#fuck you for hurting me

[inkskinned]

she's singing in another room and my dog is asleep at my feet. my grandma asked me why i haven't found a man yet and i laughed. oh, you know. i like my house clean.

my girlfriend is also my man is also "my partner" if i'm in a professional setting. yesterday we went to a ren faire and a man mimed at me - you're together? and at my delighted nod, his baffled, you're gay? made me laugh. a woman with rainbow hair said i love the two of you together. you're both so beautiful it's absurd.

my dad introduced my partner as my "..... friend. or whatever" the other day. he knows we're dating. in the same way, i was never able to get my sister's husband to stop saying that's gay like it's 2008. he still uses the word fa***t, and my sister's defense of him has always been well, he's just kidding.

my lover and i dance to old music in a tiny kitchen. we judge new music together and take food critique very seriously. we watch love is blind before we fall asleep and agree that if they had a queer season, it would be bloody but also make for excellent tv. of fucking course queer people would know someone for only 2 weeks and agree to get married. what are you saying.

at a bar with friends, a man puts his hand on my wrist. got a boyfriend? and yes, i do have a boyfriend, she's amazing. i am texting her while i wander around a gas station named after geese. i am visiting a swing state for a wedding. in the candy aisle i overhear: she's actually like a lesbian it's disgusting. two teenage girls with packaged sandwiches in their hands, giggling. no literally, like. i'm not, like. okay with her being there while we're all, like, naked and changing.

my girlfriend and i tailgate, drink gin and cider out of cups. from the frat group beside us, a man corrects himself with one of his friends: bro, i mean, nonbinary entity, and it makes everyone around him laugh, myself included. he razzes his friend the same way i would have killed for at 19 years old - like nothing happened, he continues: you apply sunscreen like an alien. he does a little sassy (and fairly accurate) dance interpretation of the motion. his friend is laughing so hard they're crying.

i am lucky, i live in a safe neighborhood in a safe state. my masc passenger princess comes up from DC. i drive her for an hour to where all the leaves are a violent arrangement of color. we walk along the trails, letting autumn into our blood. in this part of the state, there's a lot of pickup trucks and trump signs. when we chastely kiss before getting into the car, i accidentally make eye contact with a woman holding her child's wrist. she looks disgusted. she looks fucking pissed.

two hours later my girl and i are eating dinner on a patio, soaking in the last warmth of new england sun before the chill of winter sets in. we are giggling and trying to talk through plastic vampire teeth. at another table, i see a young woman sit up straighter. i watch her watch us. she blushes and takes her partner's hand from across the table. shy, like the taste of evening has just become something deeper.

it's worth it for this moment, i think. my lover is still humming the same song she's been singing for four days straight and i don't want to kill her for it. her guitar is beside my bed. her toothbrush is in my bathroom. in a few moments i will make us lunch. we are lucky enough to have found each other. it is lucky enough to be in love.

[doydoune]

names names names (3-4/4)

(1-2/4)

bonus

[giantkillerjack]

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

[plain-text version of this post can be found under the cut]

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

Plain-text version:

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

P.S. Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

[fanaticalthings]

Jason:

Also Jason:

when you're worried about your dad but you also have a reputation

Masterlist

[keferon]

Let me tell you their duo WASNT something I expected to see. Like. Ever. Oh my god ahahaha

[bixels]

Just gonna have to wait and see, right? Just wait and see! Just gotta wait and see! Who knows, we'll just have to wait and see! It's anybody's guess, we'll just have to wait and see! The future is exciting, we just gotta wait and see!

[corpsentry]

pick your battles

[elbdot]

I love you Arcane Jesus, can't wait for your resurrection EDIT: Also uhm. I guess I needed to clarify that this is a PAINTINg

[benevolenterrancy]

Mobei-Jun getting abandoned in the human realm by his favourite uncle and being left alone and terrified?? baby???? gonna lie awake thinking about him and Shang Qinghua meeting as children

[inkskinned]

what is with men being mad any time a woman raises her voice where did that even come from. someone posted a video of a small electrical explosion, and the top comment was of course the woman screams. the second comment is women try not to scream challenge, level impossible. i had to go back and watch the video again. there is, somewhat fainty, a little gasp emitted off-camera, more of a yelp than a scream. it is mostly lost in the crack of the explosion. afterwards, you hear her voice, shaken, say, are you okay?

i am helping one of my friends train her voice pitch lower, because she wants to be taken seriously at work. she and i do each other's nails and talk about gender roles; and how - due to our appearance - neither of us have ever been able to be "hysterical" in public. we both appear young and sweet and feminine. she is cisgender, and cannot use her natural voice in her profession because people keep saying she appears to be "vapid". we both try to figure out if our purposeful voice lowering is technically sexist. is it promoting something when you are a victim to it?

a storm almost sends a pole through a car window. in the dashcam, you can hear the woman passenger say her partner's name twice, crying out in alarm. she sounds terrified. in the comments, she is lambasted for her lack of calm. how is that even fucking helping?

in high school, i taught myself to have a lower voice. i had been recorded when i was genuinely (and righteously) upset; and i hated how my voice sounded on the phone speakers when it was played back. i was defending my mom, and my voice cracked with emotion. it meant i was no longer winning the argument: i was just shrieking about it.

girls meet each other after a long summer and let out a little joyful scream. this usually stops around 12-14, because people will not tolerate this display of affection (as it has the effect of being passingly annoying). something about the fact that little girls can't ever even be annoying. we are trained to examine each part of our lives (even joy) for anything that could make us upsetting and disgusting. they act like teenage girls are breaking into houses and shrieking you awake at 3 in the morning. speaking as a public school educator: trust me, it's not that bad, you can just roll your eyes and move on. it does not compare to the ways boys end up being annoying: slurs in graffiti, purposefully mocking your body, following you after you said no. you know, just boy things.

there's another video of a man who is not allowed to yell in the house, so he snaps his fingers when he's excited about soccer. the comments are full of angry men, talking about how their brother is unfairly caged. let him express himself and this is terrible to do to someone. eventually the couple has to address it in a second video: they are married with a newborn baby. he was trying not to wake the infant up. there is no comment on the fact women are not allowed to yell indoors. or the fact that it could have been really alarming or triggering for his wife. sometimes i wonder if straight men even like women, if they even enjoy being in relationships with them.

for the longest time, i hated roller coasters because it always felt inappropriate and uncomfortable for me to scream. one of my friends called me on it, said it was unusual i'm so unwilling. i had to go to my therapist about it. i don't like to scream because i was not raised in a safe situation, and raising my voice would have brought unsafe attention towards me. even when i am supposed to scream, it feels shameful, guilty. i was not treated kindly, so i lack a basic form of self-protection. this is not a natural response. it is not good that in a situation of high adrenaline - i shut up about it.

something very bad is happening, i think. in between all the beauty standards and the stuff i've already discussed - this one feels new and cruel in a way i can't quite express. yes, it's scary and silencing. but there's something about how direct it is - that so many men agree with the sentiment that women should never yell, even in an emergency - it feels different.

is the word shriek gendered automatically? how about shrill or screech? in self defense class, one of the first things they tell you is to yell, as loud and as shrilly as you can. they say it will feel rude. most women will not do this. you need to practice overcoming the social pressure and just scream.

most women do not cry out, even when it's bad. we do not report it. we walk faster. we do not make a scene. what would be the point of doing anything else? no matter what we do, we don't get taken seriously. it is a joke to them. an instagram caption punchline. we have to present ourselves as silent, beautiful, captivating - "valuable."

a woman is outside watching her kids when someone throws a firecracker at them. she screams and runs towards her children. in the comments, grown men flock together in the thousands: god. women are so annoying.

[vaguely-concerned]

on the one hand I think inner demons could stand to have a bit more romanced rook specific content, but on the other hand the underlying in-built implication that 'yours is the one true voice of comfort and safety in my inner world' is a sentiment and intimacy so way beyond the romantic or the platonic or any secret third thing you could care to name that it makes me lose my entire poor little mind a bit. it's so big and fundamental — near-existential — that in that exact moment at least the distinctions kind of seem irrelevant.

all the people lucanis' mind conjures up along the way are relationships he has that are unavoidably mixed and fraught in some ways even when they're also full of love (they are fraught BECAUSE they're full of love) — the good in them inseparable from things that hurt him at the same time. (it's about: the basic disorganized attachment patterns this poor guy is dragging around with him. careful with those, they're dellamorte heirlooms. what you love also inevitably hurts you and you won't be allowed to have one without the other, you have to surrender parts of your soul to hold on to what little you have left: this is the story up until now.) and the idea that rook isn't that to him — that beneath the fear of wanting them when romanced (which is more its own separate thing because within this psychology, actively wanting something and not just clinging on for dear life to even a meager status quo lest you lose it is in itself dangerous bordering on catastrophic), this is a relationship where there isn't resentment, or guilt, or shame, or dread, or rage, or self-hate, or any of the other emotions that keep him paralyzed, unable to move this way or that. no debts, nothing owed of yourself and your soul's substance except what you can freely and safely and happily give. love and freedom don't coexist — but, I mean, you're almost starting to make me think........... unless...👀👀👀. the unconditional and undramatic 'you are here and I am here with you, you can be exactly how you are right now with me and it's safe for us both even though you're afraid it won't be, I'm not going anywhere' acceptance rook shows him here that he returns to them in the big romance scene, when it's rook who needs it. the way he's just. standing there in the center of it all, like a child desperately helplessly waiting to be found, hiding in the place he hopes you'll know to look first. (rook does know. it's one of the first things they say in there.)

in short the most important room in his little mind palace for the romance is the very first room — the one where rook isn't. where, in fact, rook cannot be, because they disprove the entire structure of the place with their existence and presence in his life. with everyone else he's putting words in their mouths about what they think of him, and rook is the one who actually gets to come in to speak their own words to him — and have him listen. ('he'll listen to you, he always listens to you', 'your voice is a comfort'.) of course rook isn't present anywhere else in there — at the risk of stating the obvious to a tedious degree, they aren't one of the locks, they're bringing the key. in the very finest 'the messenger and the message' sort of way.

[electronicmail]

Firefox-official vs electronicmail

Hydrogen bomb vs coughing baby

okay come up with a better idea then. firefox-official is gone asshole it’s electronicmail or nothing

[mamawasatesttube]

what WERE tim and kon doing in that closet together that made kon have to get dressed afterwards anyway? wrong answers only. i'll start i think they were playing two person strip poker but tim cheated like a motherfucker. actually wait that doesn't make this sound any less gay. um. hold on. there's gotta be something. um

[lazylittledragon]

ok i swear i'm not going to talk about my breakup forever but the thing that just keeps bothering me:

i know that not getting what you need in a relationship is a COMPLETELY valid reason to end it but also. i feel like having a very vulnerable moment where i opened up about my struggles with intimacy and being relieved that i didn't have to keep doing things i wasn't comfortable with, then being dumped a YEAR later because of my lack of intimacy. is something i should be allowed to be very hurt by???

[utterlyazriel]

this ribbon of blood that ties us together

a/n: i luv ignoring my wips and going feral and emerging from a doc 48 hours with this word count: 6.3k synopsis: Once upon a time, a high-society girl, you were to be wed. Two years on, you live a much different life alongside Arthur Morgan, an outlaw life, despite your squeamishness to blood, killing, and the like. But when the past won't stay buried, you learn just how far you'll go to protect the man you love. hurt/comfort, mutual pining, friends to lovers, period-typical sexism & canon-typical violence

By all accounts, according to Arthur, the two of you should not be friends.

Not that you weren’t lovely company! And nor was it that you couldn’t stand his long, sullen silences, even if he had trouble believing you were enjoying yourself, just sitting by him.

But there was a clear difference between you — one that Arthur felt sorely.

He hadn’t wanted to call you innocent, ‘cos you weren’t the naive type and you weren't stupid neither. But for running with a gang of outlaws? Your hands were remarkably clean.

See, you hadn’t killed a thing, ever: man or beast.

You got squeamish if you were on cooking duty when Pearson was butchering up the latest hunt, eyes hastily averted. You had pouted all day when John tread on a butterfly, even if it was entirely by accident. You passed off darning shirts to Tilly if they were too blood-soaked, nausea evident on your face.

Well, passed off is the wrong wording. More like, tried to sew without looking at your hands til Tilly took pity and offered to switch with you.

You weren't naive, you just didn't like to see things die. Not an awful hill to die on, Arthur had to agree. Neither did he in most cases.

Micah liked to grouse that you were definitely not cut out for gang life—said with a predatory curl of his lip, eyes shining with malicious intent. Probably was dreaming up all those ways to frighten you, or ruin your "innocence", just for the hell of seeing you shriek.

But Micah was a bad man. You knew that.

It’s why Arthur didn’t understand why the hell you tolerated him.

Watching you over the fire, the air bending in the heat, Arthur relents with a sigh. You did much more than tolerate him. If he wasn’t feeling so sour-faced, he probably go as far as to say you liked him, good and proper.

Besides, he could admit he was a better man than Micah; even if only in the faintest of ways.

He killed just as much. He’s beat men to death with his bare hands, blood flying and bones crunching. He doesn’t hesitate to send a bullet into any unlucky bastard getting between him and the next score for the gang.

Arthur knows feeling guilty doesn’t absolve him of nothin’.

At least he helped people too. Stopped when a lonely straggler needed a ride, retrieved stolen bags, and hunted down herbs and flowers. He enjoyed being the good thing riding into town, even if at time it took a hell of a lotta patience.

That was something he had, that Micah did not.

It just wasn’t enough for Arthur to understand why you might care for him.

But Arthur Morgan is not one to look the gift horse in the mouth and so despite how unlikely it should be, the two of you were friends.

It means being greeted in the early morning with a cup of coffee, the cup pressed into his hand before he’s even wiped the sleep from his eyes. You don’t linger, not any longer than you need to make sure he’s not gonna drop the hot mug.

The first time you had offered it, Arthur had been so surprised he had nearly dropped it.

You had laughed, hands darting out to steady the cup, and looked up at him through your lashes. “Hold tight, cowboy. That’s important stuff in there.”

Arthur had wondered then if this was what it was like to be struck by lightning. Each atom of his body fizzed, coming alive with a hum.

He had opened his mouth, then closed it, uncharacteristically flustered by the gesture.

You had laughed again, softer this time. Arthur finally reined himself in and tipped his hat in appreciation—mainly to hide the colour on his cheeks.

“Thank you kindly, miss.”

“You’re very welcome, Mister Morgan.” You had mused, amusement in your smile. Then you departed, other chores calling your name, with nothing more than a smile thrown over your shoulder.

For him, your friendship means finding the little gifts of the world to bring back. He hadn’t thought too much of it before, passing through homesteads and general stores with only fleeting glances.

However, after a week of hand-delivered cups of coffee, Arthur had begun to hunt for something of equal calibre he could give in return.

Several flowers sat in his tent, wilting and drying in the sun, in the grasp of a man too unsure of himself to gift them. He bought sweets, an extra chocolate bar in his satchel, before it was eaten in gnawing worry of what you’d think.

He was a brute. Trying to gift you nice things from his violent hands was downright laughable.

It wasn’t until he found a hair-pin, silver and slender with a delicate flower atop it, did Arthur manage to finally give back. He’d bought it before he could chicken out and once he had it, he thought it would be far stranger to keep it than to gift it.

You liked wearing flowers in your hair. That had been why Arthur picked them for you—but this, you could wear always, without it wilting.

He’d handed it over as you had passed him his morning coffee, pressing it into your palm as nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he hid his smile behind his coffee at your delighted gasp, your joy infectious and unmistakable.

You had thanked him profusely, for the first time not calling him Mister Morgan, but instead Arthur. His name had never sounded sweeter than falling from your lips

And that there… that was the one other, really good reason that you and him shouldn’t be friends.

Because as sure as the sun rose every morning, Arthur Morgan rose with it, undeniably in love with you.

—

You had been engaged once before.

Not by choice—an important distinction you hold fast to. Even if Karen likes to make passing jokes about you being a woman already spoken for, you’re thankful when Abigail quickly shoots her down with a piercing glare.

There is, after all, only one real reason a woman like you ends up on the run.

Rufus Hugo is your particular reason. A man up to his neck in wealth, pilfering the land for oil, and, as last you knew, looking for a fourth wife.

You’d once thought him unlucky, your poor fiancé.

How is it one man can be followed by such tragedy? Three young wives, in the space of a couple years, each found violated and slaughtered in the back alleys of Saint Denis, red smiles cut into their throats.

You’d once been a fool.

The papers and Sheriff had to be under his thumb, considering the blind eye and frilly stories they turned out. The rumours told a different, darker tale — ones that fell on deaf ears, too twisted up in your own plastic assurances.

Your father wouldn’t have organised this if he knew. And— and he couldn’t know, because it simply couldn’t be true.

Rufus treated you like a jewel, plying you with expensive gifts and decadent clothing, more than you’d ever had before.

When the nag in your gut didn’t leave, he had coaxed it out of you — the fear of some maniacal killer, out for the blood of Mister Hugo’s betrothed — and then he assured you with a feline smile of a wolf.

No one’s going to lay a hand on you, treasure. The only man who gets to touch you is me.

Adoring at the time.

Stomach-churning in hindsight.

You’d overheard entirely by accident, a fact that makes your heart skip stutter if you think about it too long.

Pure luck saved your life. Pure chance that you’d overheard them, wandering the halls at one of the many parties held in the honour of your engagement.

His nasty habit revealed to you in a manner of words, floating out the keyhole.

His sickening tone, lusty and humorous at once, you heard him tell the other men at the party how there was nothing better than how tight their cunts had got when he dragged the blade across their jugular.

Your stomach had plummeted. Bile crawled thickly up your throat.

The version of the world you knew contorted painfully, upside down and suddenly all wrong.

And like the vicious pain of stepping into a bear trap, the hinges of it sweeping up with sharpened blades, you knew if you stayed that you would undoubtedly be next.

You ran.

With nothing but the clothes on your back, frenzied like an animal being cornered, you ran. It was thankful you managed any coherent ideas as you tore down the stairs, pushing through the party, uncaring of the cries that followed you — but stealing a horse was probably the only reason you survived.

Though you sparsely knew how to ride it, you rode for two long, hard days before exhaustion caught up.

No amount of distance felt safe enough to slide off your dead-tired horse but you were given no choice. Your stomach ached with the growl of hunger and delirium had begun to creep in from your lack of sleep.

You were parched beyond relief and still in your god forsaken party dress, when you let your horse slow to a stop in a shallow river.

Then you’d fallen off in one spineless lump.

Caught somewhere between physical exhaustion and sleep, the freezing water had been quite the wake-up. More so when you surfaced, spluttering, and there was a man standing before you — muttering something about a strange damn woman.

It was the very first night you laid your eyes upon Arthur Morgan—soon after which, you promptly fainted from exhaustion.

The same night you disappeared from Saint Denis — becoming a ghost before you were doomed to become one at the hands on your to-be husband — you were reinvented in the warmth of a gang on the run.

—

Two years on, you stop wondering if Rufus Hugo still hunts for his fourth bride.

There would have been search parties for you, you’re sure of it. Even if half the party could attest to you fleeing of your own accord, a rich man doesn’t give up his prizes so easily.

But somewhere along the way, you’re not sure when, you stopped looking over your shoulder. You no longer tensed at every new, unfamiliar figure on the horizon, certain it was your past crawling back.

You’re not sure when—but you sure as hell know why.

Sliding off his horse in one fluid motion, Arthur hitches the reins on the post out front the general store with a grunt.

It’s a blazing day in Rhodes, the desert sun overhead. A mirage pools in the distance, along the main road. There’s little wind to cool you, just the buzz of flies around the horses.

It’s just you and Arthur travelling today.

An unnecessary journey for the sake of enjoying each other’s company; under the guise of camp work, of course.

You two are friends. Arthur kept his distance from most gang members, happier on the outside of the circle, which you knew.

It meant that when you got these moments — Arthur inviting you along for a journey to a town, the myriad of gifts he seemed to find for you — you couldn’t help but… hope.

You steal a glance at the cowboy, drinking in his rugged profile. He’s due for a shave, his beard a little longer than you know he prefers, but you gladly enjoy the sight.

Men in the city were groomed and clean-shaven. There’s something much more real about the ruggedness of Arthur’s appearance, his blue eyes flashing your way from beneath his hat. You catch the hint of his smile too.

Watching him subtly, he takes a moment to coo his praise to his mare, Hypatia. She nickers affectionately, searching for a treat that he dotingly gives. His rough voice whispers lowly of how he spoils her, even as he brushes her neck gently.

Sometimes, you really think Arthur likes horses more than he likes people.

It doesn’t bother you—how could it? How could you feel anything but soft-hearted when you see him dote on his horse, all his corners softened?

Besides, you think it’s a good show of character.

You’ve heard how he talks to himself sometimes, self-deprecating mutterings of how he’s a bad man, unworthy of your kindness.

But you’ve met worse men before.

Arthur may have killed, but never senselessly. Never for pleasure.

“I think,” Arthur says, his southern drawl thick. He tips his hat to the general store ahead of you both. “The spices will be second floor.”

Can’t hunt, can’t kill, can’t thieve — but god, can you cook.

It had been nice to have something to bring to the gang, considering your general squeamishness. Arthur decided long ago it was worth heading further south for the better spices closer to the city.

“I gots to pick up some more ammo, but I’ll meet ya in there.” His gaze finds the gun store across the street before tracking back to yours. He checks, “That alright?”

You nod to him, as your own mare butts your shoulder gently, making you laugh.

“Yeah, that’s alright, Arthur.” You affirm, reaching back to give her a pat. The sweet smile you wear is equal parts for her as it is for the cowboy before you.

“See you in a minute,” you say. Arthur nods, boots kicking up the red dirt as he begins to make his way down the main street.

The worn steps of the general store creek underfoot as you make your way up them, already mentally flicking through what you’d wanted to buy.

Salt, oregano, thyme… maybe some cumin, knowing how much Arthur seems to like it. Nodding politely to the shopkeeper, you head for the second story stairs — missing the flash of someone familiar through the window, peering in.

These wooden stairs are far less worn than those outside, but the traces of countless boots are evident all the same. Hand on the railing, you ascend slow, mind wandering off easily.

It’s venison for dinner, if you aren’t mistaken, from the latest hunt Charles brought in. Maybe tonight you’ll make convince Pearson to make the stew your way—spiced heavily and just the way Arthur likes it. (He hasn’t told you that half the reason is because it’s you making it.)

You approach the lined shelves with a hum, eyes dancing from colourful tin to colourful tin. Spotting your first target, a trusty tin of salt, you miss the creek of the floorboards behind you as you reach for it.

“Treasure.”

Your hand falters, fingers outstretched, halted in the place. There’s the unmistakable heat of a body behind you— but even so, the scrape of a knife leaving its sheathe confirms it.

A shuddering exhale forces from your mouth as the knife is suddenly beneath your chin, hovered above your throat. You lock in place, hand still held out. A hurricane of harrowing dread howls through you.

It couldn’t… it couldn’t be him.

No way could he have found you now, after years of your disappearance — no way was he still fucking looking for you.

The well of horror in your chest caves in, growing like a sinkhole, as your mind repeats the same word over and over: no, no, no, no, no.

The blade moves up, the cool edge of it pressing to your chin. You inhale sharply and feel a tremble start to take your body as your face is forcibly turned, pulling your gaze to a sickeningly familiar face.

“My, my,” Rufus croons. “My little bride to-be. Been lookin' for you a long time.”

Your nose wrinkles at the title, one you’d renounced the minute you'd fled, all those months ago. His dark eyes narrow at the motion and travel to your outstretched left hand, eyeing it with a glint.

“No ring.” He tuts, letting the knife fall back against your throat and resting it there.

You snatch your hand back in, hands flying to his arm and pulling with all your might—a fruitless battle against his strength. All it earns you is the sharp edge of the blade pressing further into your skin and you stop moving quickly, another gutted gasp pulled from you.

"Do you even know," He hisses into your ear. "How much goddamn money I spent on you? On trying to track you down?"

The venom in his voice leaks out, replaced by a charismatic purr you're far more familiar with. Once upon a time, it had voiced believable assurances from a man who would happen to be your husband.

Now, it only widens the sinkhole in your chest.

"You've cost me a fortune, treasure. Now I've come to collect what I'm owed."

A finger draws an idle line on your back, creeping forward along the stroke of your waist. Try as you might to suppress it, a shiver skitters through you and your throat presses ever closer to the knife again.

It's enough to pierce the skin, just a sliver, before the finger on your waist turns is joined by four others, clamping tightly.

Your balance wavers as you're forced back, the hard line of his body pressing flush up against you.

Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck are you going to do?

Eyes screwing closed, you force your breath to remain even. You— you have your own revolver but if you move, you don't doubt Rufus has any qualms with painting the shop-floor with your blood.

If he wants you, he'll have to move you- he— he'll have to leave the shop and then, you can try—

A loud clatter sound and your eyes fly open, catching on to what's been dropped — your stomach following suit quickly. Your revolver glints back at you.

"Here's what's going to happen," Rufus begins, as if he's merely discussing the weather. "You and I are gonna—"

His voice drops at the intrusion of noise, a squeak from the stairs behind you. In an instant, you remember the person you're waiting on. Arthur.

A desperate mixture of terror and relief shoves up your throat. It's a warning and a cry for help simultaneously.

When the knife shifts, you have no choice but to shift too, your body and Rufus twisting deftly—his other hand drawing his revolver in an instant, the barrel directed at Arthur. He's already drawn back the hammer.

There's no keeping your breathing even now. Not as you get to watch Arthur's distracted gaze tug upward, seeing the horror seep into his expression. His body becomes deathly still.

You don't come along on jobs for good reason. Even so, you aren't so naive as to think being an outlaw has no risks. You know Arthur has been on the barrel-end of innumerable weapons, that he risks his life on the daily.

You've just never had to see it with your own eyes before.

The scene unfolding before you feels like a honest-to-god nightmare, ripped from the most fearful parts of your mind and thrust into reality.

A slush of hysteria churns within you at the realisation you may very, very well watch Arthur die today. The man who had been the first to hold out his hand, to offer you aid, to pull you from the life you were running to escape.

The one you hold too closely in your heart, in your affections.

The thought triggers something to seize terribly in your heart — and you know suddenly, without doubt, you'll do anything to stop it from happening.

There's a long moment where nobody breathes. You watch as Arthur's sharp eyes dart from the gun, to the knife on your neck, up to your face in rapid succession. You watch his horror bleed into a vengeful fury, one like you've never seen before.

"You don't want to do that."

The words come out so low it's nearly a growl. Arthur's hand moves, drawing back to his holster when Rufus interrupts.

"Uh, uh, uh," He taunts, quickly turning the barrel of the gun to your head. The barrel of it butts against your temple.

Arthur freezes.

"That's right. You're going to drop your revolver."

It's a staggeringly long moment as Arthur wrestles with what to do, his hand still hovering, fingers twitching. Then the knife nudges closer and the single trickle of blood down the column of your neck is enough to have him complying.

It lands with a thud against the floor. It feels like the nail in the coffin.

"Why are you doin' this?"

The revolver in Rufus' hand lolls forward to aim back at Arthur, the motion almost lazy. He smiles.

"She didn't tell you?" His attention switches to you, using his thumb on the knife to stroke along your neck. "Is this who you replaced me with, treasure? He's hardly an upgrade. Hell, he looks—"

The words die off as Rufus' head snaps back to Arthur, his passive grip on his gun changing in an instant.

For one long moment, he studies the outlaw across from you both and then, horribly, you feel the moment he starts to laugh.

"Oh, treasure," He all but coos at you. You see Arthur bristle across the room. "You're precious. Runaway with the outlaws, did you? This day just gets better and better."

He focuses his gaze back on Arthur and lines up his aim, hand steady. "I've seen your wanted posters, Mister Morgan. A fine five thousand to bring you in. My bride and my money all in a day's work."

He grins like the goddamn cat that got the cream, finger adjusting on the trigger.

And even though you know he knows, even though you know you told him, you can't help how your focus snaps to Arthur's reaction. Your stomach swoops in a horrible twist.

Because you can't but wonder if you're worth the trouble. As if you think, that now, as he realises who this man from your past is, he'll relent. He'll hand you over.

Understanding flickers across Arthur's face, the word bride sinking in with a sting. Then, somehow, the lethality rippling from his very being grows, expanding tenfold.

He's downright murderous, looking every bit of the immoral, malevolent man he believes himself to be.

He is never going to hand you over, you realise, the fear dissipating in the air like smoke.

Another one takes its' place. It's a terrible truth; he'll get himself killed trying to save you.

"Best of all?" Rufus hums. "You're wanted dead or alive, Mister Morgan."

He'll kill him.

You act without thinking. Distracted enough, Rufus' strength is beaten as your wrench the arm holding the knife back far enough to bite down into it, hard. Blood springs up beneath your teeth, the hard lines of sinew snapping beneath the force.

Rufus howls in pain. The revolver drops Arthur from its' sights as Rufus shoves against you fiercely, the butt of the gun slamming against your temple in a loud knock. You both hurtle to the ground in a desperate struggle—and all you can think of it the blade in his hand.

It presses forward, aimed for your neck, and you rip your teeth out of his arm, taking a pound of flesh with it. Rufus wails again and the knife surges forward, intended for your heart.

You twist frantically and escape the hold, scampering up and with nothing but pure instinct, your urge the blade into his own chest, pressing with all your weight.

It sinks in with a satisfying, bubbling gurgle. Blood rises quickly to spew from the wound, a river of red spilling out.

He's going to kill him—he's going to kill Arthur. The manic thought has your hands prying the knife out and driving it back in again, over and over, his body making soft squelching as gutted sounds drag from his mouth.

Blood sprays wildly, coating your face and clothes, but you can't stop. You can't stop, he's going to kill Arthur and take you away from him. You can't let it happen— you can't—

Hands pull at your arms and you seize wildly, dropping the knife and thrashing away, but in doing so, Arthur swings into vision.

It's him. He's alive. He's the one touching you. He's speaking, his lips moving, but no words are reaching your ears.

Your chest is heaving, hyperventilation wracking your body. Your ringing ears finally tune back in.

"—alright, you're alright. It's me. He's dead. He's dead. You're okay." Arthur murmurs, almost nonsensically, his hands held out, palms up. He's crouched before you and he barely knows what he's saying, but you're staring at him like a wild animal, drenched in blood.

"It's okay," He says again, desperate to help you in any way he can, blues eyes locked on you. "You're okay."

There's still blood in your mouth from the chunk you've taken out of Rufus' arm and a bright red splatter of it sprayed across your face.

"I—" The word coughs out of you.

Your gaze falls into horror as you take in the body growing cold on the floor next to you. Arthur watches the panic set in as the realisation of what you've done sets in.

"I- I had to, I had to," You begin to babble, terror threaded in your tone. "I had to, he was— he was gonna kill you."

"Hey, hey," Soothing sounds fall from his lips as Arthur shifts forward, reaching for you desperately. You grip his forearms, eyes wide, as if you need to make him understand.

"He was gonna—" Your words are interrupted by your own choking sob, breathing coming too fast. "Arthur, he was gonna kill you, I-I had to."

"I know, I know," Arthur croaks out, his throat thickening as his own realisation dawns. This hadn't been an act of rabid self-defence, as he thought. You had killed Rufus for him.

You, who can't stand the sight of blood, who gets queasy at the butchers, who doesn't like to hunt or kill — but will for him. To protect him. If he wasn't already there, the sheer display of love would send Arthur crumbling to his knees.

But he just moves his hands, his violent hands, to cup your face. The blood smears. "I know, sweetheart."

Your staring him, your eyes still wide and wild, looking frantically for something in his face. Forgiveness? Absolution?

Arthur will gladly absolve you of this, a crime that was barely a crime at all. Saving his life and your own, at the cost of the life of a killer.

There's blood on your eyelashes and in your hair. Your breathing slows but your bottom lip quivers with a fierceness. In the smallest voice he's ever heard from you, you whisper, "I had to," then crumble.

Arthur's large body cradles yours easily, one hand tucking around your middle and the other shifting to cup the back of your head as you sink into him. Your head tucks away in the crook of his neck, soft sobs spilling out easily now, and something awful aches in Arthur's chest.

"I got you," He repeats, a promise, a goddamn oath he swears to keep. "I got you, you're okay. You didn't do nothin' wrong."

He feels downright evil to move you so soon but his ears prick at some commotion below. Casting his eyes back to dead body, Arthur knows the large pool of blood has made its way through the floorboards. It's only a matter of minutes before the Sheriff will be here.

"Shit." He curses. He strokes a tender hand along your hair, calling gently for your attention.

"We gotta move. People are comin'. Can you walk?"

You dig your face out of his neck, movements sluggish. The exhaustion from the terror has drained you, your eyelids already drooping, limbs heavier.

Arthur makes the call for you.

Hoisting you softly into his hold, he keeps you nestled against his broad chest, arms tucked behind your back and the bend of your knees. He's almost thankful you can't stand, if only so he can feel the puffs of breaths that escape you against his neck, a reminder you're still with him.

Arthur eyes the locked door in the back corner. It'll lead around the back of the general store and out to the street but Hypatia and your own horse were still hitched out the front. Gritting his teeth, he prepares himself for a wild run, hoping the element of surprise is enough.

It will be enough. It has to be enough.

It's with a charging sprint that he makes it down the stairs, his boots slamming against the wooden floorboards. He doesn't pause to take in the shop-keepers aghast reaction, nor the sprinkling shower of red from the ceiling.

He bursts out into the daylight. Eagle eyes scanning the streets, it's clear that, for now, he's ahead of the law.

With less gentleness than he'd prefer, Arthur pushes you up onto Hypatia's saddle, keeping one hand on your waist to keep you upright and on. His other reaches for the reins hitched over the post and he snags them free, quickly doing the same for your horse.

There's a yell down the street, loud and demanding. Arthur doesn't spare a glance, vaulting himself up onto the saddle behind you.

With a hyah! and a loud, practised whistle, Hypatia breaks into a sprint, quickly followed by your own horse.

Two horses tear down main street, hooves thundering, a fearsome and unstoppable silhouette against the western sun.

The townspeople bleat their fear, barely leaping out the way in time as the horses rush by. Dust kicks up a red-dirt storm. Soon, when it settles, gone will be the only proof you were ever there.

Arthur rides.

The weight of you, slumped back in his chest, is less of a comfort than he would like.

He wants to— no, needs to see your eyes, needs to intercept every foul, wicked thought running rabid in your mind. You’re clawing at your soiled conscience, he’s sure of it, trying to tear the new stain on it from you.

Ruined yourself—for him.

A spidering guilt cloys in his chest, darker than ink and sharper than any blade or bullet he’s ever felt before. His chest aches.

Arthur knows he’s a bad man. He just never imagined he might drag you down to his murky depths.

Swallowing heavy, he grips the reins tighter. Leather bites into his palms. He welcomes the punishment.

He feels, more than hears, your sudden shuddering gasp as you come back to yourself. Your exhaustion must have dipped away enough and it’s clear, for a moment, you struggle to place yourself and your surroundings.

The jostle of a horse beneath you is a giveaway but even so, Arthur feels your hand curl across his toned forearm. Your grip is tight, nearly masking the tremble in your fingers. Nearly.

“It’s me,” Arthur assures, raising his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear over the rumble of galloping. “I got you, it’s Arthur.”

The grip on his arm loosens, his works sinking in, and you nod wordlessly. You let him cocoon you in safety, surrounded in his arms.

Unknown to Arthur, the ride is far too reminiscent of the journey you’d taken all those years ago; the long, hard ride with no goal but putting distance between you and where you were running from. Who you were running from.

Except this time, the one you're running from is dead. He’s dead and you killed him.

It’s unclear how far he travels, the sun sitting lower in the sky, a pinkness blooming on the horizon, before Arthur pulls Hypatia into a slower trot.

You hadn't been followed out of Rhodes, he knows, but he’d still taken you as far as he could, likely further than necessary.

But now, out of physical danger, his priority switches on a dime, all of his senses zoned in to you before him. You, still wordless, still vacant, still painted in a glaze of scarlet.

The decision come easy, Arthur using his keen skills to trot towards the sound of water. A thorough check ensures you'll have no company and Arthur wastes no time, tugging the reins to a halt with a quiet click. He dismounts, large hands reaching for you before his boots even hit the dirt.

You’re willing, your hands seeking him, finding his shoulders and allowing him to help you off Hypatia. There’s a dulled look in your eyes and Arthur knows he will do anything—anything— to change that.

Feet on the ground, you’re level with his chest and you blink slowly, staring forward.

For a moment, Arthur waits, his brows drawn together in his concern. He gives you the moment. If you need to cry, to scream, to blame him — he'll take it, weather whatever storm you have brewing within you.

But you only drag yours eyes up to meet his, voice still small, "I got blood on you."

Another fracture in his chest, another ache of misery. Arthur sighs, gaze softening immeasurably, his hand coming up to cup your cheek tenderly. The blood smears beneath his touch.

"That's alrigh', sweetheart." He murmurs, sweet as he can. He tilts his head slightly, towards the lazy, roving river, blue eyes never leaving you. “Will ya let me clean yer up? In the river?”

You seem to just notice the riverbank you’re standing upon, head twisting to peer at the roaming water of the river.

A nod, minuscule and unnoticeable, if he wasn’t tuned into your every movement.

His hand on your face shifts, reaching down to tangle with your own. It's an anchor in unsteady seas, solid and unflinching.

Your eyes take in your hands, intertwined, and trail up to his face — and you know, with a sudden burning intensity, you can't regret what you've done today.

Not if it means having him. Not if it means saving him.

Arthur leads you down to the water, slow and steady. You follow, hand clutching his tightly, like a devoted follower who trails a messiah, your salvation ahead.

Stopping only to remove your boots and his own, along with his hat, Arthur bites back his hiss at the chill of the water as he wades his way in, fully clothed. The water licks up his calves, thighs, rushing around the sudden intrusion. When it reaches above his waist, he pauses, letting you catch up.

The sun kisses the horizon in the distance, a mellow and amber light cast far across the landscape. Strange how much had happened, had changed, in a manner of hours.

Crickets chorus. In the nearby trees, an owl hoots a soft lullaby.

Arthur doesn't let go of your hand. With the other, he brushes it across the surface of the river and then reaches in, letting it pool into his palm. He brings it your face and lets its run across your hairline, loosening the blood that's crusted there.

It's a slow, dedicated process.

Hands, scarred and calloused, pass over your skin the softest of touches. His thumb works gently at your hair, washing the blood away into the river. You close your eyes when he asks you to, in a low murmur, and the cake of sin is cleaned from you in the most tender of motions.

"Will I ever be clean again?"

A whispered question, eyes still closed. The blood may be leaving but you can still feel it spraying across your face, hot and thick. It's sunk in, you're sure of it—evidence of your crime just an inch beneath your flesh.

"You are not unclean." Arthur grunts, his hand still moving as he speaks. His thumb passes over your jaw. "This— what you did, it don't dirty these hands, you hear me? You did what you needed to do. You did nothin' wrong."

The assurances feel heady and heavy and you want to shake them off. You're not yet sure if you deserve them.

"I'm not mad he's dead." You say. He has to know this.

"I'm not mad I—" Your voice wavers terribly, even if your mind is set. "—killed him."

Eyes fluttering open, you gaze up at Arthur, reverent and resolute. "I... I would do it again, Arthur."

The for you is unspoken.

But if he looks, if he peers between the lines, you know Arthur would find it, beside the I love you hidden within your earnest words.

It's barely a secret—not when you want him to see it. You've been torn open today, a festering wound split down your middle, and somehow nothing feels more crucial than him knowing.

Him knowing and loving you still, seeing you unchanged, despite it all.

The water rushes around you, carrying your transgressions away, and his hand in yours, dwarfing it, does not falter. Arthur's eyes graze across your face. He seems to find what he's searching for.

"You won't ever have to, sweetheart." He says, voice nearly a whisper.

His lips find your hairline, scraping a delicate kiss against the clean skin there. Then he presses his forehead against yours, soothing and intimate, a lifeline. An understanding and a reciprocation.

A sudden urge possesses you, the words clawing up your throat in a frenzy.

You need to tell him, need to say the words aloud and make him understand, as you had on that shop floor.

What if he doesn't know?

His forehead shifts against yours, the tips of your noses nudging together, your interwoven hands grasping each other just as tightly as the other. A warmth rises in your chest, glowing and fizzling, and despite the day, your lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

He knows.

[surrik-i]

This honestly made me tear up, a 17 year old engene named zika has passed away in gaza. this breaks my heart deeply. she was a fan just like us with dreams to one day see the boys. please try your best to spread her letter so it can possibly reach the boys!

@021894s @dr0wnme0ut @yvnempire @un06 @hee-dazed @heejake-hoon @karinasbaby @en-geneisaxx @enh4s @dollyyun @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby @slickchickchocolatier @yeonzzzn @urfavouriteanon @stickypiratepeach @j3nnypng @hoondrop @hoonharem @simpjaes @heeverseblog @heeslomll @jakesangel @acestuffs @dazed-enha @ikeuluvr @ikeuhoonverse