#i hope this is what you were getting at. sorry if it's not. i was't sure about that last bit in particular.

[scoobydoodean]

I just perused your tags about Dean’s narrative heart, and Sam’s motivations, and I’ve been full of thinky thoughts. There’s nothing to really disagree with in your premise, but I am trying to piece that together with something external to the story.

I knew before I watched the first episode that Sam was The Chosen One, but I didn’t really start watching until s12, and had some catching up to do. So I’m trying to wrap my head around making your Chosen One act so… morally grey. It’s a risky move, but I feel like if Kripke’s story had enough to keep us all so fascinated more than a decade after his personal involvement, maybe there’s a deeper reason Sam seems so young.

Maybe that’s just it, though. Whatever we think we know about his childhood, and Dean’s parentification, Sam is only 22. He’s not sheltered, but he is still maturing.I’m showing my creaky bones here, but to me, Sam behaves consistently with his age group. BUT he’s deliberately not presented against a backdrop of college kids, and Dean leaning into the macho party boy in the first few years sort of deflects from that, like sleight of hand.

And so Sam sliding from the Chosen One straight into addictive behaviours does make a strange kind of sense, because there’s part of the wound the addiction is patching up.

I’m sorry for rambling into your inbox, but I’m pretty interested in your thoughts on this.

I think maybe it helps to know that one of Kripke's influences was Star Wars and to consider this through that lens. Dean was partly based on Han Solo, and Sam was partly based on Luke Skywalker. Luke matures over the course of the original Star Wars trilogy, but he had some growing to do between episode IV and episode VI (and the fact that he has matured is something the characters specifically make note of in the jump from "The Empire Strikes Back" to "Return of the Jedi".

I also think it's reasonable to think Kripke decided to take Sam in a sort of hybrid Luke/Anakin direction after he completed the pilot (Star Wars Episode III where Anakin turns to the dark side came out in May of 2005, and Supernatural began airing that Fall). Playing out the Chosen One trope with Sam, in a Star Wars context means that him going grey and then dark is exactly what you want, because that's exactly what happens with Star Wars' Chosen One, Anakin. When we consider that the only people actually calling Sam The Chosen One in Supernatural are demons... well. Sam, the "chosen one", is actually destined to be used by the dark side (demons). He just doesn't know that in season 4 (or doesn't believe it).

In Star Wars, anger and hatred are considered primary tools of The Dark Side. Anger and hatred are big motivating factors for Sam in season 3 (where he really starts to turn morally grey) and 4, and season 5 is in some sense supposed to be about Sam maturing and learning to let go of some of his anger because it's something Lucifer (The Dark Side) can use (5.10, 5.11, 5.20). I'm not a big fan of anger being treated as "the bad emotion", but it is a big deal in Star Wars, and it helps make sense of what it means for Sam to have a chosen one storyline over the first 5 seasons.

Within that whole framework, there's also definitely a lot about growing up and becoming more mature (like Luke Skywalker did) and the tension of whether the protagonist will be consumed—essentially—by the ghost of his father (just like Vader initially tried to lead Luke to the dark side).

There's an intersection somewhere in this ask with "being the main character" I think? But I don't actually consider Sam to be the sole lead of Supernatural. From a story perspective, that simply hasn't ever been true whether Kripke intended it or not (and I don't even think he did. I think Sam functions as the sole lead in the pilot episode just like Hughie functions as the sole lead in the pilot for The Boys as a relatable vehicle for the audience to be introduced to the world. After that, we get Butcher and Homelander and everyone else and realize it's an ensemble show). Beyond the pilot, there is simply nothing that materially or narratively distinguishes Sam as a sole lead beyond Jared's name being first on the call sheet. He doesn't get more screen time than Dean (Dean gets more in almost every season and there are several episodes Sam is barely in), Sam doesn't get more dialogue than Dean, the found family does not center around Sam (it centers around his brother). He isn't even centered as the most competent fighter in action sequences. I don't say that to suggest Sam isn't a lead, but that seasons 1-5 are about Sam and Dean, and both are leads, which means Sam can be morally grey and even unlikeable at times (and so can Dean) as long as the brothers contrast/oppose one another in those circumstances so the audience doesn't become totally alienated. If Sam was actually the sole lead in any material way, they wouldn't have had the space to explore Sam's "dark side" this deeply, I think. At least not without entirely reframing what kind of story Supernatural is/what it's about.

[belphies-hands-around-my-throat]

Lucifer, Belphie, Levi NSFW - The Kinks They Discovered With You/Because of You

Hello there, sweets! Happy Halloween!! 🎃

And thank you for deciding to follow this blog lol. I'm honestly kind of surprised with the engagement lol.

This is a bit late but the day has been busy haha. I hope you like my first released NSFW for this blog... And since it's Halloween, I'm not holding back on kinks~~ Sorry, if it's not up to your standards, I am very tired. 🙈

Lucifer - Cockwarming

Well, he was surprised with this because… To put it simply, he never liked mixing pleasure and work. Before you, he would always get annoyed with someone as much as trying to hit on him in a professional setting. But you… You were different. You were there for him, you supported him, and he trusted you. He knew you wouldn't let him fail, and wouldn't get in the way of responsibilities, even if he sometimes wanted you to. Would stay all night doing his work for him, if he felt overwhelmed.

It was your idea. You thought it would be relaxing. Truth be told, he didn't exactly buy it. But he would indulge you, just this once if not again and again if needed.

He would get distracted at first, feeling your warm tight hole around his cock. If he had will any weaker, he would give it up right then and there.

But he had self-control.

He leaned into it, scratching line after line into the paper.

And after a while, he discovered… It really was relaxing in a way. Your presence often had that effect on him but this… Closeness, and intimacy, even when he was otherwise distracted. Somehow… He felt completely calm.

He would lean back in his chair sometimes, push his hips further into your willing mouth, and run his gloved fingers gently through your hair.

It felt good. In a way that was different than sex, or cuddling.

Something in between.

"What a good little pet." He would whisper, unwilling to break the sleepy trance you seemed to find yourself in. "You really knew me better than myself there. Good job."

Belphegor - Dacryphilia

Oh boy. He has a complicated relationship with this one. Here's the thing he always knew about himself - he liked to be somewhere on the "mean in bed" spectrum. He perhaps had more appreciation for tears than he ought to have before. But. You were and remain to be different.

It started for him when he was still stuck in the attic, after meeting you. He would fantasize about his brother's reaction a lot at the time. And your reaction, inadvertently, as well. He imagined how satisfying and thrilling it would be to see the look of betrayal and surprise on your face. And then he started seeing you more and more. It was only natural you appeared in his mind more and more. He wanted to see you crumpled on the floor, looking up at him with pleading eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks. He wanted to tangle his hands in your hair, bring you to his level, and lick them off your face.

Except not really. That would have been gross. You were a human, he would never do anything so dirty.

He wanted, for a second, to be your God and then crush you under his heel.

It was't sexual. Really, it wasn't! So what if he woke up with an aching dick a few times after those dreams. He was just… Excited. It happened. No way he would think of a human in this way. Gross, downright disgusting.

Later though… After his plan had been realized, he found out he was an idiot for punishing you in this way, for something that was never your fault.

Well, it… Still wasn't sexual. Now your tears would make his stomach throb, and he only wanted to wipe them away. Tear apart the person that caused them. They lost their appeal after he was the cause behind them one time too many.

Or so he had thought.

He did not expect the fantasy to come back. He did not expect that him teasing you, looking up at him with a pouting flushed face, tears in your eyes, would make him feel like he was on the highest point of a rollercoaster again.

Truth be told, he felt guilty. Probably not as guilty as he ought to be though (because… He didn't need to crush you, not in the same way. You could be safe, and his, and not really suffer and break for them to flow. And hell, if that happened, he was there to protect you now. You didn't need to bear them alone now.) because he kind of… Indulged.

He would tease you, even if he knew some things would make you terribly shy. Playfully deny you when you wanted to touch him, or just play with his things. Stop at the last moment, when he knew you were just so close to cumming. Overstimulate you on purpose, when he knew you already did.

"So cute." He would breathe against your face, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, your face caught between his soft and warm hands. "I can never get enough of it. Cry for me, just a bit more…"

Leviathan - Public+Voyuerism? Being a perv lol

Throughout his years on the planet (and various released hentai), Leviathan had a lot of sexual fantasies. Honestly, there wasn't a lot he couldn't find conceptually hot in one way or another… Well, this was it.

It was just… So embarrassing. The mere idea that he could be found out in any way was so utterly mortifying, that he sometimes had trouble with it, even within the context of his own fantasy. Let alone actually trying. He would always find himself embarrassed of PDA, screeching when something had even the tiniest potential of turning him on, turning away from revealing clothes, terrified of being called a pervert…

In retrospect, maybe that's why after all this, he found public to be such a turn-on in reality.

All the repression… Seeing you wear shorter and shorter skirts, lower necklines, coyly flashing him when you noticed him staring, pretending like you didn't notice but not only accepting his perverted gaze but revelling in it… He was never so turned on in his entire life.

The idea that you would see him as this dirty otaku pervert, see him like this and like it… He couldn't get enough of it.

He got a bit brave after a while. Not only staring but subtly brushing his chest against your back, smelling your hair, rubbing his bulge against your ass or thighs just for a moment in the school halls, before he would seriously die on the spot… Pretending like all this was just some freaky accident.

Slowly trailing his finger higher and higher on your leg while waiting in line, beyond titillated with the way your skirt hiked up, and you just stood there, red-faced, and took it.

He once couldn't take it anymore, couldn't stand the thought of getting found out that riled up, and took you to the public bathroom. He covered your face with his large palm, and thrust between your thighs, with your panties lowered just beneath your ass, slowly getting wet with both of your arousal.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" He would frantically chant in your ear, barely louder than a whisper. "Just for a little longer… Just let me for a little longer…"

[nikkisheep]

Rick Grimes' Girl

Rick Grimes x female!reader

Warnings: season 5 Rick, kiss, cursing, Judith crying, Aaron looks at the reader for a second too long for Rick's liking, everything Rick does is hot

kinda short but I rushed because I have too any ideas for this. Kinda bad too. Sorry

Summary: When meeting a stranger in the woods, the group seeks out the stranger's cars. Leaving you and Rick with the stranger in the barn with Judith.

The rain had cleared up. Maggie and Sasha came back with a man. A man we did not know if he was bad or if he was good. We knew nothing about him. Rick was talking to the man, at least he was before he punched the man. You were holding Judith, since taking him from Carl's arms, and watched the toned man's back flex after the punch.

Michonne wanted to check out the man's words but Rick did not trust them. He was not going to put his kids and the group at risk over something a man said. Eventually Rick caved to her words and gave them an hour to get back.

"You have 43 minutes," Rick said to the man who claims to be named Aaron.

Judith started crying while Rick tried and struggled to crush acorns in a bowl with the handle of his gun. You walked up to him and removed the crying Judith from his arms.

"Let me take care of her," You offer, bouncing the baby in your arms.

Rick looked at you with love and adoration which was not all that rare when he looked at you. With everything he had seen and done, you could barely believe that he was still able to look at someone with that stare.

"Did you see the apple sause in my pack?" Aaron spoke.

Rick then went on a crazy spree, not trusting the sause for his daughter. He forced the man to eat a spoonful to prove that it was not poisoned or anything that could harm Judith and then licked the remaining bit off the spoon. Now was not the time to fantasize about his tongue sticking out for just a second to lick the spoon.

You fed Judith and flattened her growing hair. Rick kept glancing at his watch, waiting for the group Glenn took out. He just itched to be proven right by the man that was bound on the ground of the barn. Yes, there was a small part of him that hoped there was actually a camp or community or whatever the hell Aaron had said but he just did not trust the man. Something in his gut was telling him not to trust the man who claimed that he could help the group and give them a home. He just did not want to risk it.

Aaron looked worried when the group still was not back after about 35 minutes. He looked at you while you cooed the baby to sleep and he smiled. He looked at how Judith fit right in your arms and how much you may be the mother.

"Is she yours?"

"No, I wish but no she isn't."

"She kinda looks like you."

"Shut you fucking mouth," Rick said. He did not want you to be talking to the stranger. He did not want the memory of Lori coming back to mind. Even after so long, she still haunts him in his sleep. But not when you can help it. You knew that he loved his wife and you knew that she would always have a place in his mind. She was the mother of Carl and Judith. Even if Judith wasn't Rick's, he still loved her as if she was. And in a way, she was his. She was everything to the former cop.

----

The group made it back with the news that Aaron was telling the truth about the cars, at least. Rick was listening to Michonne and Glenn speak while you moved to a haystack to sit on. Aaron looked over at you for a minute, hoping you could talk to the stubborn cop who threatened to stab him in the skull.

Daryl noticed and leaned down to Aaron's ear.

"I would stop staring."

"I was't staring."

"Listen, tha' girl is with the man in charg'. That's Rick Grimes' girl and ain't no body gonna touch her'. So if I was ya, I would stop lookin'."

Aaron looked at you and then the archer beside him. Daryl was giving him the look as if to say, "Go ahead and see what happens". Aaron simply bows his head and then glances up when Judith started to cry softly.

"Tell me where the camp is," Rick demanded.

Rick argued with the tied up man and he kept noticing that Aaron looked at you for help. But Rick did not think this quickly. No, no, he thought that Aaron was sizing you. Looking at you for too long and he was tired of it.

"She.is.mine." He gritted out and strutted over to your area.

Rick grabbed your head and pulled you into a kiss. His lips moved against yours and you started to get dizzy from how good it felt. Rick pulled away all too soon and you leaned to get another kiss from his soft lips. He chuckled and turned to Aaron.

"Stop looking at my girl and tell me where the camp is."

[anxiousstark]

Hey! Read you are taking requests for king!eddie. Super happy about that. Was wondering if you could write about Eddie seeing his Queen play with children, maybe they visit a orphanage, and wanting to give her that joy in her life. But talking about it with her, Eddie confesses how he doesn't think he will be a good father, since his father was't either, and his Queen reassuring him. It could end with smut, but I leave that up to you 🙏❤️

Love The Way You Do | EDDIE MUNSON First and foremost, I am sorry for not updating this sooner. Unfortunately, life happens lol, and to be honest, I had written at least 1K words before deciding it wasn't good enough and deleted it in order to write something else. I hope you cherish it and that it meets your expectations. I truly loved this idea.

Bastard King! Eddie x Queen!Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Mentions of sex, breeding, pregnancy, unprotected sex, child abuse, and violence. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

All Rights Reserved. The author, me, does not allow any type of copy or adaption.

BIG MASTERLIST

"You are incredibly talented." Eddie's soft fingertips glided across worn and tattered pages, his attention drawn to the wonderful artwork that appeared to be highly realistic. "This is seriously incredible, Tristan." His gaze was reluctant to divert away from the exquisite paintings, but his words were honest, and he wanted the teenager to grasp his true feelings. 

Tristan, who sat next to Eddie, grinned, his cheeks flushing as he bowed his head, hands between his legs, an act of shyness. "When I get out of here, I want to be a painter." He was about to turn eighteen, which meant he'd be allowed to leave the orphanage. Eddie, on the other hand, made certain that if someone needed to remain for a longer period of time, they could. "If I can." He sighed, looking down at his most prized notepad, which was on Eddie's knees. 

"Are you unsure whether or not you want to be a painter?" Eddie creased his brows. 

Tristan's head was instantly shaken. "I'm pretty sure I want to be a painter. It's my passion." The glint in his eyes vanished with his next words. "But I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to be one."

Eddie nodded his head, visibly pondering. "Well," His fingertips glided over the sketch of what appeared to be Aurora, one of the orphanage's girls. One that Tristan appeared to paint a lot, giving Eddie the impression that he liked her. "It won't be easy." He winced at the sound of his own words. He didn't want to lie to him or imply that life was simple. "However, I believe that if you dream big and work big, you will be big." Tristan didn't appear completely convinced, but he agreed, feeling a little more optimistic about his future.

"I will work tirelessly."

Eddie smiled at him, returning his gaze to the sketches sitting on his knees, and his fingers proceeded to trawl through the works he hadn't had time to look at. "This." His breath became trapped in his chest. 

"The queen," Tristan responded sheepishly.

"I know," he chuckled, his fingers longing to caress her face but not wanting to ruin the sketch. "Even in the darkest of rooms, I'd recognise her." His heart burned, and sensations of love tingled every part of his body. 

The artwork depicted her gorgeous grin as she waved through the carriage window on the day he revealed her as their future queen. He flushed as he recalled what had transpired between them minutes earlier. 

"It was the very first time we saw her." Eddie nodded without looking away. "She appeared kind, and I couldn't help but draw her." He waited for a few seconds, watching King Eddie's expression as he stared at a simple sketch of her. "She is kind." Both looked up as soon as those words were pronounced.

Eddie sighed, his gaze wandering over his wife's form. Her grin was wider than the one in Trsitan's sketch, and she had no worry in the world as she kneeled on the ground, surrounded by some of the orphanage's young children, who gazed at her with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. 

As she kneeled on the ground, his queen, but more importantly, his wife, was unconcerned about her new gorgeous gown. She had spent hours playing with the kids, while he had paid more attention to the older ones, who understood their predicament best. 

He chuckled. She had been anxious about meeting them, considering Eddie was heavily involved with the orphanage.

Eddie's initial move after assuming the throne was to visit the orphanage in his kingdom. He had discovered deplorable working conditions and treatment, and he had fired those who did not deserve to work with the younger generation, instead employing those who had proven to be pleasant souls. Then he used a portion of his nation's financial system to rebuild and expand the orphanage. He additionally made certain that the youngsters had all they needed. As a result, you were concerned about not being accepted by the children since you knew they adored Eddie, who interacted with them as if he were a child and spoke to them as if they were grownups.

Nonetheless, your husband had no doubts that you would be adored by all of the children, from the youngest to the eldest.

You'd played 'Save the Queen' with them, then 'tea time,' pretending to drink nothing and eat sand. The kids adored the fact that you played in the same fashion as they did. 

They sat on the ground around you now, listening to you read them a story. Some leaned against you, asleep, while others paid intent attention with eager eyes and thumbs inserted in their mouths as they sucked on them. 

Eddie's heart quivered as he saw your right hand clutching the book and your left hand cradling a toddler against you.

"Will you..." Tristan paused. "Would you like to have children, my King?"

Those words were so innocent, but so frightening for Eddie as the image of an individual he had buried deep inside himself flared in his mind. Did he desire children? The true question was not whether he wanted children or not, but whether he should have children. "I think I understand." Tristan kept on speaking, given that Eddie hadn't replied. "If I ever marry and have children." His glance travelled in the direction of Aurora, confirming Eddie's previous thoughts. "I'd be afraid of becoming like my father."

Tristan was one of the children who had lived with his father before being abandoned. 

Eddie was well aware that the man in question had carried out atrocities, and that the youngster seated next to him had endured the emotional and physical effects of having a violent father. Eddie couldn't help but tighten his fists whenever he identified his anxieties or the evident limp in his gait.

"Did your dad know how to paint?" Eddie inquired at random. Tristan raised his brows for a split second, perplexed by the shift in subject, but swiftly shook his head. "If you were different in that aspect, why wouldn't you be different in that one?" He took a peek at him. 

"If you're such an outstanding king, why wouldn't you be a wonderful father?"

Eddie was now bewildered since Tristan had used the same logic he had used on him. "Tristan." When he overheard his name, the boy gave a nod. "When will you be 18?"

"Next month."

"Perhaps you'd like to be the royal painter of the palace?" His mouth was gaping as he gazed at Eddie with wide green eyes. "You would be the one doing every portrait for the royal family, and you will be offered a very good place to live with your..." He cast a peek toward Aurora before returning his gaze to Tristan. "Your future family. You'll get compensated, of course, and I'll do all I can to get you professionally taught so you can learn more." Tristan nodded his head rapidly. "Great." Eddie grinned, snatching a pen from Tristan's fingers and writing a directive on a blank piece of paper. "As soon as you reach the age of 18, write a letter to Dustin. He is one of my devoted peers, and he will notify me that you have written to him." He returned the drawings and the paper. "I will send a carriage for you as soon as I receive such a letter." He smiled as his hand rested on the kid's back.

Eddie had been fairly quiet on the trip home, and he remained mute even while you recalled your greatest highlights of the day. His gaze looked lost, and he appeared to be deep in contemplation as he changed his clothing, slowly undressing, eager for the day to end the moment he went under the sheets of your shared bed. 

"Eddie?" He hummed. His back was against the bed's headboard, and his arms were draped over the sheet that covered his naked chest. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Hmm?" His gaze shifted to his side when he noticed you donning one of your nightgowns and grabbing a corner of the sheet to get into bed. "Did you say something, sweetheart?"

Eddie would often turn on his side and gaze at you as soon as you climbed into bed, but he didn't this time. "Eddie." Your voice was barely audible, accompanied by a grimace. "What thoughts are you lost in?" 

His gaze met yours for the first time in hours. He didn't look at you. He saw you. 

"Today," he said as he took a big breath. As he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his hands flew to his head, fingers digging holes into his temples. "You looked breathtaking with the kids today." When he finally looked your way, he noticed your perplexed countenance. "You were filled with joy, and you seemed so natural holding that little girl." His face lit up with a smile. "They loved you, and you loved them."

"Is that...bad?" 

Eddie chuckled and shook his head. "No, not at all." His right hand brushed your cheek. "It made my heart ache peculiarly, and I found myself wanting to have children with you." You found yourself crying as you grinned at his remarks. "I want little yous and little mes running around this palace giggling, but..."

"But what?"

A quivering sigh exited his body, sending shivers down your spine. "I have no idea what a good father is supposed to be like, and I don't want to bring children into this world if their worst enemy is the person who should always have their back."

"My love." You sat down, acknowledging his concerns and allowing him to place his head against your chest and tummy. "You are not going to be like your father." You could feel his chest heave as he inhaled deeply to speak, but you didn't allow him. "I have proof that you will be a fantastic dad." Your fingers were entwined with his locks. "The way in which you treat Dustin and the others? How you are so involved with the children at the orphanage, and how much you care about everyone?" As you spoke about him, his head tilted upward, attempting to gaze at you. "You played with the kids, talked to the older ones, and played with them too." The pride in your voice as you mentioned him. "You looked very handsome and caring while feeding Lily." Your eyes sparkled. Lily, a one-year-old, appeared to be entirely in love with Eddie, her eyes shining as she only relaxed in his arms. "You were fantastic with them, Eddie. And, while I didn't know your father personally, I know he didn't love the way you do. He didn't have a single ounce of affection in him. However, you," Your hands gripped both of his cheeks, forcing him to stare at you. "King Edward Munson, you are all love."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"Do you want to have children with me? Children we will absolutely love and protect?" You nodded, your eyes welling up. "Fuck." As he rose from your breasts and abdomen, he drew a big breath and blinked swiftly. "Are you sure you're serious?"

"I wouldn't say yes if I wasn't serious, Eddie." He nodded, his gaze shifting from yours to your lips. "Children come with a lot of responsibility."

Eddie's eyes darkened as he sat on the bed, his stare fixed on you. Your brow wrinkled, perplexed by his solemn gaze. As his hands held your legs, you fell fully on your back, your head resting against the mattress rather than the pillow. "Eddie? What?" You were stunned by his behaviour and had your eyes wide open. His curls vanished beneath your nightgown and between your legs. As his warm breath stroked your sensitive skin, his fingertips rubbed on the flesh of your thighs. "What exactly are you doing?" A chill ran through your body, and an unsteady breath became trapped in your chest. He did not respond to your query, though, as he planted a light kiss on the center of your core. "Eddie." A cry emerged from between your lips, and the heat threatened to overpower you as you pushed up your nightgown, wanting, yearning to see the magnificent sight of him between your legs. Yet another kiss. This one was longer and filthier as he sniffed your mound with his nose.

"I really want you." He grumbled, his big eyes fixed on you. "I need you." His fingers tightened around the band of your underwear, and he truly needed you since he ripped it instead of pulling it down. "I want you to be stuffed full of my cum." Your entire body began to tremble, and you became flushed as a result of your body's reaction to him, whether it was his words, a touch, or merely a look. "And I want your tummy with my baby inside it." Your teeth bit down on your lower lip, followed by a gasp. "I can't even stand it. I'm sorry, but I can't worship your body for hours like I normally do." A squeeze on the inside of your thighs. 

"I can't because coming in my pants without even being touched by your hands would embarrass me." Your fingers discovered their favourite hiding place: entwined between his curls. "So I'm just going to be inside you until we both fall apart, and then I'm going to fall asleep while softly sucking you right here." His fingers massaged your slit, which was already moist. "Like an adorable baby." His gleaming eyes met yours. "Is that okay with you, sweetheart?" You swiftly nodded your head. "Words."

"I want to have children with you, Eddie. I want to teach them what it's like to be loved and to be as compassionate as you are. More people like you are needed in the world." 

Several minutes went by in a haze. A haze of naked bodies, heated breaths, stray hands, and wet lips. You couldn't stop yourselves, and there was no time for nice words or any other form of preparation. There was no need.

As soon as he received confirmation, his head pushed your slit open, and both of you groaned in delight since you both felt at home with each other. 

"You are soft and tight at the same time. How is that even possible?" His hips didn't move as swiftly as in previous times, but his thrusts were mighty, his testicles smacking against the fluid dripping to your bottom. "I can't wait to fill you all up." Your pleas were frantic. Eddie made you feel as though you were losing your mind and about to pass out. "I can't wait for your stomach to round out." His hands moved from your breasts to your stomach. It was excruciatingly uncomfortable to have the nightgown pulled up under your chin, but you both have been impatient, not being able to entirely undress. "I want to feel the changes in your physique. I'm curious to see how your breasts grow in size." His thrusts emphasised every one of his claims. 

"I won't last much longer." It hadn't been long since you both started, yet there was a desire, a passion, and an awful sensation of being too far apart. Your wrapped legs around his waist sought to force him farther inside as if he could get closer to you. "Please, Eddie. "Fill me up."

His cock jolted within you twice, his balls tightening as he inhaled deeply or gasped. "Fuck, I will, baby." His left hand ran down your body, thumb pressing against your clit, and you were coming undone before he could circle it, Eddie doing so first. It was his warm jets of cum that finally pushed you over the brink. 

"Oh, my lord."

"Just your King, sweetheart." He continued thrusting you both to the utmost degree of pleasure possible while kissing your forehead. "I hope you're ready for more, sweetheart, because I'm not going to stop until you are with child."

[al1x00]

⚠️CHAP. 7 SPOILERS⚠️

"CW POISONED WITHOUTH YOUR KNOWLEDGE"??? KATY WHO TF HURT YOU?😭😭😭

OH SO THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED TO R'S PARENTS! They went for an expedition and never returned after that, and after that R was left with her uncle and aunt in that horror of a house😭😭 that must've been tough.

"for they only wanted to eat yet they ended up getting eaten themselves." KATY IS THIS FORESHADOWING?🤨🤨 Also ngl this sentence right here almost made me sob.

The fact that R keeps remembering that Hobie will wake up hits me like a goddamn truck, it's like the only thing that keeps R from going insane and just continue to be by his side without losing hope because if the roles were reversed, he would do the same. R continues to talk to him and saying things that have always been in the back of her mind like he could hear all of it. (SORRY I LOVE YAPPING 😔😔)

THE DREAM/NIGHTMARE SCENE WAS SO COOL LIKE HELLO?? KATY YOU'RE FEEDING US GOOD WITH THIS CHAPTER I'M LOVING IT

OKAY WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING? WHY ARE THEY TRYING TO SEDATE R?

Thomas and the others are starting to get a bit suspicious tbh, they're acting a bit too calmly for my liking. I feel like they're trying to do something to R and Hobie, maybe bring them to the lawmen for the bounties on their heads?🤨🤨

I KNEW IT I FUCKING CALLED IT THEY WERE ALL BASTARDS R AND HOBIE NEED TO GET OUT OF THAT PLACE AND BURN IT TO THE GROUND GOD ADSJKDSADSDHBS

Hobie woke up, saw that R was't anywhere near him and immediately went in "I gotta save my wife" mode LMAOO

WAIT WHO TF IS CULVER? I'M TRYING TO REMEMBER BUT MY MIND IS JUST BLANK I DON'T REMEMBER THAT MAN AT ALL😭😭😭

THEY DID BURN THE MARSH TO THE GROUND HELPP WHY IS MY BRAIN SPOILERING THE CHAPTER BEFORE I EVEN READ THE PARAGRAHPS😭😭

Forget matching clothes or anything else R and Hobie have matching mentall illnesses and scars🥰 couple goals fr /j

Okay so Hicks wasn't R's uncle until after six months that he did that horrible shit to Hobie just because he had "competition" and was basically just jealous and R's aunt was like "Let's marry this man and make this house hell on earth for my niece so I can get more money, fuck them kids🥰🥰" LIKE WTF??

"you'd break yourself, break every muscle and bone in your body, tore it limb from limb so you'd be broken together. That you'll fit right in where his jagged edges lie just like before." KATY DAKSDAKDNKA I'M SOBBING😭😭 THEY LOVE EACHOTHER SO MUCH I'M SO GLAD THEY'RE TALKING AND EVERYTHING'S ALRIGHT FOR NOW

Also the fact that they love eachother so much that they aren't afraid to show their vulnerabilities to the other, that R would tear apart every single muscle and bone just to understand how Hobie feels and learn to love him even more than before has me crying and sobbing into my pillow. R doesn't see his imperfections and actually thinks he's still the boy who used to wait her under the oak tree, maybe he's just tougher and a little more scared now for all the things he went throught.

"You are love incarnate" UIFSJAKASK KATY YOU GOTTA PAY FOR MY THERAPIST ONCE OPIN IS OVER BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS MAKING ME CRY GAHH MAKE THEM BE HAPPY FOR ONCE IN THEIR LIVES

Also the kiss at the end?? MADE ME GIGGLE AND KICK MY FEET BUT CRY AT THE SAME TIME LIKE HELLO?😭😭 Also the fact that he just kept loving R even after all those years they spent apart, even after he told himself that he was just a hull of who he was before, but R saw right throught him the moment they met again and Hobie fell in love all over again.

Katy I swear I'm gonna need to file a restraining order against you to keep R and Hobie away from you BECAUSE YOU NEED TO LET THEM BE HAPPY FOR ONCE ABJSDAKD THEY DESERVE ALL THE FUCKING LOVE IN THE WORLD LET THEM GO BACK TO THEIR OAK TREE AND MAKE THAT THEIR HOUSE AGAIN

me rn as I type this:

This was so bittersweet but I LOVED IT SO MUCH, thank you Katy for another amazing chapter❤️❤️ly!!!

Rotten Floorboards

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Word count: 11.5k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Cowboy AU, Wild west AU, CW hallucinations, TW poisoned without your knowledge, CW violence, religious talk, CW guns, TW abuse mention, CW food mention, CW panic attack, CW injury, TW death, TW blood and gore.

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CHAPTER 7 >>> CHAPTER 8

Skinned knees, scarred hands, and venomous words, you've endured it all back home. Survived it all— his tight, firm grip on your hand that only loosened around guests, finger always running along the gold band on your finger, a reminder of your hatred, a different reminder for him. Then your aunt's yelling in your ears until you could only hear her thunderous words at night even when you're alone. Her pen that does more than sign documents, the sharp end pointed directly on your palm, stabbing and cutting along your life line as if it could end your life right then and there— sometimes you wish it could. Then him, your uncle who had his hand in cutting your ties with the man you love, whose echoing footsteps walk outside your door at night, never giving you reprieve from the pain of being awake in that mausoleum of a home. All that pain, all that abuse you've suffered from your so-called kin doesn't compare to seeing Hobie's limp body under the monstrous weight of steel and ash.

Your heart has stayed inside your stomach since then, his green eyes closed, breathing shallow than the well that your uncle threatened to push you inside— you won't drown in it, you'll just crack your neck and your spine while you lay in tepid dirty water. You feel like that now, hopeless, blank eyes staring at the sky, seeing the world pass by from inside the well.

You've never left his side, feeling as if you'd regret it if you did even for a moment. You've regretted a lot of things, letting your parents go on that doomed expedition, and letting your aunt dictate the rest of your life. Never again. So you don't leave, you don't drink, you don't eat while the stranger who helped carry Hobie into the shabby inn treats him.

Your own wounds ache, festering under the heat of the southern sun. The humidity is clinging to your skin, making it all worse, making the pathetic bandage around your ear throb from the pain, tethering from infection. The walls of the small room they've put you in is suffocating, walls that feel like it's closing you in, dark hardwood that sweats from the sheer heat, and floorboards that creak and squeak from your footsteps. But you'd rather stay upstairs than what's below you. It smells there, especially when the day runs hotter than the surface of a boiling pot. It's probably because the whole building is old and moldy. Or there's something dead hiding underneath the rotten bloated wood.

The alligators outside your window hiss and groan, birds you've never seen before get eaten the moment they step foot inside the marsh. It's not fair, you think, for they only wanted to eat yet they ended up getting eaten themselves.

The night gives your nerves a break, the cooler air breezing through your injuries, taking the pain away for only a moment. Fireflies gather outside the willow tree that you've been staring at since you've arrived. Hobie sleeps under it all, from all the noise and the heat. You've held his hand the entire time, even with the bandages around your palms you could still feel him, feel his pulse, feel how he still breathes. Your eyes are dry and red, tears gone from how much you've cried on his bedside, and pleaded to the man to save him whatever it takes. The rickety armchair that has one leg missing has been your home, the room is your land, and Hobie has been your reason to stay.

You held his hand in yours, watching as his eyelids moved about, a sign that he still lives and thinks despite the trauma to the head he endured when the train crashed. The bandage around his head has turned red from his wound. He protected you, did everything to shield you from death. You'd cry if you still had any tears left to give.

Dawn has arrived, and you hear a knock at the door. It's quiet, almost silent as if the sound would disturb Hobie's slumber.

“Come in,” your voice is still hoarse from the noose that wrapped around your neck. It's small, barely there, barely having the resemblance of your former self.

With a creak, the door opens, and a familiar face pops out. “Just checkin’ on ya.” His southern drawl is thick, shaven face illuminated by the lamp he holds. “I need to change his bandages. And yours if you'd permit me.” Entering the room, he shakes his leather bound bag with the initials ‘T.M.’ embossed on it. The metal and glass inside clinks against each other.

You watch him carry himself with confidence, but with apprehension from his gait. “Do him first.” Moving the chair aside, you still don't fully leave Hobie.

“Alright,” his friendly eyes look at you with uncertainty. Kneeling down next to the bed, he examines Hobie's head, gently unspooling the cloth. That's the only time you look away, refusing to see him that way or it might wiggle its way into your dreams. “I’ve realized that I haven't asked for your name, miss.” You hear his bag unzipping while you stare at the outside world blanketed in deep blue. “Not your fault though, Holden brought you in haste.”

“Holden?” You ask, eyes scanning along the marsh.

“That's the big brooding man that carried him in. My name's Thomas, by the way, what's yours?” The smell of putrid ointment hits your nose, you refuse to cover the smell.

You give him a fake name, a name that isn't known to many, a name that isn't plastered in every bounty board across the country. “It's Clementine.”

“What a pretty name, I'd shake your hand but 'm occupied right now.” He chuckles, and you hold your breath while he continues to treat Hobie. After minutes of silence, you hear the rustle of fabric as he closes the bandages around his head.

You turn to look, the sight of Hobie just laying there is sobering. You've always known him as a strong person, always burying his heels in, independent in all the ways, and speaking his mind when he needs to be. The opposite of you, but right now, you have to be the one that's strong enough for him, to fight, care, and protect him if need be while he recovers. You don't know if you can do it, but it comes easily to you because it's Hobie, you've already done so a lifetime ago. You inhale deeply, finally meeting Thomas’ brown eyes.

“Thank you, for helping, you don't know us but you still helped. I promise I'm going to pay you back for the room and…” you look at the room that still bares Hobie's blood all over the floor, and his things thrown in the corner. “And everything else.”

“No, need.” Thomas smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Crow's feet evident in his smile. “Just seein’ him get better slowly is enough for me.” You give him a weak but genuine smile. “Your turn, miss?”

“I'm fine.”

“I've been a doctor for twenty years, and you're clearly not fine. Especially that ear of yours. I've seen better ears from pigs in line for the slaughter.”

You glance at Hobie's sleeping face, finally relenting. “Okay.”

“I'll try to be quick, I promise.” You scooch your chair closer, immediately holding Hobie's hand like his skin is magnetized. “I don't want to ask but, this injury doesn't look like it came from the train derailing.” He starts to peel off the shoddy bandage that you hastily put on, your skin feels like on fire. You don't mind it anymore, you've felt worse.

You sniff, eyes glued onto the gold ring dangling from Hobie's neck. “A piece of metal from the train nicked it.”

“And your hands?” He nods at your burned palms hidden under cloth.

“Heat from the metal when I tossed it off him.” A half lie.

“Ah,” Thomas cleans your wound with the same putrid ointment. He tugs at your raw skin, you bite your tongue on instinct. “Maybe I shouldn't ask about your neck then.” The angry mark left by the lasso still stays, you know it'll stay there forever. If not, then in your mind.

You look back at the stranger, eyes pointed and daring. “Don't ask.”

There's new cloth around your ear, muffling the sounds made by the house. “Then I won't.” He seizes his movements, eyeing your hand around Hobie's. “May I treat your hands?”

“It's fine, mister Thomas.”

“It's doctor, actually,” there's amusement in his eyes. “I’ve got a license and everythin’. You should see it, it's very professional lookin’.”

You crack a smile, “sorry, doctor.” With slight apprehension, you slide your hands away from Hobie's before laying your palms on your lap. “Do you own this place?”

“I do, sort of.” He unwraps your hands, revealing the angry skin underneath. Sucking in his teeth, you already know it's healing badly. But he still tries, for that you owe him everything.

“Sort of?”

“It's my sisters’ you see, they went on this business trip to get more funds for the place so they asked me to look after it for a few weeks.”

“I'm guessing that you had to leave your practice.” You flick your eyes over to Hobie's rising and falling chest to check on him. Satisfied, you look back at the doctor handling you with care. “That must've been horrible.”

“Havin’ sisters?” He jokes.

“No, leaving it all behind.”

His smile falters. “Don't cry crocodile tears for me, miss, I'll be back there treating the sick in no time.” His head tilts curiously at the old scar on your palm, ghosting his thumb over it. “What happened to this one?”

You want to say that it was because of her, that she did it. But this is one of the rare times that it wasn't her fault. Yet, when it was, she's good at hiding the evidence. Your aunt wasn't an idiot, she knew how to turn a girl into her personal workhorse that you whip and punch to obey without leaving any marks, without showing the world and causing them any concern for your well-being. So you tell the halfhearted truth.

“It was a long time ago, there's no cause for concern on that one.” It healed, a remembrance, telling you that everything will heal if you give it time— that Hobie will heal. You meet his eyes, finding it hard to read the old man. “How about Holden and the others I saw? I didn't get a good look at them when I entered but I saw a few guests. Are they guests?” You question him because that's what Hobie would do.

“Holden lives nearby who just happens upon the train wreck. He has a small stable in town, in Saint Denis. If you want he can take in your horses? They're mighty fine, I don't want them getting soiled by the marsh.”

“That…” you think for a second. If the horses are gone then you'd lose your only way out. Hobie would say no. “No, thank you, I'll take care of them.”

“You sure? Fine by me, there's hay inside the stable for ‘em.”

“The others? You were talking about them.” You continue to push the subject.

“Ah yes, sorry ‘bout that, old mind and all. Well, there's Eli, he's been stayin’ with us for quite a while. A priest on a mission we call him.” You listen intently, taking note of every single detail. “Then there's Lucy, she's a regular ‘ere, always comin' and goin'. Accordin’ to my sisters.”

You nod as he finishes your hands that's now tightly wrapped with bandages. Thomas begins to stand up, gathering his things. “Will he be okay?” Will he wake up?

He sighs, there's something behind his eyes that you can't quite pinpoint. “It’s hard to tell.” Your heart hammers inside your ribcage. “But he has so far survived the night, I think he'll pull through.”

“Thank you, again. I'll repay you, I promise.” You reach for Hobie's hand, letting your warmth seep through his clammy hands.

Thomas' eyes flick between your hand and eyes. “Don't mention it. I'll bring a basin with drinking water for him. Drip water onto his lips every few hours so he won't dehydrate.”

You nod in understanding. “I will, thank you ”

“Then some food and water for you.” He smiles, opening the door and looking over his shoulder to glance at you.

“No need—”

“How would you care for him when you don't take care of yourself? You need the energy. What would he say?”

You chuckle, squeezing his hand tighter. “He’d call me a wanker for not eating.”

Thomas knits his brows, turning back towards you. “A what?”

“Nothing, it's something profane.”

He chortles, wiping his hand across his nose like he smelled something foul. And you smell it too— the sourness, the moment he opened the door. Maybe a rat died under the staircase. “I won't ask then. Get some rest, miss Clementine.”

The door clicks and you're once again alone with him. It hits you again, how dire your situation is. There's a rock in the back of your mind that keeps rolling about, reminding you how close Hobie was from dying in your arms. But there's another boulder in the pit of your stomach, it tells you of a fate that could befall you now that you're here, close to the person looking for you. You'd rather jump towards the alligators than be back in their hold.

Hobie will wake up, you know he will. For now, you'd stay by his side, play the good nurse and protect him as much as you can because he would do it if the roles were reversed. You hold his ring in between your fingers, letting the cold metal melt into your warm skin.

—

You whisper to him, words that you're afraid of letting go, words that you wish would wake him up. You wonder what he dreams of, is it home? Is it something good? Or is he dreaming of you? You'll ask him when he wakes up, he'll wake up, you know he will.

There's another knock at the door a few hours later. Thomas enters with a tray that smells of something savoury, you've forgotten how hungry you are. But how could you indulge when Hobie lays there like a statue?

“I have some duck for ya, and a loaf. It's not much but it'll fill you up.” He senses your trepidation. “Please eat, you'll get weaker if you don't. ‘sides, no one will take care of him if you fall ill.” The utensils rattles as he places the tray in your hands.

You stare at the food with a blank stare. Guilt eats you alive, grief devouring what's left of you. “C-can you…” you clear your dry throat, “can you check on him? See if his breathing is alright?”

Thomas nods curtly after a moment, placing his fingers above his pulse, timing it on a watch that dangles from his waist coat. You don't touch the warm food until he's done. “His breathin’s fine, he's a fighter.”

You finally feel like you can exhale again. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” standing up, Thomas points at the bowl filled with water where a cloth floats atop it. “That's for him, from what we talked about.”

“I remember.” You're already squeezing the cloth, releasing excess water before you place the tray on his bedside to slowly let the water drip on Hobie's dry lips. With every drop, you pray to whoever is listening to will him awake.

“I'll leave you to it,” the door closes, and you're once again left in your dark thoughts where your fears have come true.

In between eating and playing nurse, your eyes start to get heavy with every bite of the succulent meat. You couldn't help but finish it to the bone, letting it fill your belly, leaving half of the loaf for Hobie when he wakes up. After chugging a whole pitcher of water and emptying Hobie's bowl by slowly but surely letting him drink, you place the tray down on the ground to lay down next to him carefully. There's a headache forming in-between your eyes, maybe you're incredibly fatigued than you thought you were. You're mindful of his injuries but not your own as you lay on your injured ear. It's self flagellation, as if everything that has happened was your fault the moment you stepped foot in the new world. As your eyes get uncomfortably heavy, mind foggy, you fall asleep curled up on his side.

You open your eyes and you're back home. The gilded walls of your room open up to you like a theater curtain. Your chest heaves, eyes filled with tears that you refuse to let go. Chiffon and velvet dress hugging you tightly, too tight, suffocating you slowly like a hand on your throat. Hand upon your chest, you rip it all off as if the garment burns you. But it isn't enough to get rid of it all, so you walk over to your table in haste, grabbing a sharp letter opener to slash and tear at the threads putting it all together. One by one, the once pretty gown is torn to shreds at your feet, from bodice to skirt, it all lays on the ground like discarded meat. In a flash, your eyes see red and bloodied muscle still writhing on the floor instead of fabric. As soon as it appears, it's gone after a beat.

You stand there in your slip, but the heaviness in your chest persists, hands and legs going numb— a testament to your shallow breathing. Your hands glide along your body to find anything tight around you, gasping and still in a panic, your hands stop around your neck that holds a string of diamonds. Without a second thought, you snatch the shiny thing away from your clammy skin, breaking the chain in the process.

Air enters your lungs the moment it's gone. Palms above your chest, you inhale and exhale whilst hot tears flow out of your eyes in a shower of sorrow. Leaning over the table for balance, your eyes meet with a familiar handwriting addressed to you. You're brought back in time the second your hand touches it, brought back to five years ago when Hobie slipped you a note during a party. You read it again, telling you that everything was ready, that he's ready to run away with you, somewhere far away and that you should pack your things.

After you read it, the letter dissolves into dark ink that drips down to your feet. You're holding the new letter again, opening the plain wax seal, you read the contents. Then you read it over and over until you get your mind wrapped around the saccharine yet sorrowful words that are all written in his hand. Hobie, the one you've been mourning since the news hit you.

His address is written hastily next to his own name, you laugh and then sob, hugging the letter to your chest. The scene shifts as if you've entered the fog and into a new world. You're in front of the docks, a large ship looming over you. You're dressed in a pair of borrowed trousers from Peter's wife, whilst the older man himself speaks by your side but you can't make out his words. It's all a garbled mess. For some reason, his hands are dripping with blood, but you don't point it out.

You tell him something, and he shakes his head with a smile, eyepatch moving as he gently nudges you towards the ship. The night hides his face, and all the secrets haunting you, even with the full moon shining down. As you wave goodbye, the ship unfurls its sails, sailors reeling the anchor up, and the captain steering the ship towards your future. You watch as Peter's silhouette gets farther until he's a mere dot in your sight.

You raise your head up to watch the swirling sky, falling stars raining down, and the moon smiling back at you. Someone whispers your name, and you instinctively turn around, expecting a fate worse than death thinking that they've found you. But you're greeted by Hobie himself, still in the same clothes you last saw him in, hair short, and face flat.

“Hobie?” You sound like you're underneath the waves.

“Run.”

You're awoken by the squeak from the rotten hinges. Sitting up, your eyes adjust to the light, seeing a silhouette of a tall, bony man in black and white. Vision focusing, you see him awkwardly stop in front of the doorway, the white square on his collar tells you that this is the reverend Thomas was talking about. He has a patch work of a beard and an aura of weariness.

“Eli,” your mouth speaks before you could think.

“That's me,” he chuckles, clearing his throat right after. His hands are behind his back, prompting you to be more wary of the man.

“What are you doing here?” You sit properly, hand placed on your gun belt, feeling the cold metal of Hobie's gun on your palm.

“I–I was…” his blue eyes flick from your gun to Hobie's sleeping face. “Thinking of p-praying for him.”

“He’s not dead yet, reverend.” Your harsh voice cuts through the man.

“I don't mean any offense.” He holds his empty hands up, you glance at his rough hands and the tattoo on his wrist revealed from how his sleeve rode down. It's something you can't quite get a good look at. Noticing your stare, Eli brings his hands down, pulling down his sleeves. “Praying for his swift recovery. That's what I meant.”

“You can pray for him outside our door. Better yet, pray downstairs.” You stare him down. “Where's your book of prayers?”

“I'm sorry, I should've knocked.” You can't place his accent. “I thought you were asleep—”

“And that makes it alright to barge in?”

He balances on the balls of his feet, your eyes instinctively flick over to his leather shoes that are too shiny, too kept as if he just bought it or cleaned it for the occasion. “We got off on the wrong foot, I'm sorry, miss…Clementine. My name's Eli.” Reaching for you, you only look at his hand without shaking it.

“I didn't give you my name.”

The reverend takes his hand back with a wince. “I–I got it from Thomas.” Your jaw tightens, eyes boring holes into his forehead. Thankfully, he reads the room and your expression. “I should go—”

“You should. Goodbye.”

The reverend doesn't turn his back on you, opening the door with what you could read as a cursory apologetic look. “I'm sorry, again.”

You grunt in reply. With the door clicking close, you stand up, taking a spare chair that Thomas always sits down on to lodge it under the doorknob. Locking the door and battening down the hatches. It's what Hobie would do, it's what he always does when he thinks you've fallen asleep.

“Wanker.” You scoff out before sitting back down next to Hobie. You don't find sleep after that. Your mind is too noisy, too chaotic to find sleep even though your body demands it.

—

Two days in and Hobie is still unresponsive, he breathes, even twitches in his sleep but he's unable to wake up. It's pure torture for you, seeing him lay there while you try your best at taking care of him. You've even tasked yourself at watching the good doctor clean his wounds and replace the bandages so you could do it yourself. You miss his smile, his laugh, and how he holds your hand. It’s just like how you've felt for those five long years, but this time you can see him, touch him, and take care of him but he doesn't speak nor look back at you. You don't know which one is worse.

Thomas says he's getting better, but you still worry. You play his nurse and a grieving widow at the same time. Everytime Hobie's breath hitches or even when his finger twitches you sit up, frantically calling the doctor to check on him. He always says the same thing, ‘he’s just dreaming,’ it doesn't fill you at ease, especially if it's anywhere near the dreams you've been having.

Three meals are brought to you every day, and each meal has brought you to sleep. You blame the trauma you've experienced, the things you've seen, the things you've done— it brings you towards the precipice of life and death each time, and without fail, you dream of him. Hobie still sleeps on the lumpy bed, body lay still, breathing sturdy and true. You don't mind the sleep, but the dreams you've had aren't always good, so you'd rather keep your eyes open than face the horrors that sleep brings.

Sometimes your mind wanders off, vision whirling to something else, something worse than him laying unresponsive to the world outside. In the corner of the dark room, you see a bloodied fountain pen with soiled grain littered around it. You turn around to look away, and you see something worse, his pristine white suit is a glaring contrast to the almost dilapidated state of the room, acting like a beacon of pain for you. He doesn't smile, nor come closer to you, he just stands there, back straight like he owns the place, light green eyes aglow like the fireflies outside but none of the comfort.

The blood in your veins runs cold at the sight, so you turn away from him as he stands guard with his judging eyes. Your eyes land towards Hobie to calm you down and bring yourself back to reality. He still sleeps, bandages wrapped around his head, eyelids twitching while he dreams. With a sigh, you suddenly see a pair of eyes under his bed, you're frozen at the sight of a large hand appearing from underneath, nails dark and rotten, wounds littered around the arm, decaying and sour smelling. You see it give you a crooked smile. Heart thrumming, the hand grabs Hobie's wrist, blackened blood oozing from its touch. With horror in your belly but bravery in your heart, you yank the hand away, finding it bursting into a cloud of smoke the moment you touched it.

“You alright?” Thomas asks, he watches you catch your breath from the doorway.

Your hand is closed around nothing, still held up in front of you, gasping at nothingness. You inhale, clearing your throat and bringing down your trembling hand to your lap. “Y-yeah, I think I'm just too hot.”

Thomas nods, eyes roaming around the room. “You've been cooped up in this room for two days. I think some fresh air would do you some good.”

You immediately shake your head. “I can't leave him. Besides, there's a window here, I get enough air as it is.”

“Pardon my bluntness but, you need to stretch around, get a different scenery or you'll go mad seeing the same walls.” Thomas crosses the gap, tentatively placing his hand on your shoulder. His palm hovers slightly above your blouse, not truly holding you. “I can watch him for you, the worst has come to pass already. I know he'll wake up eventually.”

You glance at Hobie's face, he does look better than before. There's color on his lips again, his breathing stable, skin no longer clammy and his wounds are starting to scab over. And the horses need your attention too, you have no idea how they're faring since they got here. You ponder leaving him for a moment.

“...okay, j-just for a few minutes.” But you still don't trust Thomas enough to leave Hobie alone with him. “You don't have to watch him.”

“Alright, I understand where you're comin' from. Hell, I'll give you the key to the room if it makes you feel any better.” Thomas takes out a ring of keys from his pocket, and then he takes out an old key from the metal ring to hand to you. “Just bring it back after.”

“Alright, thank you, that actually fills me with ease.” You close your fingers around the key, letting the metal press down into your burned palms.

“I'll be downstairs. I promise if I hear anythin’, even a squeak I'll come runnin’ out to get you.” Thomas smiles, back already turned to leave.

Your voice calls him back. “Doctor, you've seen death, do you think there's an afterlife?” You suddenly ask him, Thomas stops in his tracks, chuckling softly.

“I don't know, love.” You raise a brow, head turning immediately to face him. “I think it's best if you ask the reverend that. I'm sure he can provide you with an answer.”

“But you've seen people die, right? From your patients, to just…living. I want your opinion on the matter.” You push the subject, eyes heavy and tired. You can feel every bone in your body as your vision shifts, seeing iridescent light pass through the windows and shine in Thomas' face. When your eyes focus, the light is gone.

Thomas scratches his head. “From what I experienced?” You nod, “I don't think so. I think there's just darkness right after.” He sniffs, hands placed in his pockets. “I really think you should talk to the reverend, he might provide a more comforting answer.”

“Maybe I should.” Your voice drifts off, eyes blankly staring outside.

“You sure you're alright?”

“I don't know.” You don't see how red your eyes have become, or the bags weighing it down.

Thomas leaves without another word. You don't leave the room after that, and the key stays with you to hold onto, letting the metal dig into your palms.

—

Startling awake, you sit up from the whispers that have managed to slither its way inside your ears. You look over your side, seeing Hobie asleep and safe, you begin to sit up, head pounding roughly against your skull as if you've been hit by something in your sleep.

More whispers echo out into the darkness, your eyes wander around the room, finding no one so you listen closely. You glance at the floor, ears straining to hear, you realize the voices are coming out from beneath.

Slowly clambering away from the bed, hand reluctantly releasing Hobie's hand, you make your way onto the floor, laying yourself down on the cool wood. Pressing your ears, you listen in on the murmured conversation.

“She barely sleeps!” A woman's voice exclaims, it's followed by shushing. “It doesn't even work on her. I'm at my fuckin’ limit.”

“We need to be patient—” Someone says.

You press your face down closer to hear better. “We've been patient. We need to—” the floorboards creak from your movement. And they immediately quiet down.

You lay there perfectly still, but no sound from downstairs can be heard. Standing up, you check the doors if you've locked it properly this time, and you pat the gun on your hip to feel if it's still there. The unfounded trust that you've given to the strangers downstairs are wavering by the minute. But you can't leave, not until Hobie wakes up, or you might disturb his healing.

—

You gasp awake, trembling in your seat, the wounds on your palms have reopened from how your nails have dug into your broken palms. It's another nightmare, another nightmare that has kept you awake. Hobie still sleeps, and you're still trapped inside the small dusty room.

The heels of your palms rub roughly on your eyelids, washing away the nightmare and sleep. Laying your head on the back of the chair, you stair at the ceiling and the cracking paint. There's a dark red spot near the middle, it's barely noticeable but it's there. The longer you stare at it, the bigger it gets. You fight a sob as you abruptly stand up, maybe you should take Thomas on his offer by going outside. It doesn't hurt to leave for a few minutes, right? Surely no one is awake at the break of dawn, so Hobie is safe to be left for a moment. And he's comfortable with the window opened, letting the cool early morning breeze inside.

You sit down on his bedside, hands gently cupping his own. “I'll be back, alright? I just need to check on Buck and Cherry.” He doesn't answer. “Maybe they can tell me how they managed to find us. Or maybe what you told me before was actually right, that they can smell us. Like loyal hounds we had back at the manor.” Your words drift away as your eyes lose focus, staring at the raised scar on his neck. You sniff, bringing yourself back to reality. “Please wake up, I feel like— just please wake up. Yell my name when you do and I'll come running back.” You kiss his knuckles, eyes glancing at the pair of white trousers standing in the corner. “I'll be back.”

You stand up, ignoring all the ghostly eyes staring at your back. They're not real, you whisper to yourself. Opening the door and locking it behind you before you could change your mind. The key is safely tucked away in your breast pocket. A headache rushes by, you almost fall on your knees from the pain.

As you stand shakily in the hallway, the floors seem to shift and change. It stretches before you while you walk, as if it won't allow you to escape the place. You close your eyes tightly, grounding yourself by holding onto the wall. When you open your eyes, you see your aunt standing at the end of the long hallway. She's clad in black, a long coat hiding her entire body, from her neck to the tips of her feet. Her hair is stark white against the dark material, strands that are longer than you last saw her. You can barely see her face, but it's odd, like something's amiss.

“Where are your eyes, dear aunt?” You ask in a small voice, as if you've returned to the young age you first met her.

She opens her maw, a deep dark crevice of sharp teeth all lined up in rows. You hear your name escape from her unhinged jaw, it's whispered close in your ears. “You can't leave.”

“I just did.” You say without remorse, and without guilt. “Watch me leave again.” With measured steps you walk closer to the vision, as you get closer and closer, her body turns transparent until you've walked through her. And everything returns to normal. You've reached the banisters overlooking downstairs, hand clasped tightly around the wood. Shaking, but victorious. “Not real.”

You look over the railing, eyes roaming around the small space. There's a small common room where a fireplace that doubles as the kitchen lies. A large man sleeps on the single couch facing the fireplace, snoring softly, arms crossed over his chest. A humble bar is placed across it, where amber liquid in foggy glass sits on the shelves. Leaning closer, you spot a door on the floor that could lead to a basement of some sort. The surfaces have been wiped clean except for the tops of the shelves that are caked in dust. There's minimal decorations, save for a few pictures hanging on the walls. Then it hits you, the smell of the place. From sour milk to rotten eggs, you can barely decipher what it is, only decay.

You can see the place being homely after a renovation if not for the stench.

The wooden bannister creaks when you put your weight on it, you flinch away before it gives out from under you. You walk slowly down the small steps of the stairway, legs shaking from the thrumming headache behind your eyes, feet swaying like you're drunk off of moonshine. You attribute it from the vision you saw and from how fatigued you are. But your shoes barely clack against the floor from your footsteps. Your eyes skim over the photographs on the walls, yellowed paper and old frames of family. You look for Thomas in any of the pictures, but he's absent in every single one.

You finally make it down without waking anyone. The man, Holden, you surmise based on the description Thomas gave you, still snores on the couch. Crossing the threshold, you unlock the front door to go outside.

The entire marsh is bathed in blue, sun barely peeking in the horizon. A breeze passes by, goosebumps rising on your arms from the cold. You should've brought your coat with you, but it's too late now. If you go back upstairs, you think you cannot go back down.

You already feel like you're coming back to your old self. Eyes still weighing heavy in its sockets but at least the air and the greenery have grounded you back to reality. You have no idea what has befallen you, why you've been having visions of your family. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation, or maybe the living has decided to haunt you for all the things you've done to survive.

Walking along the wooden paths that prop you up from the mud, you follow it further down towards the small stable. The birds are beginning to wake up, chirping just above the canopies of tall willow trees. With every footstep, your feet sink slightly into the mud, soil swallowing down the planks of wood laid down as a makeshift path. Flies buzz around your legs, you swat away any that comes near your healing wounds.

You finally make it towards the stable, opening the door with slight force since the hinges are long rotten from the wear and tear of the moist environment. You finally crack it open, seeing seven horses in their little pens on the side. The wood inside is in the same state as the inn, bloated and decaying from age. Light filters through the cracks, dust and bloatflies flying all over the horses.

Bucky peeks his head when he hears you enter, he immediately recognizes you, hind legs stomping in excitement. You smile genuinely at the dark horse, walking towards his stable, still swaying slightly on your feet. Cherry appears from behind Bucky, coat muddy and hair tangled. You guess that they had to share a pen because of the lack of space in the stable.

“Hi, you two.” You reach up towards their faces, Bucky nuzzles your hand while Cherry huffs against your palm. “I'm sorry, I should've visited you earlier. But Hobie needed my attention.” With the mention of his rider, Buckeye neighs, leaning away, almost standing up on two legs. You think that he worries for him. “It's alright, calm down, boy. He's getting better.”

Bucky shakes his head, so you scratch the back of his ear where he always seems to like. You coo at him, whispering kind words towards the horse for finding you and Hobie amidst the wreckage with Cherry in tow. You enter their pen, brushing your hands along his fur and hair. Hobie's canteen peeks from his saddlebag on Bucky, so you take it, taking big gulps before placing it back inside the pack. You feel a lot better already.

Cherry watches you and Bucky interact. When she's had enough of Bucky getting all of your attention, she nudges your shoulder, nodding and huffing like a petulant child. “Alright, alright, I didn't forget about you.” Chuckling, you rub along her snout, you find that she likes to be pet there the most. “Have you been good? I'd give you both an apple or sugarcube but I don't have any on me.” You spot the bundle of hay near the entrance. “Is hay good enough? When we get out of here I'll give you both all the sugar cubes and fruit you could ever want.”

Leaving their side after numerous pets, you grab a pitchfork laying on the corner to grab some hay to place in their pen. Once both horses are properly fed and petted, you look around the stable for a horse brush, but the only thing you could find were more horses looking at you with curious eyes. You're more confused though, you see five horses in each pen, but there are only four guests inside the inn that you know of. There's Thomas, Eli, and Holden that you've already met. Then there's the mysterious Lucy. Whose horse is it that is alone in the corner? Maybe it's a spare? Nevertheless, you feed all of them.

“I'll be back,” you fold your knees to grab a bucket on the floor. “Let me just get some water for—”

“You're speaking to horses.”

“Jesus!” You clutch your chest from the sudden intrusion.

“Just me, sorry.” A woman stands in the doorway, hands on her shiny belt buckle, red corset tight on her torso, revealing freckles dusted on her shoulders and clavicle. She smiles, showing a gold tooth in the bottom row of her teeth. The sun has now fully risen outside, bathing her back in light, shadows hiding her face from you. “I'm Lucy, you must be Clementine.”

You clear your throat before you almost made the mistake of correcting her. “Y-yeah. Nice to meet you.”

“Why are you doing manual labor? Aren't you injured?”

“I am, but I'm feeling a lot better now thanks to the doctor.”

“Thomas?”

“Yeah, is there another doctor here?”

She chuckles, stepping forward out of the shadows. You see her chiseled face, lips full and pretty, more freckles lined around her eyes and cheeks. Her blond hair is tied in a neat braid, cowboy hat perfectly fitted around her head. There's a hunting rifle strapped on her back, and a large ornate knife on her waist.

“I'll take care of the water. Breakfast is being served inside if you're hungry.” She says with a lilt in her tone. “There's sausage, the good kind. I think you'll like it.”

“You've got their water?” You ask, glancing at your horses.

“Yeah, I've got them.” She crosses the small distance towards you, you don't drop your guard even when her hand grabs the bucket away from you. “I've been the one looking after them.”

“Oh, thank you then. I hope they're not too much of a bother.”

“Not really. Especially your Arabian there, she's real pretty.” Lucy eyes Cherry like a piece of meat on the chopping block. “How much for her?”

“Excuse me?” You scoff. “She's not for sale.”

“Alright, understandable. How about the thoroughbred?”

“No,” you stand stiff, jaw clenched. “They're not for sale.”

She grins slowly, brown eyes flat and staring at your soul. Shrugging, she begins to walk outside. “Eh, it's worth the try. Your loss, I would've bought them at a mark up.” Her voice fades away as she leaves.

You stand there with your fists shaking, you're perturbed by the people residing in the inn. You think Thomas and Holden are the only decent ones inside.

Cherry neighs behind you, you look over your shoulder to meet with her eyes. “The nerve of some people, huh?” Buckeye agrees by trotting in place.

Walking back towards the inn already has you sweating from the humidity. Once you open the door, all eyes are on you. Thomas stands behind the bar, preparing a plate. While Holden eats on one of the empty bar stools with a cup of steaming coffee paused on his lips as he stares at you. The reverend was just about leaving the basement when you entered, hand frozen on the handle of the basement door.

The doctor breaks the awkward silence. “Good morning. Did ya have a nice walk outside?”

You flex your hands on your sides, biting the inside of your cheek. “It was…pleasant.”

Eli casually stands up and then sits on the sofa near the fire and the cooking pot. He opens a large book, reading like he didn't just leave the basement as if he owned the place.

“Come have breakfast with us.” Thomas beckons you over, sliding the plate he was just preparing over to you. “I was just about to go upstairs and give this to ya.”

“Thank you, I'll eat it in my room. I don't want to disturb you all.” You come closer to the bar, fingers placed around the porcelain plate. You feel eyes on you, Holden continues to eat in the corner of your eyes. Eli is mouthing scriptures at his seat.

“No, no, come stay!” Thomas hands you a cup of coffee. The smell brings you back home. It's not a good memory. “It'll do you some good to have company, even for a moment. Please stay.”

You nod, clammy palms rubbing along your trousers. “...sure, just for breakfast though.” Rubbing your nose, Thomas notices.

“Sorry ‘bout the smell. We think there's a rat that died in the basement but we can't seem to find it.” He picks at his own plate while leaning on the other side of the bar. “That's why the reverend was down there. It was his turn to look.”

You nod, glancing briefly at the trap door on the floor. “Can I have a glass of water instead? I don't like coffee.”

His fork clangs on the plate as he lets go. “Oh of course!” Turning around he takes a pitcher of water and then he pours you a glass. While he does that, you look at the pictures behind the bar.

“Which one are your sisters?” You gesture towards the frames, Thomas still has his back towards you as he continues to pour you a glass.

“Oh, the picture that's in the middle.” You follow where he pointed at. A photograph of two smiling women in front of the inn when it was still new and shiny hangs in the middle of the bar. Their faces are flat and serious but the way their arms are around each other says that they're particularly happy in the picture. If not for the long exposure needed to take the scene, they would be grinning widely.

You tilt your head at the picture, eyes scanning their features and comparing it to Thomas' face. “You don't look like them.”

He twists around, handing you your glass of water. “I've been told.” Chuckling, he looks back at the picture briefly before turning towards you. “They got my mother's features and I got my father's. Which parent do you look like the most?” His eyes watch the mouth of the glass against your lips.

“I barely remember their faces now.” You don't drink the water just yet to answer his question. “So I don't know.”

“That's too bad.” And yet, he smiles. “How ‘bout you, Holden? Who do you look like?”

“My mother.” He says gruffly, tone monotone and uninterested.

“Ah.” Thomas picks at his plate again.

“I haven't thanked you yet for saving him.” You address the large man. “Thank you.”

“I just happened upon the place. My eyes couldn't leave the train wreck.” Holden stares at the same spot on the bar, you follow his line of sight, once you've reached the end, you see a dark red splatter on a glass of gin.

Before you could ask, Eli interrupts. “As is his will.” He's now in front of the fire even though it's sweltering inside already. “It's very lucky that Holden happens to be riding that way.” Eli says those words with humour, as if the train derailing is the funniest thing in the world.

Thomas clears his throat, “I heard no one else on the train got hurt.” You sigh in relief, knowing the real Clementine and her family are safe and sound. “A few railroad workers were injured but they're fine now, last I heard.”

“Yes, it's good that no one else got severely hurt.” Lucy appears inside the inn, smiling at you. She stalks silently around you like you're prey. Your hand instinctively slides down towards your gun belt.

“Well, except for your lad.” Thomas says, you look at him with wide eyes, blood running cold, gun now fully in your hand. The world swirls around you, your breathing gets faster, heartbeat loud in your ears. The air shifts, everyone except Thomas stiffens. “We know who he is. He's a fuckin’ legend ‘round ‘ere, but don't worry, we won't tell any lawmen. We're not like that.” Thomas continues to speak even with your world crumbling around you. He doesn't know what he just revealed. “Drink your water, we don't want you goin' thirsty now.”

“‘L-lad?’” you almost whisper, but the entire room is silent, a pin could drop and you'd hear it. Your words are thunderous compared to the fire cracking in the fireplace. “You said you're from here.”

Thomas chuckles nervously, you stand up, eyes flicking over towards the occupants. The rotten stench under the floorboards has increased ten fold in your panic, the tiny splotches of crimson on the walls and glass aren't just dirt and grime.

It's blood, and the entire inn is covered in it. Hastily scrubbed off the surface, but the mark of death remains.

They all look at you, Holden stands behind you, his shadow casting over you. Lucy continues to smile while Eli looks on amidst the backdrop of the raging fire behind him. Thomas gives you a look, shaking his head subtly.

You don't miss a beat, gun aiming behind you to shoot. But no bullet flies, you don't hit your mark for the chamber is all emptied out without your knowledge. You don't know when it was taken out but you don't have time to ponder it. Running past Lucy towards the stairs, you yell his name.

“Hobie!” You manage to get to the third step before you fall flat on your face, nose harshly landing on the stair, shoulder oozing something warm. Looking over the source, you see Lucy's hunting knife embedded in your shoulder. “No!”

Lucy giggles, and the reverend joins her side, face downturned, eyes following how your blood oozes out of your back.

“Fuck! They said don't draw blood! What the bloody hell is wrong with you!” Thomas shows his true colours, yelling at Lucy angrily. You continue to crawl up the stairs despite the searing pain. “Fuckin’ grab her! Get the key, it's on her.”

“I'm…” you still fight, elbows pressed on the rough wood, crawling relentlessly up the stairs. “Going to fucking kill all of you.” You say through gritted teeth, ignoring the seething pain as your body trembles.

Eli's voice pipes up. “We just want to get you home. God will strike you down if you do that.”

“Strike me down all he wants. He knows where I am.” With determined eyes, you keep crawling even though your arms are split apart by splinters.

You're about halfway up the steps when you hear loud heavy footsteps walk towards your form. Groaning, you dig for the key inside your pocket. The second you find it, you toss it with all your might, it flies up and then it lands and slides under the bar shelves. It's your turn to cackle. Large hands grab you, turning you over. Holden's scowl looks back at you. Puckering your lips, you spit at his face, laughing as he lets you go, desperately cleaning his face.

“Move over, big guy. Do I have to do everything around here?” Silent steps cross over to you while you try to desperately climb up. You can't feel your back anymore. Suddenly, you feel a cloth press on your mouth and nose. You know this smell, it's sweet and tart, but there's an underlying bitterness. Recognizing it from the description on the botanical books you've read, the ones that they say a proper lady shouldn't read. And you know you're about to black out within ten seconds. You try to fight back but you're weakening.

“Shh,” Lucy coos, arm tightening around your neck as she presses the concoction harder on your nose. Her own arm hits the knife still in your shoulder, you gasp in pain, inhaling more. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

The last thing you hear is his voice calling out after you. You're not sure if it's real or not, but you still cling to hope that it is.

—

The rope around your body is rough against your skin, the hemp seems to tighten around you as you move. You feel bandages on your shoulder blade, stab wound aching and throbbing. Entire body covered in sweat, your clothes are drenched from the heat. Your vision swirls, mind tethering between reality and fantasy. You see your aunt standing near the rake you just held, your uncle crouched in the corner, watching you struggle against your binds. And him, who sits next to you, as if he's guarding you. His face crosses your line of sight, it shifts between Hobie's soft smile, and his grinning face.

“I told you, you can't leave.” He says, hand reaching up to touch your face. You know he's not real, that he's a result of what Lucy gave you, what they've been giving you— but you still feel the air around him shift, how his palm sits on your cheek like a hot pan against your skin.

“C–Cross,” you gulp down as much air as you can amidst your state. “What did I do to deserve this?”

He could only grin at you.

“You’re awake, good. Lucy didn't accidentally kill you.” Eli stands near the doorway of the stable with a gold gun in his hand. Fingers yanking off his tab collar.

“Eli, you creepy motherfucker.” You slur your words, but you fight the haze. “How much did they pay you just to bring me back?”

He sniffs, “a lot.” The horses neigh in the background, you turn your head and you see Bucky and Cherry frantically thump and kick their hooves inside their pen.

“You’re not even a reverend are you?”

“No,” He says, turning away from the doors to face you. “I was once though.”

“Let me guess, you weren't cut out to be one.” You lean up, almost folding yourself to squint at him. “Or they fucking kicked you out.” He flinches, it's subtle, but you saw it. “They did, didn't they? What did you do, reverend?” You taunt while you try to ease your wrists off from the rope. Your skin stings from the movement, but it'll be worth it once you get your hands around his scrawny neck. “Oh shit, don't tell me it's—”

“It was gambling. I've racked up a debt.” He was quick to answer, as if he's still trying to protect his reputation. “I used all the donations.”

“That's fucked up.” You scoff, riling him up, playing him like a fiddle. “Seriously, so fucked up. And you decided to what? Scam more people by wearing the uniform?” Eli doesn't answer, you see him bounce on the balls of his feet, anxiety rolling off him in waves. “Is there an afterlife, reverend?” You say in a small, weaker voice to rag on him on more. It works when he turns towards you.

“Stop talking,” He saunters over to you, crouching down to your level. “I've already heard all those words before, you don't get to hurt me back, girl.”

“Was it all of you? Holden looked like he didn't want to be in there.”

“Please, he was the one who recruited me. He knew that Thomas needed more men the moment he heard Hobie's name.”

You chuckle bitterly. “You know that one of you has damaged the goods, right?”

“Thomas healed you.”

“Yeah, but still, you've left a mark. That means the pay will go down, that means your share will go down thanks to Lucy.” You can practically see the cogs in his head turn. Tilting your head, you turn him against his own team. “Tell me, would it hurt if you got someone out? You know, increase your pay.”

“What are you saying?”

“There are plenty of alligators here. I'm saying that accidents happen.”

Eli knits his brows, “but which one—?” The unmistakable sound of a gun going off echoes around the marsh. It's so loud that the horses are startled, panicked neighing fill the stable, birds scramble off the trees to fly away. “That came from inside the inn!” He stands up, you drop your façade as he turns away. “Shit!” More shots ring out, then a dozen more, suddenly, it's quiet in the marsh again.

Eli is in the perfect position for you, his body shields you from the afternoon sun as he stands there in a worried state. His gun is in his clammy hand, hammer pushed all the way down. Without a thought, you sit up in a crouched position slowly without startling him. And then you push him on the back of his knees with your shoulder, earning a pained groan from you and a sudden bang when he falls that has you flinching away.

Rubies pool around Eli's body, and you realize, he has shot himself when he fell on his face.

“Fuck.” The voice by the doorway says, you can only see his silhouette, the setting sun directly at his back. He's hunched over, silver gun in his bloodied hand.

“Hobie, are you real?” You could cry, on instinct, you move to get to him but your binds prevent you. Tears cling to your eyelashes as he slowly makes his way towards you. “H-how?”

You can see his face fully now, blood coats his cheeks and neck, eyebrows contorted in pain but his smile tells you otherwise. “I woke up.”

“You did.” Sobbing, you try to hold him even with the ropes around your wrist. “Are you okay?”

Hobie holsters his gun, wiping the blood off his hands on his trousers, and then he cradles your face. Thumb brushing along the tears. “‘m alright, dizzy and a bit of a headache but ‘m alright.” His viridescent eyes are aglow, trapped tears glimmering. “Are you—? Did they hurt you?” He asks in a small voice, afraid of your reply.

You frown, and he already knows the answer. “I thought you wouldn't wake up.”

“With you waitin' for me, of course I'd wake up.” Hobie lays his forehead against your own. He's real, and he's holding you in his arms again. “‘m real, love. I'll never leave you again.”

You cry in his arms even when he cuts off your binds. Your mind is still reeling from the previous event. Body free, you embrace him, face tucked on the crook of his neck. He holds you, kissing your temple, hands rubbing up and down on your back. He apologizes against your skin a hundred times. And you forgive him a hundred more.

Hobie releases all the horses from the stable, all the now riderless horses gallop out in a rush. He guides Cherry and Bucky out to hitch them just outside on the trees and away from the inn and stable. Coming by to get you, who stands in front of the inn.

“I need to get my things.” He says next to you, pinky curled around your own. “Your letters are still in there.”

“I'll come with you.”

“No, you don't need to see that.” His eyes warn you of the sight ahead.

“Too late for that, Hobie.” You thump your head on his bicep. “I’ll watch your back. Just in case.”

“Stay close, yeah?” He smiles softly, letting go of your hand reluctantly. You nod behind him, gun drawn and loaded.

The door opens, you try not to look at the bodies at your feet but your eyes seem to gravitate towards the violence that was left. There's blood splattered all over the walls, Holden's body is hunched over itself, blood seeping out from his numerous gunshot wounds. You walk a bit more, following Hobie's path. Broken glass crunches at your feet, and you see Lucy laying on the ground with her own knife shoved inside her chest. Her eyes are wide open, mouth agape in surprise. By the stairs, in the same position you were in mere hours ago, lies Thomas with a shotgun wound on his back, making you see through him.

“H-how'd you manage this on your own?” Your nails scratch along the metal of your gun.

“You were in danger.” Was all he answered.

As you stand there, you hear something on the floor next to the bar, glancing downwards even though you've had enough of the sight, you find someone who shouldn't be there.

“Culver?” You ask, and he whizzes out.

“Help. Me.” He tugs at your trouser leg, he's drenched in crimson, from his face down to his boots.

“He was hiding underneath the floorboards with the bodies of the actual owners.” Hobie says, guilt is written all over your face. “It's not your fault, love, you gave him a chance and he spat at it.”

“P-please,” he wheezes out, voice hoarse and broken, “they hired me, I-I was just following orders.”

You sniff, fists shaking. “It was my aunt wasn't it?”

Culver shakes his head, desperate to please you, desperate for you to save him again. “No, it was your h—”

Your bullet cuts him off, he lays there, now unmoving, and the gun in your hand smoking. You feel like you're deprived of air. Hands shaking, tears flowing out freely.

Hobie reaches for you slowly, you don't flinch away so he pulls you in, letting you weep against his chest.

—

The flames ebb away at the building, ashes flying off into the air as the roof collapses down on itself. You let the smoke fill your lungs, watching the fire light up the entire marsh, but it acts as a beacon to where you are. And you can't risk being found, especially when he's back on your side.

You kneel down, placing the framed photograph of the actual owners on the ground, apologizing to them quietly.

“We should go, Hobs.” You softly say, tugging at his sleeves.

He nods, eyes flicking between you and the burning inn. His palm is pointed towards you, waiting for you to reach for him. When your hand slides on his own, all his fears melt away. You're safe, and he's alive— that's all that matters.

—

Midnight comes, you and Hobie rode further north and away from the chaos you two left. Bucky and Cherry sleep next to each other, both tired from the ride. You tend to the fire while Hobie cleans his hands in a nearby river. The murky water turns a dark shade of red as he scrubs his hands clean, there's blood under his fingernails. And shallow crimson slashes on his arms. Once all the blood has been washed away, he sees a slash on his palm, identical to yours, the one he sutured himself. He winces, and you turn around to check on him. The both of you had been quiet the entire journey, preferring to look on whenever one groans in pain or when either one of you shifts on the saddle. You don't want to talk about it, and he doesn't want to either. Both thinking that it was his and your fault for everything that had happened.

He holds up a hand to you, wordlessly telling you that he's alright. Nodding, you turn back towards the fire, your vision shifts from the campfire in front of you to the burning cinders of the inn. A wet cloth on your cheek jerks you awake.

“Sorry,” Hobie flinches, taking the cold cloth away from your skin. “You have soot all over your face.”

You smile softly, hand reaching for his wrist, gently placing the cloth back to your face. He understands, wiping away the ash off of your skin. You stare at him, face unreadable, bandage still wrapped around his head. “Hobie,” he hums in reply, continuing to wipe the grime off. “You said you had to leave but you never told me how you left. Please tell me what happened that night.” Why did you leave me?

Hobie scooches closer to you, knee to knee, hand still wiping along your forehead. “Hicks did it.” You listen, hands fisting his vest to tamp down your frustration and everything in between. “He was the one who found out, told your aunt and got a group from the factory to ambush me in our meeting place.” His voice breaks but he composes himself. “He was the one who slashed my throat and…” faltering, the cloth slid downwards to your neck, rubbing along your skin. “buried me alive under our tree.”

Your heart clenches, imaging him clawing his way out of the dark earth. “Hicks, h-he married my aunt six months after you left. That motherfucker boasted that he killed you, hid your body in the woods. But I knew better.”

Hobie runs his thumb under your eye, wiping away a stray tear. He gives you a brief smile. “Fucker wasn't content in bein’ the factory manager, he had to ‘eliminate the competition,’ he said. I wasn't even participatin’.”

“I'm sorry,” you wrap your arms over his shoulders, hands holding his jaw. You apologize to him like an acolyte asking for retribution in front of the shrine. “I'm sorry, I should've done something— I could've—”

“There was nothin' you could've done, love. Just like how I couldn't fight back.” He pulls you in, face pressed on the crown of your head. “They used you against me. Told me that you didn't want me anymore. Told me I was a burden to you.”

“No, never. I'd never do that.” You pull away, holding him close, meeting his emerald eyes that reminds you of the best parts of home.

“I know that now. I knew it back then too, but my anger and frustration got the best of me.” He presses a heavy kiss on your forehead as you close your eyes, listening to him breathe. “Peter helped me get out, and all he got from it was getting his eye taken out.”

You gasp softly. “He helped me too,” Hobie looks at you, hands still cradling your face. Hands that are warm against your soft skin. “He didn't tell anyone where you were, I didn't know until now, until your letter. He helped me get on a boat.” You remember that day, it was raining, it was also pouring down back when Hobie left. Your nails dig into your palms when your mind gives you the image of him digging himself out of the flooded soil, lungs inhaling in rain water and dirt. “I–I really wanted to look for you, to run after you but I couldn't.” Hobie presses you against his chest while you heave, tears flowing down your cheeks as you feel his own drop on your head. “They had me under lock and key, they guarded my doors for years, until—” You pause, hands bunched up on his shirt. “I'm so fucking sorry.��

Hobie cradles you in place, arms holding your form as he lets his touch calm you down, accepting your apology, and accepting his faults. “You did good, love, you survived. But I'm ‘ere now, you'll never be back there.” You nod against his chest, Hobie hides his sorrow filled face in the crook of your neck, lips pressed on your skin, mumbling apologies. “When I was runnin’ away while I was still bleedin’, I thought I should at least say goodbye to you. But I changed my mind and went towards the docks while Peter hid me in his cart.” He leans away, just like back then, he doesn't want to sink his teeth into you, to bite hard and draw blood. “I thought that you deserve someone who isn't me. Someone who's not broken. 'm broken, and 'm afraid I'll never return to who I was before.”

You reach up to touch his cheek tenderly, head placed on his lap, cradling your body just like he did under your oak tree. “You are not as broken as you think you are. Not to me, never. You are everything to me, Hobie Brown.” You hug him, for you have no idea how to tell him that you know he can't be ‘fixed’, that there's nothing to be fixed. That even if there was, you'd break yourself, break every muscle and bone in your body, tore it limb from limb so you'd be broken together. That you'll fit right in where his jagged edges lie just like before. But you know you don't have to, because you're just as broken as he is.

"Is there still room left in there for me?" You poke his chest right where his heart is.

His yearning has taken a form in you, it has your face, and it has your voice. You are love incarnate.

"Always. you've never left.” He says softly, words that are only for your ears. You nod, smiling, tilting your head up as he leans down. “Let's go home, love.” He wants to carve out your name in his heart, but he'll settle for the next best thing— etching your lips upon his own.

[ssin-ent]

Study

reader being a english tutor and riding Jaemin as he (tries to) concertrate on his english flashcards

You sighed " maybe this will hep you to memorize"

You said as you moved to straddle jJaemin's thighs on the couch. he blushed, but played along, smirking as he gripped your hips .But you quickly put his hands down his side tssking.

"The more right answer you have the more you'll get"

You peaked his curiosity, his eyes seemed more determined.

Jaemin answered correctly at the firsts flashcards , this allowing him to touch you and giving you the opportunity to start to grind your hips against his.

You noticed he was't expecting it when his eyes grew wide at the friction, failling to look at you as he was getting hard under you.

" next, how do you say 쓰다?"

You saw Jaemin concentrating the best he could to finally answer correctly, so you grinded harder, switling your hips in a way that made him moan.

A few flashcards later and he couldn't concentrate anymore, losing his focus as he was more and more desperate.

" I'm sorry baby, wrong answer" He pouted at your statement, but whined loudly when the movements of you hips came to an alt. Jaemin gripped your hips, trying to get you to move

"Y/n~ please! I'll get it right, I- it's- just, give one chance, only one" he said the last words in english trying to convince you the best he could

But you shook your head " you know the deal sweetheart, get the next one right and I'll move again" You leaned close to his ear to whisper

"And I might let you cum if you're a good boy"

His breathing trembled at your whisper, more motivated than ever.

And there you were, sat on his cock, Jaemin twitching inside you as he was so close to reach his high yet, he got the last answer wrong so you stopped moving completely.

Upset, Jaemin tried to move under you, faking a tantrum in hope to come without you knowing it but this only earned him a slap on his thighs.

" Do that again and I leave you like this"

Jaemin panicked apologizing lrofusely

" Let's start again will you"

He gave you more and more answer so you decided to stop your torture here.

You swirled your hips on his cock, clenching volunteraly around him, the tighness making him throw his head back.

You dropped yourself hard in his cock, hips slapping loudly as you finally gave him what he wanted. Still, you were moving slowly, making sure you were feeling every inch of his cock

"Y/n, stop torturing me...please" Jaemin said breathlessly

"Hmm...I don't know...You were quite bratty earlier..."

" I- please, I told you I'm sorry I- HO MY GOD FUCK"

He shout, pleasure going through his veins as you slammed yourself on his cock quickly, giving him exactky what he needed. Jaemin's mouth was half open, his eyes squeezed shut

" This feels so good, god so good don't s-stop please"

Jaemin plead, feeling on cloud 9. You kissed his neck making him tremble at the feeling of your lips on his skin. You teased him more and reached under his shirt, goosebumps appearing on your skin . You thumbed at his nipples making him bite his lips, when you pinched them a bit too hard making him cum uncontrollably in a moan of your name.

[janiedean]

sorry to bother you, but I was wondering why Theo/San was't your cup of tea?

you mean theon/sansa? (also no bother!)

... hahah. uhm. 100% show-based, but. PLEASE ANYONE INTO IT STOP READING NOW I WARNED YOU XDD

first: in book canon I wouldn’t mind I guess, but in show canon nvm the travesty of giving her his storyline, there were those two scenes in 5x07/8 where a) she asked him to help her escape.... without telling him she’d take him with her so basically assuming he’d just stay back and most likely get killed but whateverb) she told him that if she could she’d do to him what ramsay had done all over againand like... sansa never apologized for that, it never was referenced again and it was assumed textually as something he somehow deserved to hear (??) and even with that he saved her anyway because.... what? he’s a stark? he loves the starks? we just don’t know because oh, wait, they gave her his storyline, and I have to assume that hey since he helped her then it’s all fine? like, sorry but I can’t buy it and the fact that it was never resolved on screen sealed it for me

second: she had his storyline. like, sorry but show!sansa had S5/6 doing what he should have done, theon never even was told on screen that ramsay was dead, they made his death all about sansa and theon was forgotten or what, we didn’t even have a possible last minute patch for that in 8x02 because who knows what they talked about, I had to see my favorite storyline in the books butchered and theon’s character reduced at ‘being a honorary stark’ at the end of it all (which... ofc he was, since they took all his sl and agency and whatever to give it to sansa)... and I should be into that? like sorry but if I see show!theon/sansa I see validation of the show’s choices which imho weren’t even done well bc they didn’t even bond during their shared captivity or whatever and it was horribly written and I checked out of validating those show choices the moment they went there in S5. if it had been show endgame I’d have gritted my teeth and borne it but it wasn’t and all the rhetoric about theon’s redemption arc making him a stark after all was... well, not the worst that came out of S8 because they butchered jaime worse and dany worse and whatever but honest, no

third: unpopular opinion but with how they wrote sansa in S8, if at the end they had made san/san canon I wouldn’t have enjoyed a iota of it bc show!sansa is not book!sansa, she’s cersei lite, and I detested her characterization since S5 but S8 took the cake and atm I’m not interested in any show!only sansa ship bc I spent the last two episodes hoping that dany would roast the entirety of westeros for how done I was with dnd’s horribly written attempts to make me root against her and/or put sansa as their feminism model while writing her like cersei and tramping over every other female character to get there, and I’m saying this with pain in my heart because I love book!sansa and I could have pretended to ignore my issues with characterization in S6-7 if 8 had been done well... but it wasn’t.

tldr: that ship is encapsulating everything I hated about what they did with theon and sansa’s storylines and characterizations from S5 onward and I can’t get past that stuff in S5 that no one bothered address on screen. obv it doesn’t mean people shouldn’t ship it because like I’m not gonna ship shame anyone and you do you, but personally I don’t want to have to do with it if I can help it. :/