. Even as Charles revved the engine again, sending a new vibration through the small vessel, Arthur didn't let go until I was fully seated beside him. Only then did his fingers finally loosen, his body slumping slightly, as if the last of his fight had drained from him now that I was here.

John, still knee-deep in the water, didn't question my choice to go with them. He was already wading back to shore, calling out over his shoulder. "I'll head over and get a tank set up—meet you guys out back by the docking station."

Charles lifted a hand in acknowledgment, adjusting the throttle as we started to pull away from the shore.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted over the growing distance, "Thanks, Marston—guess I owe you one for not getting eaten!" I teased.

John scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah—just don't make a habit of rescuing sea monsters with bigger teeth than me!"

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't fight the small smile tugging at my lips.

As we rolled steadily through the waves, the boat cutting a quiet path through the dark water, I found myself unable to look away from Arthur.

The sea cradled him, the gentle rise and fall of the waves lapping at his body as if beckoning him home. His hair, damp and tangled, fanned out around his face, strands clinging to his forehead and cheekbones, catching the moonlight in silvered streaks. He looked otherworldly like this—half-draped in shadow, half-illuminated by the cold glow of the night, a creature caught between two worlds.

I leaned over the side, the salty wind curling around me, and with the back of my finger, I carefully brushed a strand of hair from his face. His skin was damp beneath my touch, cooler than I expected, but solid, real. He didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Only watched me with tired blue eyes.

His tail, impossibly long and heavy, hung over the edge of the net, draped at an awkward angle. Even now, with the weight of exhaustion pressing into him, the powerful muscle beneath the iridescent scales seemed restless, twitching faintly with every shift of the boat. The moonlight danced across its surface, catching on deep purples and midnight blues, reflecting colors I had never seen in any ocean-dwelling creature before. I couldn't help but wonder what it would look like in motion—how it might cut through the water with effortless grace, how the strength of it could propel him through the depths like a phantom of the sea.

He exhaled slowly, a shuddering breath that told me how much pain he was still in, how much energy it was taking just to be here. But even as his body trembled with exhaustion, his eyes never left mine.

Dark, slitted, full of something that felt like a deepening connection. I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

I had no idea what I'd just signed myself up for. But I knew, without a doubt, that I wasn't letting him go.

⋅─⊱༺ 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ༻⊰─⋅

By the time we arrived, John already had one of the portable rehabilitation pools set up. It was a simple structure—three feet deep, circular, not nearly big enough for Arthur to swim freely. But at this point, rest and medical attention were far more important than movement.

Moving him from the dock to the tank was an ordeal. Excruciating, even. Arthur was heavy, his body limp from exhaustion, and every shift elicited a barely audible groan of pain. It took all four of us—John, Charles, Lenny, and myself—to maneuver him from one place to another. John secured the ropes around the mat, bracing himself as Charles, Lenny, and I heaved with everything we had. Muscles burned. Breath came short. But after several agonizing moments, Arthur finally slipped into the water with a dull splash.

Charles immediately left for the lab to grab his tools, while Lenny darted to his office in search of anything—a textbook, an encyclopedia, a scrap of knowledge that might tell us how the hell to care for this creature. Essentially, we were all grasping in the dark. But we had to try.

Because Arthur's life was slipping away with the tide.

His body barely reacted to the movement anymore, his exhaustion so deep it was as if his mind had already begun retreating. That was not a good sign.

Once we managed to maneuver him onto a small raised platform within the pool—a stable place where we could examine him without fully submerging him—I finally got my first good look at him under the bright lights.

I barely noticed that my clothes were soaked, clinging to my skin in the humid warmth of the facility. All I could focus on was him.

Under the harsh glow of the overhead fluorescents, his iridescent beauty dimmed. His slitted pupils narrowed further, not from fear this time, but as a biological response—filtering the light. My first thought was that his natural habitat must be dark, perhaps underwater caves or deep ocean trenches. Somewhere far from the reach of men.

Then my gaze shifted downward.

Scars.

Not just the fresh wound bleeding sluggishly from his abdomen, but old ones. Evidence of past suffering etched into his skin like an unspoken history. Some were thin, mere whispers of pain long healed, while others were brutal—deep, jagged reminders of wounds that had once bled as freely as the one we fought to mend now.

They shimmered beneath the water, their silvery-blue hue catching the light like polished opal beneath the skin. The edges of some were raised, the texture of thickened scar tissue standing out against the otherwise smooth expanse of his scales. Others had left behind gaps, places where iridescence had been stripped away, leaving dull, uneven patches behind.

Near the base of his tail, where it flared outward in elegant, fin-like extensions, a particularly thick scar curled around the muscle—its shape unmistakable. It wrapped around like a noose, the flesh there rawer-looking than the rest, as if something had bitten deep, tightened, and held. A rope burn. A restraint. Proof that he had been bound.

A sick feeling coiled in my gut. Someone had tried to claim him. To own him.

John cleared his throat, standing on the platform next to the pool. For once, there was no sarcasm, no skepticism in his expression—just grim understanding. For the first time, he was really seeing the extent of the damage Arthur had endured.

"He's in bad shape," John muttered. His voice was quieter than usual, like speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile. "You sure someone did this to him? Could've been an animal—fighting over food, territory, or..." He hesitated, then sighed. "A mate?"

It was a logical assumption. John always saw things through the lens of nature—where creatures acted on instinct, not cruelty. He understood that better than anyone. The scars that marred his chin, cheek, and nose were proof of that.

I knew the story well. A year before I'd come along, John had nearly died rescuing an ancient alligator, an old beast with jaws powerful enough to crush bone. He'd been alone, and in the chaos of the rescue, the gator had turned on him, snapping its massive jaws around his face. Somehow, miraculously, he survived. And yet, not once had he blamed the creature.

Because animals didn't hate. They didn't torture.

Men, on the other hand...

I flexed my fingers, and pain flared up my wrist. The wound Arthur had given me throbbed, likely reopening from the exertion. I made a mental note to change the bandages when this was all over.

I guess now I'd have my own scars to match John's.

I shook my head. "These aren't natural wounds," I said firmly. "They were deliberate. The flesh around his wrists is torn—like he was bound." My voice wavered, anger and grief mixing into something heavy in my chest. "And his tail... there are marks where scales should be, like he was tied to something."

John exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. He didn't argue. Didn't try to offer another explanation. Because deep down, we both knew.

I swallowed hard and let my gaze drift lower, where skin met scales. My stomach clenched as my eyes landed on the gaping slit, the deep, angry wound that should not have been there.

Arthur's mating slit had been mutilated. There was no question about it now. This wasn't an accident. This wasn't nature.

This was human cruelty.

John leaned forward for a closer look—and audibly winced.

"Well..." he muttered after a beat, rubbing a hand down his face. "He's in good hands now."

As if on cue, Charles stormed back into the room, dressed in a wetsuit and carrying a bucket full of medical tools.

"I've gotta get home to Abi and Jack," John said, shaking his head with a humorless chuckle. "They're not gonna believe a damn word of this."

As he turned toward the exit, Charles laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's keep this quiet until Hosea gets a look in the morning," he said. "Warden Adler's gonna have a field day with all the paperwork."

John gave a short nod, then disappeared through the door.

As soon as it clicked shut, Charles dropped down into the water, setting the bucket on the platform. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and reached for a bottle of orange iodine. I followed his lead, tugging on my own gloves before laying out his tools. Right now, this was just an examination. Once we understood what we were dealing with, then we could prepare for surgery.

"Lenny's getting the heating pads ready," Charles murmured as he worked, his focus already locked on Arthur's still form. "He's also mixing a small dose of morphine and amoxicillin into the water—should help him relax."

"How's he doing?"

I exhaled. "Bout as good as he looks."

Arthur lay motionless on the platform, his eyes lidded, his breathing shallow. The rhythmic flare of his gills was soft—too soft. His body was struggling to regulate oxygen, the sluggish movement of his operculum suggesting respiratory distress. Shudders wracked his frame at irregular intervals, a clear sign of metabolic exhaustion, likely from prolonged stress and blood loss. His dermal layer, normally slick and hydrated, appeared pallid in some areas, the delicate membrane at the edges of his fins already beginning to dry.

I quickly grabbed a small electric siphon, submerging one end into the water while using the other to gently trickle cool, saline-rich seawater over his gills and along his body. The moisture would help maintain an osmotic balance, preventing dehydration and further physiological strain while we worked to stabilize him.

Charles frowned but said nothing, reaching for the stethoscope around his neck. He pressed the cold diaphragm to Arthur's chest, his brows furrowing almost immediately. He moved it to another spot. Then another.

"That's..." He trailed off, eyes widening slightly. "That's incredible."

I stiffened. "What?"

Charles pulled the scope away, draping it around his neck again as he lifted Arthur's wrist to check a pulse. When he looked at me, there was a strange mix of awe and urgency in his expression.

"He has two hearts. Two separate pulses."

My mouth parted, the weight of the revelation settling over me. Two hearts.

Without thinking, I leaned in, pressing my cheek against Arthur's chest. He was warm, alive. And then—

There it was.

A second beat, a second rhythm—steady yet fragile, like the ebb and flow of the tide. Two hearts pulsing in tandem beneath my skin, their cadence slightly off-sync, creating a melody that was both foreign and mesmerizing. It was deeper than a human heartbeat, stronger. A low, thrumming vibration that resonated through my fingertips, like the distant rumble of waves crashing against the ocean floor. I could feel him everywhere—not just beneath my hand, but in the space between breaths, in the weight of the water around us, in the quiet, unspoken connection passing between us.

Before I could process it, a new sound reached my ears—deep within his chest, muffled. Like listening through water. A rumble of sorts. Soft, rhythmic, soothing even. A sound that felt content, almost like...

Purring.

But before I could make sense of it, Charles cleared his throat. His expression had darkened, his attention locked on the wound below Arthur's abdomen.

His jaw tightened, and when he finally spoke, his voice was grim. "It looks like a deep puncture from a serrated object. The surrounding tissue shows signs of severe trauma, with multiple lacerations radiating outward, suggesting the weapon was forcibly removed. The uneven tearing indicates that barbs or jagged edges caught on the muscle, intensifying the damage. There's significant swelling and inflammation, and given the sluggish bleeding, he's already lost a dangerous amount of blood. We need to clean and close this quickly before sepsis sets in."

I watched as Charles' gentle hands pressed lightly around the torn flesh, his fingers careful but firm as he assessed the extent of the damage. Arthur twitched beneath his touch, a faint tremor rolling through his abdomen, but he didn't fight. The tissue was inflamed, the edges of the wound swollen and raw, the deep gash weeping sluggish, dark blood. When Charles carefully prodded the area just beneath the torn skin, Arthur's muscles tensed, a low, pained whimper vibrating from his chest.

It felt wrong to witness this. Wrong to see him like this, laid out and vulnerable, his body carved open like something to be studied rather than saved. My throat tightened with something dangerously close to guilt, as if my presence alone was an intrusion, as if I had no right to be here. The wound was so personal, a violence inflicted not just on his body but on him. Whoever had done this hadn't just tried to kill him—they had tried to take something from him, to take away some part of what he was.

I had to remind myself that we were here to help. That this wasn't an autopsy or an examination—it was a fight to keep him alive.

As Charles was about to speak again, a deep rumbling voice filled the silence. It was strained, and almost incomprehensible.

"Har—poon." Arthur breathed.

The word sent a chill through me.

Harpoon.

A weapon made for hunting. For killing.

I felt my stomach lurch as the implications settled in. Someone had done this to him on purpose. Someone had looked at Arthur—not as a living being, not as something intelligent or sentient—but as prey. As a trophy.

Charles' jaw flexed, his hands stilling over the wound. His usual clinical detachment wavered, giving way to something darker—something close to anger.

"A harpoon," he echoed, voice low. "Son of a bitch."

I tried to imagine it-the pain and the fear.

The sheer agony he must have endured as cold metal tore through flesh not meant to be pierced. How long had he suffered with it lodged inside him, the jagged edges digging deeper with every movement? How desperate must he have been to rip it out of his own body, his instincts driving him to escape, no matter the cost? Had he been hunted? Dragged from the water, struggling against the ropes that bound him? Had he looked into the eyes of his captors and seen nothing but greed, nothing but ownership?

No one deserved that. No creature, no person.

I glanced at Arthur, watching the slow, pained rise and fall of his chest. He had survived something unthinkable. Something that should have killed him. And yet, here he was-clinging to life, trusting us, trusting me.

Arthur flinched slightly at the curse, his gills fluttering as his breathing hitched. I reached out instinctively, placing a hand on his arm. He was cold to the touch, his body trembling despite the warmth of the water.

"You're safe now," I murmured, my fingers brushing over his damp skin. "No one's going to hurt you again."

His gaze flickered to mine, pupils dilated from pain, exhaustion heavy in his expression. But beneath it all, I could still see the trust lingering there—the fragile, unspoken understanding between us.

Then, a tear slipped down his cheek.

It caught the dim light, iridescent and heavy, like a fragment of the ocean itself. Not the clear, fleeting tears of a human, but something denser, more substantial. It clung to his skin for a moment before falling, landing on the platform with a barely audible plink. When I glanced down, I saw it resting there, round and smooth, like a tiny, imperfect pearl.

My breath caught. Monsters can cry.

The realization sank into me, heavy and inescapable. Arthur wasn't just some enigmatic creature from the depths—he felt. He suffered. He mourned. And there was something hauntingly, devastatingly beautiful about that.

Charles exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed back from the wound. "We need to get this cleaned and stitched now. I don't like how much blood he's lost."

I nodded, steeling myself. "What do you need me to do?"

He gestured toward the bucket of supplies. "Start by flushing the wound. We need to clear out any debris before we even think about sutures."

I reached for a saline bottle and some gauze, carefully pouring the solution over the torn flesh. Arthur sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body jerking at the sensation. His hand shot up, gripping my wrist—not as tight as before, but enough to make me pause.

I met his eyes again.

"It's alright," I soothed, rubbing my thumb over the back of his knuckles. "I know it hurts, but this will help. Just breathe, Arthur."

His fingers twitched, then slowly, reluctantly, he let me go.

Charles worked quickly, his hands steady as he examined the deeper damage. His brows were furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a firm line as he carefully maneuvered around the torn flesh.

"The good news is that the wound is mostly superficial—no major organs were damaged," Charles said, his voice steady but grim. He paused, lifting a bloodied fragment of jagged metal between his fingers. Small but wickedly sharp, it gleamed under the sterile light, slick with Arthur's blood.

"The bad news," he continued, shifting his attention back to the wound, "is that there's still a significant fragment embedded deeper in the tissue. It's lodged between the muscle layers, likely near the ventral nerve pathways. If we don't remove it, there's a high risk of infection, necrosis, or even nerve damage."

I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening. "We have to get it out."

Charles nodded grimly, wiping his gloved hands on a sterile cloth. "Yeah. But it's deep, and judging by his pain response, it's close to something sensitive." His gaze flickered to Arthur's face, his expression unreadable. "This isn't going to be easy on him."

Arthur let out a low, uneasy sound—almost a growl. He might not have understood every word, but he knew what was coming. His claws flexed slightly, his tail twitching in agitation despite his exhaustion.

I took a breath, pressing my palm lightly against his chest, just above one of his two hearts. His skin was warmer there, the faint rhythmic pulsing steady beneath my fingers.

"We're going to fix this," I promised. "But it's going to hurt. You need to trust us."

For a long moment, he didn't move.

Then, slowly, his gills flared in what might have been a sigh, his body relaxing deeper. A silent surrender. Hopefully it was a sign that the morphine in the water was easing his pain. What he was about to endure would be excruciating.

Charles gave me a quick look. "Hold him steady."

And with that, the real work began.

I focused on keeping Arthur calm as Charles plunged the forceps deep into the wound, his movements precise yet cautious. The slick muscle twitches under the intrusion, his body instinctively trying to recoil, but he held still, his trust in us outweighing his pain. I watched as Charles maneuvered carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration, the metal tool vanishing into the torn tissue in search of the embedded fragment. Arthur's fingers curled against the wet platform, his claws scraping against the slick surface, but he never lashed out, never tried to stop us. His breathing grew more labored, his gills flaring and closing in uneven bursts, as if his body couldn't quite decide whether to fight or surrender. His tail tensed, the powerful muscle twitching involuntarily, and a faint, guttural sound escaped his throat—a noise that sent a pang of guilt straight through me. He was trying to be strong. Trying to endure.

I moved my palm gently down his chest in a soothing gesture, feeling the rapid, unsteady rhythm of his twin heartbeats beneath my fingers. "Almost there honey," I murmured, unsure if I was reassuring him or myself.

Charles exhaled sharply as he dropped the last fragment into a metal dish. "That's the worst of it, but..." His voice trailed off as he turned his attention to the wound itself, examining the torn flesh with something close to fascination.

I watched as his fingers pressed lightly around the top and the edges, his expression shifting from concern to something more analytical.

"What?" I asked, my nerves on edge.

Charles hesitated for a moment, then sighed, his gaze fixed on the wound as if trying to piece together a puzzle. "I've been trying to make sense of his anatomy all night, but I think I understand it better now." He met my eyes with a seriousness that sent a shiver down my spine. "Arthur has both male and female reproductive anatomy."

I blinked, not fully grasping what he meant. "What?"

Charles gestured to the gaping tear in Arthur's abdomen, where the harpoon had torn through flesh that, by human standards, shouldn't have been there. The area was swollen and raw, but the shape of it was undeniable. "When we first examined him, I suspected something was different. Now I'm sure—Arthur is intersex. Specifically, his anatomy mirrors some species of deep-sea creatures, like certain fish, that possess both male and female reproductive organs." He motioned to the area near Arthur's pelvis, where I could now see the distinctive characteristics more clearly. "The slit opening here," he said, "is where you'd expect female reproductive organs to be. But as you move further down, past the injury, there's a separate opening—closer to what we'd see in a male of most marine species."

I stared down at Arthur, my mind racing to keep up with the new reality unfolding before me. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Charles leaned in, his voice low but matter-of-fact. "It means he's capable of both carrying and producing offspring. In the wild, this adaptation allows some species to reproduce even when mates are scarce—survival in extreme environments." He looked at me, gauging my reaction before continuing, "Arthur could potentially mate on his own or with another of his kind—if there are others. But until we study him more, it's hard to know for sure."

I glanced at Arthur's face, searching for any sign that he understood what we were saying, but his eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion. He was barely holding on, too drained to react.

Charles exhaled slowly, looking down at Arthur with a mixture of awe and respect, "But this is the first time I've seen anything like it in a creature so... human in form."

My heart thundered in my chest, beating against my ribs like a caged bird. There was so much more to him than I realized. Oh how I was hurting for him. Was this why he had been mutilated? Did someone try to strip him of his autonomy, of his natural instinct to reproduce and start a family? Someone hadn't just simply wanted to hunt him. They had wanted to take something away from him. Erase something vital. Something sacred.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and reached for Arthur's hand again, gripping it gently.

"You're safe now," I whispered, more to myself than him.

Charles sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Lenny should be back any minute. He and I will finish suturing the wound tonight if you want to go home and get some rest. It's gonna be some time before he's gained his strength back."

I shook my head before Charles even finished speaking.

"I'm not leaving him."

Charles gave me a knowing look, but he didn't argue. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and rubbed his temple as he spoke with a light chuckle. "Didn't think you would. Looks to me like he's bonded with you." He glanced down to where I held Arthur's hand in my own, and I felt my cheeks grow warm. Then he gestured toward the door with a tilt of his head. "I've got some spare clothes in my office. They'll be a little big on you, but they're dry."

It wasn't much of an offer, but it was better than sitting here in wet, bloodstained clothes. My body ached from the strain of the night, and my wrist still throbbed in dull protest beneath the gauze.

"Thank you Charles," I murmured, glancing back at Arthur one last time. He hadn't moved, his body limp in the water, his breathing shallow but steady. He was still with us. That was enough—for now.

⋅─⊱༺ 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ༻⊰─⋅

I made my way down the dim hallway, my soaked shoes squelching against the tile as exhaustion began to weigh down on me. Charles' office was small but cluttered with medical textbooks, old research notes, and a whiteboard full of scrawled reminders and sketches. A pile of folded clothes sat on a chair, and I grabbed the first set that looked comfortable—a soft, oversized sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants.

I peeled off my damp clothes, wincing at the way they clung to my skin, and slipped into the dry fabric. It smelled like antiseptic and faint traces of cologne.

For the first time since the night began, I let myself breathe.

I sank onto the worn leather couch in the corner of the office, curling my knees to my chest. The room was silent, save for the distant hum of the filtration system and the occasional muffled voices from the lab where Lenny and Charles worked.

The weight of everything pressed down on me at once.

Arthur.

His pain. The way his deep blue eyes had locked onto mine, pleading and vulnerable. His gaze had pulled at something deep within me, a tether that I couldn't quite name but couldn't ignore either. The faint shimmer of light dancing across his wet skin, the soft, rhythmic purring that had vibrated through me, a soothing but bittersweet sound. His presence had settled in me like a force I hadn't anticipated, an undercurrent that kept drawing me closer, leaving me more entangled with each passing moment. I could feel something—something—between us, growing, almost tangible in its intensity, and it both terrified and fascinated me.

The harpoon.

The thought of it sent a tremor through my chest. The sickening knowledge that someone had driven that metal into his body on purpose. They had wanted to hurt him. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt the jagged edges of that cruelty cut into my own soul.

I shuddered, hugging my arms around myself as if that could hold together the pieces of me that were beginning to fracture. No matter how hard I tried to shake it, the image of his torn flesh wouldn't leave me. The helpless sound of his groan, raw with agony, echoed in my mind. His fingers had clung to me, not with force, but with a desperate, trembling need I couldn't ignore. It wasn't just fear I had sensed in him—it was trust. He had turned to me in his darkest moment, and somehow, somehow, I had become the one thing that could make him feel safe.

It was all burned into my memory. A delicate, painful imprint. One I couldn't erase, no matter how hard I tried.

I didn't remember closing my eyes. Didn't remember the moment exhaustion finally won. But at some point, sleep pulled me under.

A hand on my shoulder jolted me awake.

"Hey," Charles' voice was softer than usual. "It's done."

I blinked against the dim light, disoriented. My body felt heavy, my mind sluggish, like I had been underwater myself.

"What time is it?" My voice was thick with sleep.

"Almost dawn," Charles said. "Lenny and I finished the sutures. He's stable, but it's gonna take time."

I pushed myself upright, my heart already pulling me toward the lab. "Is he—?"

"He's still asleep," Charles assured me. "But he's breathing easier now. The pain is more manageable."

That was all I needed to hear.

I stood, giving Charles a nod of thanks before heading back down the hall. The scent of salt and antiseptic filled my nose as I stepped back into the lab.

Arthur lay at the bottom of the pool, his massive tail curled slightly, his body finally still in the way a resting creature should be. The water was dark and calm, gently cradling him in its weightless embrace. I exhaled softly, relief washing over me.

Moving without thought, I stepped onto the platform beside the pool and lowered myself down. The cold tile pressed against my back as I curled up close to the edge, my fingers just inches from the water's surface.

I should have gone home. Should have left him in Charles' capable hands. But I couldn't.

Not yet. Not when he had spent who-knows-how-long suffering alone.

"I won't let them hurt you," I whispered again, more for myself than for him.

And with the gentle sound of the water lapping against the pool's edge, I let sleep take me once more—this time, beside him.

AN: I know we're all wondering what happened with the harpoon, our beloved reader will be getting some answers in the next chapter. As well as some sweet/hot moments that will send her spiraling as she begins to have deeper feelings for our seaboy :)

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #ao3 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #red dead fandom #ao3 #monster fic #monster romance #siren au #siren x reader #monster x reader #monster x human #charles smith #monster au #ao3fic #fanfiction

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28harryssunflower · 15 hours ago

Text

It was always you

“You know, I think I’m actually cursed.”

Harry barely looked up from his phone as you flopped onto his bed with a dramatic sigh, burying your face in his pillow. “Yeah?” he said lazily. “What kind of curse we talking about? Eternal clumsiness? Never getting the last slice of pizza?”

You groaned and threw a pillow at him, which he dodged effortlessly. “No, you idiot. A love curse.”

That got his attention. He smirked, locking his phone and tossing it onto his nightstand. “Oh, this could be good. Go on, then. Tell me about your tragic, love-deprived existence.”

“I’m serious, Harry!” You sat up, hugging the pillow to your chest. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never even had my first kiss. Meanwhile, you’re out here hooking up with a new girl every week like it’s your part-time job.”

“Full-time, actually,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes but continued. “I just… I want someone to love me, you know? Someone who looks at me and thinks, ‘Yeah, she’s the one I want.’”

Harry watched you for a moment, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. Then, with his usual smugness, he leaned back against the headboard and stretched out his arms. “Well, lucky for you, you’ve already got me. No need to search any further.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious!” he grinned, opening his arms invitingly. “Come on, I’ll even cuddle you, since you’re always so lonely.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, still talking to me.”

You flipped him off but, despite your protests, you eventually curled up against his side, sighing softly as his warmth surrounded you. It was familiar. Comforting. Safe.

But safety wasn’t love.

And that was the problem.

So when you finally got a boyfriend, you were ecstatic.

Harry had been just as excited for you at first, grinning as you rambled on about your dates, about how sweet your boyfriend was, about how it felt to finally be wanted.

But slowly, things started changing.

It started with little things - canceling plans last-minute, leaving his messages on read. Then, you started avoiding him altogether, barely sparing him a glance in the halls. When he tried to talk to you, your boyfriend would pull you away, whispering something in your ear that made you frown but ultimately follow him without a second thought.

The worst part was, you didn’t even seem to realize what was happening.

And then you forgot his birthday.

Harry spent the entire day pretending not to care, but he did. God, he did. His mum had even asked why you weren’t there - because you were always there. But he just muttered something about you being busy, shrugged off her concerned look, and spent the rest of the day staring at his phone, waiting for a text that never came.

But he didn’t go to your house to confront you. He didn’t text you. He didn’t call you.

This time, he just let it go.

By Monday, he didn’t even bother trying anymore.

You were his only friend - had always been his only friend. Without you, he was alone.

So he leaned into it.

He walked through the halls with his hood up, earphones in, ignoring everything and everyone. He leaned against his locker alone, scrolling through his phone. He was just another body in the hallways now, and maybe that was fine.

Until he heard the laughter.

Harry didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Your boyfriend and his friends stood at the other end of the hallway, their laughter carrying over the dull roar of students. He was pointing at Harry, smirking as he whispered something to his friends.

Harry clenched his jaw and slammed his locker shut. He wasn’t in the mood for this.

But, of course, your boyfriend had other plans.

“Oi, loser!”

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose but didn’t respond.

“You deaf too?” Another voice chimed in - one of his friends, probably. “Or just fucking pathetic?”

Harry gritted his teeth, gripping the strap of his bag. Just walk away.

But then your boyfriend stepped in front of him.

“You know, it’s sad, really,” he sneered. “You following her around all these years like a lost puppy. Guess she finally got tired of your pathetic ass.”

Harry’s fists curled.

“What?” Your boyfriend smirked. “Nothing to say?” He shoved Harry’s shoulder, making him stumble back a step. “No comeback, huh? Figures. You were always just a waste of space-“

Harry swung.

His fist connected with your boyfriend’s jaw, sending him staggering back. But before Harry could do anything else, hands grabbed him from behind, shoving him hard against the lockers.

And then the punches started.

One to his stomach. Another to his ribs.

A fist slammed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

A knee to his gut knocked the air from his lungs, and suddenly, he was on the ground.

More kicks. More fists.

Blood filled his mouth. His vision blurred. His head spun.

And then he heard your voice.

“Harry?!”

The beating stopped instantly.

You pushed through the crowd, your heart stopping when you saw him.

Harry was barely breathing, blood smeared across his face, his lip split, bruises already forming along his jaw. His arms trembled as he tried, and failed, to push himself up.

Your chest tightened, tears blurring your vision as you shoved your boyfriend out of the way and dropped to your knees beside Harry.

“Oh my god,” you choked out, cradling his face in your hands. “Harry, stay with me, okay? Don’t fall asleep. Just- just keep your eyes open.”

He groaned, barely conscious.

You snapped your head up, looking at the crowd. “Someone call a fucking ambulance!”

No one moved.

“Now!”

Finally, someone fumbled for their phone.

Your boyfriend scoffed behind you. “Why are you wasting your time? He’s a loser.”

Then he reached for you.

The second his hand touched your arm, you whipped around, eyes blazing.

“Don’t you dare fucking touch me, you prick.”

He blinked. “What?”

You shot up to your feet, shoving him back. “It’s over.”

He laughed. “Oh, come on. Don’t be dramatic-“

“Piss off!” you screamed, voice breaking. “Get the fuck away from me!”

A few teachers finally arrived, pushing through the crowd. Someone pulled your boyfriend back, while another crouched next to Harry, checking his breathing.

Minutes later, sirens blared outside.

You held Harry’s hand the entire way to the hospital, whispering apologies through your tears, telling him to just stay awake, that you were so, so sorry.

He squeezed your hand weakly. “Told you… you don’t need… anyone else.”

A broken sob left your lips. “Shut up, idiot.”

When his parents arrived, you barely got the words out before breaking down entirely, burying your face in Anne’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you sobbed. “It’s all my fault.”

Anne just held you tighter. “Oh, sweetheart.”

You didn’t leave Harry’s side. Not for a second.

Because maybe love had been right in front of you all along.

The hospital room was too bright, too sterile, too quiet except for the steady beep of Harry’s heart monitor.

You sat beside his bed, gripping his hand tightly, even though he was barely conscious. The sight of him like this - bruised, battered, barely able to open his eyes - made your chest ache with guilt.

You had let this happen.

And you weren’t leaving him again.

“I want a second bed in his room.”

The nurse blinked at you, glancing between you and Harry’s sleeping form. “I’m sorry, but only family members-“

“I don’t care,” you cut in, voice shaking but firm. “I’m not leaving him.”

The nurse hesitated, clearly torn, but then she sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

That night, they wheeled in a second bed for you.

It was small, uncomfortable, and cold, but you didn’t care. It was close enough to Harry. That’s all that mattered.

You barely slept.

Every time he shifted, every time he let out the faintest groan of pain, you were up, adjusting his pillows, checking his IV, making sure he had everything he needed.

Sometime in the middle of the night, his hand found yours.

“You’re still here?” he mumbled, voice hoarse, eyes barely open.

Tears welled up in your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips quirked up just slightly, the ghost of a smile. “Good.”

And then he fell back asleep, his fingers still loosely wrapped around yours.

The hospital stay lasted a week.

A week of helping him sit up when his ribs hurt too much. A week of spoon-feeding him shitty hospital food because he was too drugged-up to do it himself. A week of pretending not to cry when the doctors explained how much pain he’d be in for the next few months.

A week of never leaving his side.

By the time he was discharged, you had practically memorized his breathing patterns, the way his eyebrows furrowed when he was uncomfortable, the way he clung to your hand every time he fell asleep.

And despite everything, despite the pain, despite the bruises, despite the way you had abandoned him for so long - he still wanted you there.

You didn’t understand it.

But you weren’t about to question it.

The first night at his house was rough.

He could barely move, every breath sending a sharp pain through his ribs. You helped him get into bed, carefully adjusting his pillows, setting his pain meds and water on the nightstand.

“You really don’t have to-“

“Yes, I do.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then sighed. “Alright, Nurse Bossy.”

You rolled your eyes, sitting down on the bed next to him. “Shut up and take your meds.”

He did. But when he winced, shifting slightly, you immediately reached for him, helping him lean back.

His gaze softened. “You’re gonna take care of me, huh?”

You swallowed. “Of course I am.”

Harry studied your face, something unreadable in his expression. “Even after everything?”

Guilt twisted in your chest. “I don’t understand how you can even look at me after what I did,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing against yours. “Because you’re you.”

You blinked at him, eyes stinging. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “That’s not for you to decide, is it?”

Your breath hitched.

After a moment, you sighed and carefully curled up beside him, resting your head on his good shoulder.

“I’m still sorry,” you murmured.

“I know,” he whispered. “But you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

The next few weeks changed everything.

You never left his side. Every morning, you helped him sit up, made him food, made sure he took his meds. You helped him shower, helped him dress, even sat through hours of shitty reality TV just to keep him entertained.

And through it all, Harry changed too.

Gone was the playboy who hooked up with someone new every weekend. Gone was the smug flirt who never took anything seriously.

He still joked around, still teased you endlessly, still acted like the Harry you had known your whole life. But something was different.

He wasn’t looking for anyone else anymore.

Because he already had you.

Neither of you spent a single night alone after that.

If he wasn’t staying over at your place, you were at his. You always shared a bed, sometimes he stayed up late watching movies while you fell asleep against his shoulder.

But no matter what, you were together.

Always.

One night, weeks after everything, he traced lazy patterns on your arm as you lay curled up beside him.

“You’re really never leaving me again, huh?”

You swallowed. “Never.”

He exhaled, pulling you a little closer.

“Good.”

If anyone had told you a year ago that you and Harry would end up like this - tangled together every night, inseparable, happy - you would have laughed in their face.

But now, lying in his bed with his arms wrapped around you, his lips brushing lazily over the top of your head as he mumbled half-asleep nonsense, you couldn’t imagine life any other way.

Everything was just… good.

Better than good.

Perfect.

School was different now.

Where Harry used to be surrounded by girls hanging off his every word, he was now only ever with you. He still had his cocky smirk, still joked around with his old friends, but when it came down to it, he only had eyes for you.

And he made sure everyone knew it.

Whether it was his arm slung over your shoulder in the halls, the way he pulled you into his lap when you sat with him at lunch, or the way he casually shut down any girl who so much as batted her eyelashes at him - it was clear.

Harry Styles was taken.

And he wouldn’t shut up about it.

“My girlfriend’s actually the smartest person in this school,” he’d brag to your teachers when you aced a test.

“My girl made the best fucking pancakes this morning,” he’d tell his friends, even though he had literally helped you burn them.

“My girl,” he called you. All the time. And you secretly loved it.

You rolled your eyes at his antics, but every time, you’d find yourself blushing, hiding your smile as he grinned at you like you were his entire world.

Because, well… you were.

Your families were just as obsessed with your relationship as Harry was.

Anne had always loved you like a second daughter, but now that you were officially dating her son, she took it to a whole new level.

“I knew it,” she’d say every time she saw you two cuddled up on the couch. “Knew you’d end up together. Should’ve placed a bet.”

Harry groaned. “Mum-“

“You two were practically married as kids anyway,” she continued, waving him off. “Might as well make it official.”

You laughed. “We’re still in high school, Anne.”

She just shrugged. “You’ll get there.”

Your own parents weren’t any better.

Your mom practically beamed every time Harry walked through the door, already treating him like a son. Your dad had been a little skeptical at first (probably remembering Harry’s less-than-stellar reputation), but after seeing how much he adored you, he came around quickly.

“Just take care of her,” your dad had told him one evening, clapping a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry had looked him dead in the eye and said, “Always.”

That had been the moment your dad fully accepted him.

From then on, family dinners turned into “future planning sessions,” where your parents and his would casually drop comments like, “When you two get married,” and “Your future kids are going to be adorable.”

You’d groan and hide your face in your hands while Harry just smirked, clearly enjoying it.

“You hear that, love?” he teased one night as you lay in his bed, scrolling through your phone while he played with your fingers. “They want grandkids.”

You shot him a look. “You’re literally seventeen.”

He shrugged. “So? You think they’re wrong?”

You sighed, setting your phone down to look at him properly. “Do you?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He just studied your face, eyes soft, thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

Then he smirked. “Nah, they’re definitely right.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder. “Idiot.”

He just laughed and pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You love me.”

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

But he knew the truth.

And so did you.

Being with Harry felt like breathing - natural, effortless, something you didn’t even have to think about.

When you were alone with him, the rest of the world disappeared.

No teasing from your families about marriage and grandkids. No whispers at school about how Harry Styles finally settled down. No past mistakes, no guilt, no fears.

Just him. Just you. Just this.

Nights at his house were your favorite.

It usually started with a lazy movie night, where Harry would let you pick something - though he always found a way to distract you before the ending. Sometimes with kisses pressed against your jaw, other times by burying his face in your neck and mumbling about how you smell so good, love, what is that? until you finally gave in and let him pull you into his arms.

You always ended up in his bed, tangled together, legs hooked over his, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced slow circles on your back.

Harry loved to touch you.

Not in a desperate, needy way - though, let’s be honest, sometimes it was that too - but in a constant way.

His hands were always on you, even in the smallest ways. His fingers brushing over your knuckles when you walked side by side. His palm resting on your thigh when you sat next to him. His lips pressing against your temple whenever you leaned against him.

And when you were alone, when it was just the two of you wrapped up in his sheets, his touch was even softer.

He’d run his fingers through your hair, whispering little nothings, sometimes teasing, sometimes serious.

“Gonna marry you one day,” he murmured one night, voice heavy with sleep.

You huffed, your fingers lazily tracing patterns on his stomach. “You’re obsessed with me.”

Harry chuckled, shifting so he could press a kiss to your forehead. “Obviously.”

You smiled against his skin, feeling his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

This was home.

Mornings slow and filled with warmth.

Harry was not a morning person. He liked to stay in bed as long as possible, groaning dramatically whenever you tried to move.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled one morning, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“I have to pee.”

“Pee later.”

“That’s not how it works, idiot.”

Harry groaned, tightening his grip on you. “Fine. But you’re coming back.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, kissing his cheek before slipping out of bed.

When you returned, he had stolen your pillow, hugging it to his chest like some sort of oversized teddy bear.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, crawling back in beside him.

“Mm.” He tossed the pillow aside, pulling you into his arms instead. “Better.”

You let him be clingy, let him tuck his face into your neck, let him hold you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Afternoons spent doing absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.

Some days, you stayed in bed all day, wrapped up in each other, talking about everything.

Harry loved to ask questions.

What’s your happiest memory?

If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?

If we were stranded on an island, would you eat me or let me eat you first?

(You didn’t dignify that last one with a response.)

Other days, he’d convince you to go on little adventures with him - late-night drives with the windows down, ice cream runs even when it was freezing outside, sneaking into the neighborhood pool just to float on your backs and stare at the stars.

Everything was better with him.

Even the boring, ordinary moments.

Some nights, you didn’t sleep at all.

You’d stay up talking, whispering under the covers like kids sharing secrets.

One night, after hours of just being with each other, Harry tilted your chin up, eyes soft in the dim light of his bedroom.

“I never really knew what love was,” he admitted. “Not before you.”

Your breath caught. “Harry…”

He swallowed, his fingers brushing over your cheek. “I know I’ve said a lot of stupid shit in the past, and I know I was a dick before, but I-“ He exhaled sharply. “I love you. You know that?”

You stared at him, heart swelling in your chest.

“I know.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Good.”

You smiled, cupping his face in your hands. “I love you too.”

Harry let out a breathy laugh, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

And then he kissed you.

Slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was never letting you go.

And he never did.

You and Harry barely fought.

Sure, you bickered all the time - about who got the last slice of pizza, about his terrible taste in reality TV, about the way he always stole the covers at night. But it was never serious.

Until tonight.

And it was stupid.

It started with Harry forgetting to pick you up from school when he had a day off and you weren’t driving home together.

You waited outside for over an hour, your phone battery slowly draining as you sent unanswered texts, your frustration growing with every passing minute.

By the time you walked home - freezing, exhausted, and pissed off - Harry was sprawled out on his bed, completely oblivious.

“Oh, hey, love,” he greeted casually, grinning. “Didn’t hear you come in-“

“You forgot me.”

Harry’s grin faded, eyebrows furrowing. “Shit.” He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “I- I didn’t mean to, I just-“

“Oh, you just what?” you snapped, throwing your bag on the floor. “Got too distracted being lazy to remember your girlfriend?”

Harry scowled. “I wasn’t being lazy! I was studying.”

You scoffed. “Studying what, Harry? The inside of your eyelids?”

His jaw clenched. “I said I didn’t mean to. What more do you want?”

“I want you to care!”

“I do care-“

“Not enough.”

Harry stood up then, his expression darkening. “Don’t fucking do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I don’t love you just because I made one mistake.”

Your nostrils flared as you glared at him. “It’s not just one mistake, Harry. You never take things seriously. You’re always so fucking carefree-“

“Oh, I’m so sorry for not being miserable all the time,” he shot back sarcastically.

Your hands balled into fists. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re a pain in my ass,” he snapped, stepping closer.

You stepped closer too. “I hate you.”

His chest was heaving now, eyes burning into yours. “Yeah? I hate you more.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, angry, all teeth and heat and hands gripping a little too tight.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, his body pressing yours against the wall.

You gasped into his mouth, nails raking down his back.

He bit your bottom lip in retaliation, his breath hot against your skin as he muttered, “So fucking annoying.”

You dug your nails in deeper. “You love it.”

His response was a growl, his lips crashing back into yours, his hands grabbing, pulling, taking.

You didn’t stop. Not when he lifted you onto the bed. Not when he hovered over you, his hands gripping your wrists. Not even when he smirked and whispered, “Still hate me?”

Afterward, you lay beside him, panting, your limbs tangled together, skin still burning from his touch.

The room was silent for a long time.

“I hate you,” you muttered, turning your head to glare at him.

Harry chuckled breathlessly, rolling onto his side. “I hate you more.”

You both stared at each other, eyes narrowing - until, suddenly, you both cracked.

A laugh bubbled up from your chest, and before you knew it, you were giggling, your forehead dropping against his shoulder.

Harry grinned, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close. “We’re so fucking stupid.”

You nodded, still laughing softly. “Yeah.”

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back. “But you still love me.”

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

Harry smirked. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes were warm now, soft, all the anger from before completely melted away.

You leaned in, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to his lips.

He sighed against your mouth, his fingers threading through your hair.

After a moment, he pulled back just enough to murmur, “Still hate me?”

You smiled, “Yeah.”

He grinned, kissing you again.

#harry styles #one direction #short story #headcanon #one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n

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