#i'm looking back through outlaws for an edit

[tbcanary]

yet again i say everyone who argues about what is and is not in character for jason needs to stop fighting each other and unite against our common enemy, scott fucking lobdell

[serawritesthings]

WHERE THE DEERS REST, first part

Pairing | LowHonor!Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Summary | How can we do good when all we were raised to do is bad? A cruel fate, indeed. Yet when your past, and a certain outlaw, finds a way to set its claws in you once more, perhaps you'll soon find there is a way to change fate's design. Tags | sexual content 18+ minors dni, smut, heavy description of violence and wounds, angsty Word Count | 22k A/N | Oh god, I'm so nervous about posting this. First of all, thank you SO much for the love you showed to Our Dear, Green Little Friend. It has completely warmed my heart that so many of you like it, and even though it's taken me very long to post my next fic, it was one of the key motivations for me to continue writing on it. So thank you very, very much! <3 Also, like I said earlier, I'm very nervous about posting this fic since it's very long and perhaps quite different than what I've written before, but I hope to god you like it! I haven't been in the best mindset when writing it since I've dealt with some stress both privately and at work. I will let you know that I will soon go through it once more and edit it slightly, but I felt like I had to get it out to you guys since I feel bad that I haven't posted in a while, and I'm honestly quite sick of rereading the story time and time again. Please let me know if there are any serious misspellings, and I'll fix it directly! Anyway, sorry for the long text, and I hope you like it!<3

For some, it might’ve seemed cowardly, yet you couldn’t bear to unravel some memories, for they hurt too deeply–wounded too far. However, the thought of letting them fade was somehow worse, and while you feared the pain they would surely bring when confronted, you hadn’t been forced to face them until now. So, it turned out to be quite the coincidence they would come to haunt you now that time seemed to be at a standstill; the world around you had never been this calm before.  

“Miss, would you mind taking these back?” A hearty voice broke your thoughts, speaking in a mumbling fashion as the loud sound of books hit the wooden table. Wading through the dust that floated around you that stirred from Eustace’s sudden motion, you found his ageing eyes gazing at you amusedly, chuckling at the sour expression that formed on your otherwise soft features. 

“I don’t mind,” you said, giving him a small smile that turned vicious once the heavy pile of books was cradled in your arms. “If you don’t mind taking a round with the whisk.” You didn’t get the chance to see the irked look on his face, disappearing quickly into the towering bookshelves. 

“Don’t forget to dust the higher places as well!” Chuckling warmly at the man’s miffed mumbling, you walked on carefully, making sure not to stumble on the ratty carpet as his grumbling grew distant.

The bickering that seemed constant when you conversed with the older man was by all means with no ill intent, more so done in jest. And, while your friendship might seem rather unusual, there was no doubt that his presence brought you an undeniable comfort in a world that had done you more wrong than right. Sure, it might sound dreary, but you recently concluded that you grew more and more content with the thought of staying here.

You loved how a sense of calm always seemed to rest over the building, the smell of old books filling your senses, although an ever-so-poignant whiff of hot steel and grease found its way in from the open window as the train chugged to a stop and steam billowed through the surrounding air. Sighing, you took the liberty of closing the window, the sharp whistle making you cringe as it brought you out of your solitude.

Eustace had taken you under his wing when the bearings of your life had become too heavy, giving you a roof over your head and warm food in your stomach. It made you wonder how sparse kind souls like his were in this world, never having met one quite like him. While your compromised situation originally had been the reason for his kindness, he had found your fascination and vast knowledge of books intriguing and, therefore, refused to take no for an answer when he asked you to start helping him around his bookstore. Yet, despite how much you appreciated it, you couldn’t flee from the unease that still hooked its claws in you when you pondered the reason you had ended up here in the first place, the tendrils of it creeping into the sanctuary of the bookshop like ivy upon ancient stone. Despite your dislike of it, you bore the weight of it every second, and although well hidden, you had become tethered to the memories that followed your past. 

Like shattered glass, memories pierced your heart with sharp edges at every twist and turn. Distant echoes of laughter that had long since faded into silence, the faces blurred by time yet etched into your very being passing before you as your pace slowed down, the wooden panels creaking something so terribly under your weight.

With a heavy sigh, you moved among the hundreds of books, fingers deftly tracing the spines as you sought their rightful place amongst their brethren. Arranging them on the shelves, you tried to distract yourself from your thoughts by humming quietly in the otherwise quiet room. The shop had been empty for quite some time now; the townsfolk’s interest in the subtle words on the pages dimmed in their struggle to survive their daily life—only pretentious men stepped inside at times who, by crook or hook, imagined they would leave a mark on this world with their clever words and supposed hierarchy in society. It lessened, though, as they went for bigger–more extraordinary–things than this muck of a town, wherever that might be.

Amidst the quiet rustle of pages and the soft creak of wood–and your less than favourable words, the air suddenly turned congeal, thick with a sudden tension that tickled your senses with its uncertainty. A chill coursed down your spine as you felt an ominous presence looming behind you, casting you in its shadow as the weight of something cold and unyielding pressed against the tender flesh of your temple. With a tremble, you froze, the books once held tightly against your chest cascading to the ground in a tumble.

Your heart was hammering against your chest, beating against your ribs like a caged bird as its frantic beat drowned out the world around you. You grew too fearful to move, the clicking sound of a gun daring you to resist. 

“Easy there, miss,” a gravelly voice spoke, vibrating dangerously in your ear as warm breaths turned cold on the bare skin of your neck. “No sudden moves, and I won’t have to hurt you.”

You remembered that voice, feeling it dance just beyond the reaches of your consciousness, its familiarity almost touchable. How could you not voice it when the name lingered on your tongue, teasing and beckoning you? There had to be a mistake; there was no other conclusion to be made, for if it happened to be someone you had known, they might be less agreeable than the common bypasser.

“What do you want?” you managed to whisper, voice barely above a breath.

“Money, jewels. Whatever you got,” the voice replied, words heavy with a certain kind of roughness only a man holding a gun to a woman’s head could possess. “Just keep quiet and do as you’re told, and we’ll be on our way.”

Your mind raced in a jumbled mess of fear and uncertainty at the sudden intrusion you should have known was a high possibility in such a city as Blackwater. Yet, the thought only made your heart heavier against your chest, knowing all too well what kind of men hid in the darker corners of the alleyways. For one to threaten a woman in broad daylight, though, seemed very daring yet not an ounce less terrifying.

Summoning every bit of courage you possessed, you tilted your head to glimpse at the man pushing his head against the side of your face, opposite where the cold metal touched your temple dauntingly. As you did, you met the eyes of the man who held your fate in his hands–and in that fleeting moment, as your gazes met, you saw something flicker behind the hardened exterior of the outlaw.

Recognition dawned like a bolt of lightning. What stared back at you was not the face of a stranger but the familiar features of a man you had once known—a man whose presence had once held the promise of escape amidst the terrible deeds that clouded your life. Arthur Morgan, that’s who was standing behind you. His name echoed in your mind like from a long-forgotten dream, memories hidden so well you could barely remember them. 

Two broken souls, trying to find what others seemed to have handed to them on a silver platter: warmth and solace, the comforting thought of finding a home–somewhere to belong. Yet, the relationship wasn’t made to be perfect, and in your despair, nothing good could’ve come from it. As many things go, it became too fragile. It couldn’t—didn’t—last, and what you once saw as a light beyond the heavy curtains of darkness was quickly swallowed up.

Instead of the kind ones you remember, dark, dangerous eyes stared into yours, the swirls of blue coated in a rich black that ran like coal through his acidic gaze. So harsh and cold were they, burning through yours as thick brows fell like a shield over the dark pools, hiding behind his squint and hostile snarl. Almost unrecognizable, he was seemingly both older and larger as the lines on his face were more defined and wrinkles on his nose nearly etched onto his face. 

As your fearful eyes stared into his stoic yet calculating ones, you felt your body shiver in fright, every bell of alarm that once sounded so clearly in your mind turning quiet, now only the clock ticking discernible as blood rushed in your ears like a flood. The gun cocked dangerously, dread creeping through you at the wordless threat when you stayed quiet for longer than he had the patience for.

 “You deaf?” His growling voice burned deep in his throat. A warm breath brushed against your cheek as he kept your gaze wholly, completely disregarding the unmistakable fear in your expression. 

“I-”

You stumbled over your words, voice thick before a gasp left you. Between the disbelief of seeing Arthur’s face once again, although more weathered than you remember, and the thought of having a gun pressed to your temple, there was not a single word you could utter that would seem sensible.

Suddenly, you were turned around, hands pushing you against the bookshelves in a hasty motion, never minding their grip on you. Your head craned as the gun now found your neck, trying desperately to get away from it but instead having it digging harder into your skin. 

“Now, are you going to do as I say?” You could feel the tendrils of disgust burn through you, face contorting as you twisted in his arms, proving futile against his leverage. 

“Nah, none of that. You hear me?” His grumbling could be heard from deep within his chest while his face soured, the sharp lines of his frown growing darker under the shadow of his hat. Tightening the grip he had on you, his arms wound themselves like vices around you, daring you to make another move. 

He was close now, his hot breath chilling the skin on your face as the smell of sweat and leather filled your senses–tears almost welled up in your eyes from the stinging feel of smoke emitted from his clothing. Every calm yet strained breath that left him was audible, contrasting heavily with your hectic breathing that filled the now-empty room. 

It was daunting yet all too familiar as memories clouded your mind of the same man who was now threatening your life. Did he even recognize you? Or was he too far gone? Had the devil set its claws so deep inside him that he couldn’t longer differentiate friend from foe? It would seem so, you concluded, gazing again at his hardened face, which only recognized a stranger before him–a puppet to get what he desired the most.

“We ain’t got much.” Your voice strained against your throat, thick with unshed tears that lingered in the corners of your eyes. All you got in return was a faint squint of his eyes, gazing at you cautiously as he looked behind him calmly before returning his eyes to you. 

“Do as I say.” Not a word left you, and whether it was from stubbornness or fear, you couldn’t be sure, but the look you were given made sure to convey that crossing him would not end well for you. 

That was until it changed. Arthur’s features softened after he observed your face, running his eyes over your eyes and the slope of your nose until they reached your lips, quickly averting his gaze as he turned his head away momentarily. Did he remember you, you wondered, finding no other explanation to make sense.

It was a long time ago, too long for you to consider the shadow of a man standing before you a friend, yet you had never remembered him to be quite so harsh. So, brutal, perhaps? You had undoubtedly missed a few chapters, but the years were far apart, and time had a funny way of doing its worst to those who deserved it the least. Like wet paint, it spreads, leaching onto good people like a virus–just like bad fosters bad, and good fosters good. 

“Please…” You pleaded with him, fright seeping like syrup into your shaking voice, pathetic and childish. “I-”

There was no time to finish your sentence. The loud thundering of hooves broke through the room’s tension, audible even through the closed window. Loud calls could be heard, as well as swear words further into the building that you did not recognize as Eustace. Worry filled you when you realized Arthur hadn’t come alone in his business to rob you blind, and now you were fearful that your companion might be in an even worse predicament.

The frown on his face deepened, the hold on his gun softening just enough as he pushed you hastily back towards the bookshelf, your legs weakening underneath you as you fell towards the ground. In long strides, he marched towards the window, hiding behind the wall as he peered out, almost blending into the shadows as the light from outside shone brightly. You could see people running past it, in too much of a hurry to peer inside as the shouts grew louder.

“Arthur!” A voice called out, recognizable as the rich timbre echoed through the corridor, gravelly yet smooth. “We have to leave!” As the last syllable left his mouth, you jerked as the first sound of a gun going off could be heard, hands quick to cover your ears as the noise punched a hole in your gut. “Now, Arthur!” 

Everything after that became a blur, your whole body growing rigid as the world turned into chaos. Bullets could be heard going off left and right, rather like a thunderstorm than a gunfight echoing outside the room that now held you in prison. Your body stiffened, muscles tensing as you were brought back to the sounds that filled you with dread, memories flooding you, both unbidden and unwelcome. 

Faces twisted in fear, the acrid smell of burning flesh, rising smoke, and gunpowder–sounds of screams echoing in your ears. You wished for it to cease, for the images to disappear, searching every corner of the room for an escape, somewhere you could go to to rid yourself of the horrid thoughts.

Momentarily, amidst your glancing around in stress, you found a pair of calculating eyes boring into yours, seemingly undecided as they stayed planted beside the window. Your breath came out in ragged gasps, the staccato rhythm of gunfire echoing through the building, mingling with shouts of panic and the sound of breaking glass.

Arthur’s gaze was fixated intensely on you, and a sense of uneasiness settled when you realized. It was heavy, and your heart raced as your eyes stayed plastered to the others–the urgent shouts from outside pierced through the silence as danger lurked outside the room’s walls. Yet, you couldn’t help but feel as if he was searching for something in the depths of your soul, piercing you with a scrutiny that left you barer than if he were to strip you of all your clothes and examine you naked. You found yourself unable to look away, moved by the indescribable way he didn’t seem to be either.

“Arthur!” 

Barreling through the door in a flash of binges breaking loose and dust clouding your vision, a pair of men fell roughly onto the ground a few meters before you, blood seeping through their clothes like a rich, red paint. Splattering on the ground, it almost reached your clothes as bullets rained after them, shooting holes in the walls the few times it missed their targets. 

Frantic eyes searched the now corpses in front of you, expecting to see Eustace's body among them. Yet, you found none–and hadn’t you been too preoccupied with the currants of relief coursing through you, you would have seen the young faces of the poor boys who had found their doom that day only because their perpetrators wanted to fill their pockets.

It didn’t seem that Arthur paid any mind to the mess that transpired in front of your very eyes, more so, still focusing on you like you were the only one in the room. Visibly distressed, it didn’t seem to deter him, his fingers flexing as his gaze burned dangerously under the shadow of his hat. 

That was until he suddenly tore his attention from you in annoyance, seemingly finding the dead bodies in front of you a menace, a simple block in the road. That was until a faint grunt seemed to leave one of them, a grunt filled with pain as frantic eyes flickered around while the rest of his limbs appeared paralyzed, only able to stare at the roof.

Rounding him immediately, Arthur stepped around the man, walking with his dirty boots and rattling spurs into the blood that loitered the floor as the sound of the thick, wet fluid reverberated in your ears. Without a single word, he gave you one last glance. You stayed on the floor, clutching your shoulders with your hands as he bent over the man and stared him unapologetically in the eyes–the only sound after being the loud bang of his gun. 

The sight was gruesome, and to think a man could do something like that without a blink of an eye, you considered even more cruel. You had seen your fair share of malice and anger, anger that turned even the kindest of men into herds of both sheep and wolves, meaning you couldn’t possibly be surprised. Yet, it reminded you too terribly of a time you thought you now would get the chance to lay behind you, never more having to stare these horrible men in the eyes any longer but instead keep them closed.

And you did keep your eyes closed this time, waiting for the moment pain would fill your chest. Yet, it didn’t come since only silence followed, and when you opened them again, the room was devoid of any life except your own; Arthur now only seemed to have been a figment of your imagination if it weren't for the poor victim, his blue eyes staring lifelessly into yous, wide open and terrified, seemingly having turned to you in the last second, hoping you would save him from his terrible fate.

—

Some would say you were of the quiet sort, choosing the words that fell from your lips carefully, both pondering and cautious. It came from a life where those assets were vital, a simple way to keep your tongue in check and do what you had to survive –which you would like to say wasn’t easy when it felt like your mind ran a thousand miles a second, never resting and finding it troublesome to make sense of the world that unveiled itself before you. 

With your mother gone, you found yourself thrust into a world of uncertainty, your father's callousness only serving to worsen the fate you seemed to have been handed as he appeared indifferent to your loss, attention consumed by the demands of those around him. But alas, he was affected too, and you had come to learn that different people react differently to whatever hardships they come by–and those who don’t respond at all seem to be the ones that eventually act the harshest.

That was at least how your father had acted; you perceived his anger as something only a daughter could experience from a father. It was brutal and sudden, only appearing after a silence that rang like sirens in your ears–then grappling and choking. What could possess a man to harbor such anger, you couldn’t say, and while you knew he had it worse when he was little, you wondered if the thought of you only being a child ever crossed his mind.

You should be filled with anger and resentment, so much it could consume your life, fuel every action, and affect every choice you make. You should’ve been immersed in sadness, crying until your voice gave out and tears dried up, yet you couldn’t. They were inside of you; you could feel them leaking into your chest, and as you stared into your own dry eyes, you could only see the malice of your father reflected in them–the malice that seemed to be reflected in most eyes these days.

 It didn’t matter if it was the ladies who sometimes passed by the dusty town of Blackwater or the lone man begging for coins in the corner of some run-down store. Deep-seated anger was in them all, rooted so gravely it felt like the air blackened when you stepped outside. Like a curse, it seeped into the very bones and festered there. 

Why? Perhaps that’s just how humans work, always needing something to prove that the inhabited anger they felt had a cause, always searching to direct it to someone else less deserving of it. So, perhaps there wasn’t anyone to blame for the whole thing—maybe it was just the nature of humans–just like happiness or sadness is a natural way of expressing oneself. It seemed more manageable for you to grapple with it when thought of that way, for it became more of a fact than somewhere to cast your blame. 

That’s why, when the bodies being dragged out the door left their track of dark, red blood, you could only gaze at Eustace, who spoke to one of the officers, refusing to look at the bloodshed around you. It turned out that your old man had been fine, answering in irritation while he told the sheriff that the outlaws probably hadn’t found him big enough of a threat as they searched every cabinet and shelf, taking no care to be careful of the things around them as it tumbled in heaps to the floor.

You couldn’t be sure if you felt relieved or not to have been further away from Eustace than you had been, wondering how your fate would have been decided if the lot of them had found you instead. Perhaps it had been your saving grace to see that the man from your past reached you first, but you couldn’t possibly say. Or maybe your saving grace was the officers who reached you just in time, for there was no telling what Arthur would have done with you had they not arrived when they did.

When you thought about it,  he’d always been unpredictable. While his face was familiar to you, he was unrecognizable in many ways. His movements had been calculating and menacing, and his eyes looked right through you as if it didn’t matter who was standing before him. The only thought reflected in his eyes was the hope of shiny gold and glittering diamonds. But there was also greed–greed and hunger.

You could tell, for you had seen it before. There was a time when that was all you saw, and for a long while, you wondered how far a man could go to satiate his needs–if greed only could grow, worsen like a drug. The more you got, the more you needed, the high never enough, and the thought of gaining more pleasurable to the point of doing anything to receive it.

 However, it was never a look you had seen coming from Arthur when you’d known him, as he’d been more prone to emit a childish want for justice and righteousness, pride, and a strong sense of doing what was right though the act was considered wrong. But it was a long time ago, and you realized that your vision might be clouded by a young girl's naivety that the world was a good place–that people could be wholeheartedly good.

“Dear girl.” Your thoughts were broken by Eustace’s low, seemingly now more careful voice, walking over to where you stood amidst the rushing forms of lawmen. “Are you alright?”

Were you? It was hard to tell, so you had no straight answer to give him. It was too crowded, and since you had nowhere to gather yourself, you weren’t in the right mind to devise a sensible response. So, instead, you answered in a way that would get you the least amount of questions–even though it might have been considered lying.

“Oh, I’m alright, Eustace; they never got the chance to find me.” Giving him a tight-knit smile, you touched his arm, grateful for his concern. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” 

You glanced up at him, finding his sharp eyes doubtful. You should have known. He never took kindly to lying and had an incredible knack for noticing when someone did. It would indeed be your doom one day–and many others, no doubt. 

“No, I suspect they didn’t find the old man much of a threat.” 

“Well, I’m glad they didn’t.” His eyes softened, and he heard your words despite your mumbling. Your gaze stayed stuck on his shoulder, deep in thought. 

Even though the danger had passed for some time, it still felt like your heart resided somewhere deep in your stomach. Your thoughts and the looming dread–the slightly metallic smell of blood filling your nose—were heavy. It didn’t help that Arthur’s face became more prone to showing up after that incident, his grim expression wearing a sharp nose and piercing eyes cutting through the yellowed paper plastered on the city walls, surrounded by his unlawful friends that didn’t look any less menacingly. 

5000§. That was the price for a man taking what he deemed his own, countless murders and robberies on his hands, blood heavy on his mind, and dollars flooding his pockets. It didn’t help your case that the poor boy selling newspapers in the corner outside the bookstore had pipes to last for days, reminding both you and the townspeople of their latest misfortune of having a gang hiding in the shadows. 

Since trouble always seemed to find you, there wasn’t much for you to chastise yourself with, all too familiar with the thought of being at the deep end of one conflict or another. It was laughable, really, that one person could be doomed with such a case of bad luck and an increasing magnetism towards people who fought with bloodied knuckles for power and status. But, in the end, maybe the weak belonged to the strong—just like flies sought feed from the skin of rotting corpses to consume the waste left by those who always strived forward, no matter their intentions or values. Perhaps it was an unspoken law of nature, an inevitable dance between vulnerability and dominance, where the fragile were snared in its horrid embrace. 

What could you possibly do against nature’s firm grip on the world? It wasn’t as if it was an imagined force you could call upon when needed—it was just how it was, and no amount of will or strength could make that fact undeniable. You came to terms with that realization long ago, but the gnawing feeling in your chest was more stomach-twisting than anything you had felt before. What you were scared of, you possibly couldn’t say. Perhaps it was the leftover tremors that still coursed through you or the dampening feeling of nausea that persisted, yet somehow, it was something else, a faint sense that the danger wasn’t over yet.

Could Arthur be the one causing the cold sweat to run down your back even though the room was boiling from the heat outside, making you twist and turn in your bed as you prayed that the wind that sometimes passed through the slightly open window would carry an ounce of coldness so you could feel anything but the enclosing heat that now seemed to warm you to the bone? Your eyes closed tight as if you pressed them hard enough; you would fool your mind that you were asleep, the gnawing voices in your head ceasing so you could, perhaps, finally rest.

There was no doubt about it—you were frightened. It was unusual, this feeling, since while you’ve had many instances in your life where fear was the key factor, after some time, your body—or mind perhaps— grows familiar with it, so familiar that it washes away with the wind. Some fare well when scared, responding automatically as if their minds grow clearer when faced with the means to survive. In others, which is the category where you fit in, grow blank, like a heavy fog settles, keeping you from sensing left and right. A perfect prey, indeed.

And a perfect prey you were, the open window inviting anyone who happened to pass by, and in excellent condition for someone to climb the two stories to reach the wooden frames and then slink into the room with their grubby fingers and glinting eyes—stupid girl, to think so carelessly as if the streets were safe and people were kind. 

Clothes rustling into the quiet night could be heard if you focused your ears hard enough, the floorboards creaking under the soles of muddy boots and clinking metal. Whoever could it be, one might wonder—and you grew paralyzed as the thought hit you, only able to stare at the tapestry that covered the wall in intricate patterns. The room’s darkness lets you hear every slight sound that would otherwise blend into the background, your senses heightened.

Perhaps the perpetrator thought you were asleep, your dreams already taking you to a land where you were dancing among clouds, not a single thought of the fright that would soon take over and turn the clouds so dark you couldn’t differentiate them from reality. Then, you thought, maybe you had been asleep as the sounds disappeared, all too familiar with waking up along the frantic beating of your heart, wide awake as horrible nightmares chased you till morning.

Your laboured breaths were the only thing that could be heard now, only a fool mistaking them for sleeping as you tried to steady your erratic heart. But you would soon find that the cold chill that ran up your clothed arm wasn’t the wind from the window caressing you but the hand of something more foul, riddled with scars that seemed insignificant in contrast to its owner’s sin.

Creaking under you, the bed groaned from the sudden weight, bedsheets rustling slightly as you closed your eyes tightly shut. The figure loomed over you, its large hand carefully moving further down your arm. You wondered, perhaps, if you stayed still long enough, you would be left alone or maybe dismissed as dead if you held your breath long enough. The thought seemed more appealing when you felt the cold skin burn through the garment, the smell of smoke so strong it felt as if you took a drag of the tobacco and let it scald its way to your lungs. It was vile, and in the presence of the sweat that bit its way through your nose, your eyes watered, your body begging to escape the horrid stench.

That was until the pressure lessened, and the room stayed quiet for a while, your heart beating so heavily it felt like someone held it right up to your ear, breath shaking with every small intake. But then, as the silence continued, you felt a warmth spread slowly down your arms, the substance thick like syrup as it made its way through the cotton of your shirt, spreading til the white fabric darkened to a deep, unsettling red. The scent of iron filled the air, subtle yet unmistakable as the shirt clung tighter to the skin beneath. 

You shot your squinting eyes wide open just in time to feel a heavy weight falling over you, unmoving and grim as what you now saw was a man gasping for air. Your first instinct was to scream, but you didn’t get the chance as a hand roughly placed its palm against your mouth, leaving the terrified noise that escaped you muted while your eyes flickered around wildly, trying to make sense of what was going on.

“Quiet now,” a rough voice spoke, removing its hand from your mouth when you became quiet, too shocked when recognizing who it was that spoke. It only grew heavier when your eyes got more familiar with your surroundings, the heaviness that lingered over you being in the form of a man, the warmth you had felt turning out to be from the deep cut across his neck, blood seeping like a waterfall from the paling flesh.

Another scream left you as you struggled to get the limbs away, squirming and trashing as you pushed the hand off you in the process as you begged for the suffocating smell of iron and sweat to disappear. When it did, you crawled backward, body bathing in the slick, blood-soaked sheets. Pushed to the floor, the man was left in a lifeless heap, eyes staring vacantly into the distance.

Those eyes–the sharp nose and squinting eyes—seemed familiar, reminding you of someone you couldn’t quite put your finger on, not while the room remained dark. However, you didn’t have the chance to ponder any longer as more harshly than before, a hand covered your mouth as you remained pushed up against the bedframe, coddling your hands to your chest.

Wet eyes stared into a pair of dark pools, once blue eyes now appearing black in the obscurity of the night as its facial features bathed in the light from the moon. Even still, it was hard to make out who it was, but his voice alone was enough for the realization to set in, now undoubtedly aware of who held your mouth with one hand and the shining blade of a knife in the other. 

“Keep screaming, and you’ll damn us both.” A familiar, grumbling voice spoke out, hushed, yet the warning of danger lay smoldering underneath the surface. 

“Arthur?” Your voice was hoarse when you spoke, riddled with shock when you realized that the man you had feared was in your bedroom, unwelcomed and unwished for. 

“Wh-” You didn’t get to finish your question before he ripped his hand from you, casting you a dark look as he stepped off the bed, the floorboards groaning awfully at the sudden weight.

“Quiet.” There was no need for him to say anything else as you complied, the rattling anger in his voice only fueling his hasty, rigid movements as he bent down, checking the pulse of the man bleeding out on the floor. 

The sight was gruesome, blank eyes shining in the moonlight as if they were somewhere far away, lost in a dream. A dream, you pondered amidst your shock. Yes, this could all very well be a dream—a bad dream, perhaps, yet the thought of it maybe not being real brought you a sense of comfort. But how could it be? It felt too real, and you could vividly recall every moment as it played out in front of you, feel every touch, and smell every scent.

Lost in a haze, you stared down at your body, the thick, red blood more visible as your eyes got used to your surroundings. Closing your eyes, you cast away the faint memories that grew bolder as the smell of iron crawled up your nose, almost gagged by the sight and the imposing smell that grew stuffier, fuller somehow.

Your eyes shot open, watching the dead body heaved on Arthur’s shoulder being thrown over the window sill, the impact noticeable with a loud thud. You could only stare at him as he leaned over, looking around quickly before turning towards you again, nodding his head towards the window. 

If you had been in the right mindset and not scared witless, you would have laughed at his blatant naivety for thinking you would dive head-first into the darkness of the night, with him no less. There might have been a time when you knew him, but that wasn’t the case anymore—the dark eyes cowering behind his hat were unrecognizable, and the unkind tone of his voice was entirely someone else’s. 

“Shit,” you heard him mumble when you made no motion to move from your spot, only cradling your arms tighter around you. Rubbing his eyes in stress, he glanced at you again, almost scoffing at you when you gave him a blank stare.

“Come on then, I ain’t got all day.” As you made no further movement that would give him the impression you were complying, he sighed and, with heavy steps, stalked towards you as the bed rattled slightly from his movements. You only held out your hands when he grabbed your waist roughly, fingers betraying you as they trembled wildly against his chest.

“What are you doing, Arthur?” His movements halted, his leatherbound hands stopped around your middle, and his eyes twitched when he heard his name being spoken. Along the ridges of harshness, you could see a faint confusion lingering in his stare, blatantly staring deep into your eyes unabashedly as he lifted you from the bed. 

“Wha—” You pushed against his chest, and while it didn’t succeed in making him back off, it only made his brows furrow deeper.

“Listen here,” he said darkly, grabbing your upper arms and shaking you slightly. “Do as I say—follow my every word, and you won’t die.” 

You stopped for a moment, bewildered by his words. You couldn’t make sense of it—none of it. Questions were brewing in your mind, but you couldn’t find the words to speak them, couldn’t find the words to scream for help. It might seem funny to be scared of a man you once knew to have a good heart, but you have known men your whole life, and it never takes much for them to see right from wrong and still do the wrong thing.

“What’s going on, Arthur?” you breathed shakily, glancing at his hands, which gripped your arms when they tightened. It was hard to imagine that they had once been so gentle, the thought seemingly miles away as you returned your gaze to his squinting eyes, so close now that you could feel his breath against your skin. “Why are you here?”

Your voice had grown quiet as the question hung loose in the air. Shuddering, the wind flowed wildly into the room, banging the windows against the wall.

“Come on,” Arthur curtly said as he pushed you in front of him. You quickly realized you could hear footsteps from the stairs behind the shut door—Eustace, you thought, a cold chill running up your back as you gasped. 

When you stopped before Arthur in protest, he only gave you a mean glance when you gazed back in concern, telling you all you needed to know. Disbelief was written on your face when you realized his cruelty, feeling it reverberating in your head a few moments before you could make sense of it. 

“Don’t-” 

“Then do as I say.” He whispered harshly, pushing you forward to make you move, and this time, your feet strode hastily toward the window. Two stories high, the room was, and before you could glance back in protest, Arthur pushed past you quickly, landing with a heavy thud against the dusty ground, clouds of it forming as it danced in the falling glow from the lamppost. 

The street below was bathing in darkness, the sullied street more daunting from this high up and saddening when Eustace’s voice could be heard echoing through the hallway, his worried tone reverberating through the walls. It was hard to leave and listen to him calling out for you, yet you realized there wasn’t a choice for you now, and a big part of you refused to see him come to harm. If Arthur would’ve stayed true to his threat, that is.

You couldn’t say why you were so scared, having faced dangers more bone-chilling than this. But perhaps you feared to once more fall into the wrong arms, the arms of a man who reminded you of a past you’d rather lay behind you. But that might’ve always been the case for people who lived a hard life, feeling it better to put it to rest than reawaken it.

Without casting a glance behind you to see the shadow in the hallway flicker wildly as a stressed cane could be heard audibly hitting the wooden floor; you climbed over the window frame, the chipping paint sticking to your tightly gripping hands. It wasn’t until the trashing of air surrounded you that you fell into a pair of arms that immediately embraced you, hands gripping under your waist to ease your landing. 

Quickly, before his hand could linger, you backed away, relieved when you no longer felt the tight hold he had managed to capture you in. His gaze remained heavy on you, and you did your utmost to avoid him, letting your eyes falter, not daring to meet him. How he could act so carelessly, you couldn’t possibly justify, yet his presence alone made you take a few steps back.

His movements were harsh as he adverted his eyes, and you could see how his body was rigid and tense, as if he’d been bathing in ice-cold water. He glanced towards the window, walking towards you as he motioned you to turn around and walk through the streets until the building disappeared behind tons of others, his grip on your arm tight like he worried you would slip out his grasp—or attempt to. Most likely, you thought, knowing exactly what he would do if you tried when considering his earlier threat.

“Where are you taking me?” You applauded yourself for dampening the tremble in your voice when you spoke, somehow finding the simple thought mildly embarrassing while aware it would be entirely valid if you did. This time, you found yourself getting an answer to your question, and although harsh and hasty, it gave you reason to question its meaning. 

“Somewhere safe,” Arthur grumbled under his breath before pushing your back against the local general’s store wall, your figure hidden behind his large frame in the deserted alley. You made another attempt to question him further, only managing to open your mouth before the leather of his gloves covered it, hushing you as his eyes found yours, a threat lying deep within them. 

A few moments passed in silence, the brick wall against your back cold as the small stones pressed uncomfortably against your shoulder blades. Moving slightly, you turned your head to gaze out towards the street, finding Arthur’s hand turning your face back instantly, shaking his head.

It wasn’t long before loud footsteps could be heard through the streets, metal clanking and murmurs echoing as their shadows grew taller from the orange light of the lamppost.

“Be still,” Arthur whispered under his breath, the sound of his gun cocking slowly as if to make as little noise as possible. Stepping away from you, he motioned you to step further into the alley, where the darkness would almost swallow you whole. “Stay there until l come back, and keep quiet.”

You didn’t get the chance to follow his command, though; the sharp sound of a gun went off, the noise so bone-rattling in the quiet, sleeping town it likened to the sound of thunder—a thunder turning into a full-blown storm as it didn’t even take a millisecond before bullets rained through the air, shooting holes into walls and shattering surrounding windows. 

Your back found the brick wall again, Arthur’s back meeting your front as he shielded you with his body. Peeking from behind the building, the sound of his gun went off booming in your ear, his face growing even more grim, cursing under his breath as a bullet flew right past him. His weight pushed against yours when he once more took cover, taking the chance to reload as you gazed at the small cut on his neck where the bullet had grazed him—happy that it hadn’t been you.

Your hands turned pale as they gripped Arthur’s jacket, eyes screwing shut as the noise around you only grew nearer, each intake of breath shallow and rapid, as if the air in and of itself had turned hostile. Desperation clawed at your mind, begging you to slip away from the man holding you back and make a run for it, but you found that you couldn’t, damning yourself for staying still when all you wanted to do was get away.

Although warmth suddenly enveloped your hand, the rough leather and warm fingers wrapped around your sweaty ones. You opened your eyes, breathing erratically as you were once more met with the familiarity of Arthur’s jacket. As you glanced down, you caught a glimpse of his hand encasing you before the sight disappeared just as the feeling passed. You wondered if the hard, cold man in front of you had been the one to do it or if you’d imagined it.

With no more time to ponder, Arthur hastily stepped out on the streets, wildly looking around him with his gun raised as he turned his body in all directions. All dead, you presumed, as no more shots were being fired, yet you could hear more footsteps coming your way, alarmed voices shouting as doors slammed open in the distance. 

“Shit,” Arthur muttered, a loud whistle cutting through the air before he returned to you, casting a glance your way as you gazed worryingly towards the direction of the loud calls, stumbling towards Arthur, feeling like the ground was tilting beneath your feet. 

“What’s happening?”

“Law,” he stated, grasping your waist and hoisting you up what you discovered was his horse. The strong muscles flexed under your weight as you sat behind the saddle, and the chestnut coat softened under your fingers as you tried to find stability.

“Hold on,” Arthur said after heaving himself onto the saddle, casting a look backward when you took too long to follow his words, only setting off when your hands crawled tentatively around his waist, gripping the material under your hands firmly.

You wanted to ask him where he was taking you, but fear choked up your words and rattled your brain as you tried to comprehend your current predicament. So, instead, you held onto his jacket til your fingers turned a paler shade, closing your eyes as you wished that with it, you could disappear—perhaps wake up in your bed once more and feel the morning sun shine brightly upon you as it had done now for quite some time, instead of the cold, harsh air blowing against you, seeping through every garment you were wearing.

You had happily laid the unknown fate behind you when you found Eustace, not knowing the past from the present—not knowing what lay before you. As a child, it had been everything you’d known. And, being brought up always moving, you’d grown used to a stable home, a far-off dream, if even that, since you had never known that stability existed. Food on the table, clean clothes that didn’t reek of sweat and were stained with dirt, and clean water that would surely do you better than the burning alcohol you often got as a substitute for liquid. 

All in all, finding a home with Eustace had been a blessing, no matter how absurd your situation may have looked to others. Therefore, suddenly, having to leave made everything ten times worse—you didn’t want to go, and you cursed the man in front of you, cursing him for disrupting your peace, for taking you away for—well, you weren’t quite so sure yet. 

Although it itched inside you to ask him, you hadn’t missed the part where Arthur seemingly wasn’t the man you had once known. Therefore, you kept your mouth shut, not daring to speak a word while you gazed behind you as the city lights dimmed with time, buildings replaced with trees, and people with animals that scourged away into the woods surrounding the path when the clacking of hooves grew near. 

You rode for a long while in silence, and with every chance you got, you glanced behind you, expecting to see the sheriff’s men closing in on you despite Arthur’s brutal pace—to see the pistols aimed at you in a way you’d thought you’d laid behind you after all those years on the run. But no, no galloping horses followed you, only darkness engulfing your sight as you looked back, the only noise the huffing of the horse beneath you.

Night turned to day, and you never stopped to regain your breath, to make sense of your surroundings. It was consuming, yet you took the chance to feel the now brisk air of the morning caress your cheeks softly, smell the bracing dew and the carrying of fresh air before the heat would set in a few hours. For a long while, you’d forgotten how good it felt to be outside of the city map with no walls confining you, no bustling crowds jostling for space. Nature’s gentle, soothing sounds replaced the constant hum of urban life—machinery and voices. The rustling leaves, the chirping of birds, and the distant call of wildlife may have once done their best to soothe your rattled nerves, yet it didn’t ease now, and you found yourself only growing more nervous.

—

“We ain’t got no other choice but to stay here tonight,” Arthur said as the horse slowed to a trot, examining the area as he squinted against the sharp evening sun. “Reckon, we’ll be safe enough out here. If they ain’t following us, of course.”

A small sigh left you, almost letting a groan escape you as you moved slightly behind the saddle. Feeling the muscles ache deep within, you were unwilling to face a second longer seated atop the horse. You didn’t even register his last words and their hidden threat, trying to remind you what heap of danger you were in—as if you weren’t aware, as if he didn’t already make you more at edge.

As the horse finally stopped at a place Arthur found agreeable, you didn’t wait a second to glide down towards the ground, feeling your feet planted on firm ground, the grass underneath them heavenly as you stretched with your newly-found freedom. 

“Don’t run away,” Arthur muttered as his gaze stayed on you, warning laying deep in his voice.

“And where would I go?” Raising your arms, you gave him a frustrated look, not understanding how he would even make the assumption that you could, the landscape stretching on for miles with only vegetation and no roads as far as the eye could see, only lurking animals awaiting you with open mouths and greedy arms.

“I don’t know, just don’t do it,” he grumbled, sliding off the saddle before throwing you a blanket. As he crouched down, making you believe he was setting up a fire, you walked closer to him, carefully watching the guns on his back, like devil horns sprouting like bone from his shoulders.

“Arthur,” you began, hugging the blanket to your chest. “Will you tell me who those men were?” His mood was terrible, yet somehow, the words left you before you could stop them. There was, of course, still lingering anger at him inside of you, the underlying tones of sorrow that stung its way through you. Yet, you had to know—had to understand why he had turned his visit into a raging bloodbath and who that man was whose blood had dried up your clothes as the fabric had now grown thick and pasty.

“The law, I already told ya,” 

“I know that,” you sighed, trying again, finding it easier to look at him when his back was turned. “But the men before that, and the man in my bedroom….” you trailed off, recalling the horrid moment and the consuming smell of blood, the lifeless eyes once again staring straight through you, brows still furrowed while the eyes stayed wide open.

He halted slightly in his motions, casting a glance sideways yet not entirely looking at you as he rubbed his eyes. Sweat ran down his face as he lowered his hat to rid himself of the still-blazing sun, cursing under his breath at the damned warmth that almost felt torturous when the wind laid to rest.

“Jesse’s men,” he said, continuing his earlier action. Your stomach plunged, shock traveling through your body as you froze, wishing sincerely he’d said any name but that. 

“And the man in my be-”

“Jesse.”

“Oh.”

Backing slightly, you could feel your throat constricting when the familiar name left Arthur’s mouth. It had been a long time ago, yet now it seemed so near, almost too near, being able to grasp the memories that made your heart lurch and stomach turn, something waxy and cold lining your insides at the thought.

Although, with it being given more thought, wasn’t this just your luck? Had it not always been your luck? To find yourself amid everything terrible, of all that was rancid and chaotic—entangled in the embrace of men who, above all else, desired more, strove towards gaining what they deemed necessary. Because of this, there had been many instances where you had felt greed, the familiarity with currents so strong there was no other explanation than rendering yourself no better than others when it came to it. And, unfortunately, it was consistent, for it appeared in everyone—everywhere—whether consciously or not, there had been no way for you to unsee it. 

“But I don’t understand,” you said, your voice quiet as you spoke to yourself, gaze far off as you absentmindedly stared into thin air. “Jesse already killed Charlie. Why would he go after me, and now of all times? He couldn’t possibly be that greedy?” Silence followed, Arthur’s eyes finally meeting yours with reluctance, as if your question bothered him more than he wanted to let on. “Could he?”

“It ain’t—” he trailed off, eyes flickering as if pondering how best to form the words soon to be said. “Well,” he said more directly this time. “Death ain’t enough for some, I guess.”

As his words sunk in, Arthur avoided your gaze, the silence from you enough to tell him that he’d struck a chord in you with his admittance. Horrifying, yet how could it surprise you when you had faced the inner turmoil of men many times, knowing the ways of honor and respect they so desperately clung to? Although there was an underlying dread to his words—like someone had wrapped a bag over your lungs when you thought of what could’ve been—where you could’ve been if Arthur hadn’t been there that night.

When you were both smaller and much more naive than today, you’d seen the bullet that flew right through your father’s skull with both eyes by the hand of Jesse, wide open and undoubtedly too young to stand witness to such a thing—no less it being a parent. You’d been too little; you simply didn’t understand it, and while you can honestly say it didn’t impact you then, being too used to seeing things like that firsthand and not particularly close to your father, it plastered itself onto you like a stamp whether you liked it or not.

Charlie, your father, had grown too careless and brave to think himself above others, particularly Jesse. All in all, that didn’t sit right with him, and as your father went through the grief of losing your mother, growing both colder and meaner with time—an image of his former self—he didn’t have much to care for except the gluttony that grew more consistent as the years passed. Sometimes, you’d ponder if any man could be blamed for it, for it seemingly was engraved in our bones, perhaps a fundamental part of the human mind. 

You’d concluded you couldn’t cast that blame at your father when he tried to usurp Jesse, for then greed battled greed, and you had to choose which one was more deserving of understanding. Yet, you soon came to realize it didn’t matter who was more deserving, for power played a bigger part, and it didn’t care for either justice or discernment—only in which hands it could grow stronger, in which mind it could spread its dark tendrils until it grew satisfied. The only problem was that it never did, and you deemed it the downfall of many, both great and horrible men, those who deserved it and those who didn’t.

After that, you didn’t have much more to say, continuing the late evening in silence as your mind raced terribly after your conversation. You couldn’t help but stay unsurprised by Arthur’s theory, somewhere deep down knowing they probably did have much more in the plan for their leader’s revenge. Death, all in all, might not be so horrible after all when you’d imagine all the other vile and stomach-wrenching things one could do to deem their revenge agreeable—righteous. 

It was impossible to imagine yourself being the one to endure it. You almost felt lighthearted at the thought of men’s grabby hands and hungry eyes, conjuring up bone-chilling scenarios that would make any sane person’s face pale and skin gray. The slap of a harsh backside of someone’s palm was, of course, humiliating enough for you. Still, with time, it somehow felt less personal, as if the memory healed with the bruise, while someone infringed on the fleshier part of yourself, not quite humiliation, for it stretched farther than that—scarred deeper. Pure rot and filth would surely spread through your body and mind, growing until it became a part of you, your past, and your future. 

Your fright for Arthur did lessen as you pondered, growing thankful when you deemed his company much more preferable than the men who sought after you. It reminded you of a time he’d been the safest point in your life—perhaps the first since you laid in your mother’s arms, the warmth only a child could feel from a parent. Safe and undoubtedly free, his arms around you not encasing you—caging you in—but pushing you forward so you could feel the air of the wild blow through your hair, showing you there was more to life than death and violence, that there could be more to a man than his demons.

Of course, you had known what he was capable of—the brutality he wielded with his hands, the blood that tainted them, tainted him. In some deranged way, that thought had always made him even more comforting than he would be without it. It was what you’d known your whole life, and there was no hiding it. It drew you in, but never once had he made the slightest incantation of hurting you, and that’s what made you stay. 

God, you’d been so alike, you and Arthur, and your childhood likewise. It felt like he’d been explaining your life when he told you of his. It didn’t help, for it glued you together, and you wondered if it could even be undone, knowing the rip of the glue, if you ever did, would strip away both skin and bones—take so much from you you were unsure if it could ever heal again. To think it would be horrifying indeed, and in the end, it was; the bruising went so deep you’d wanted to dry-heave when you left, almost ripping your heart out with everything else as you pushed him away.

You wondered, the saddest smile almost showing on your lips, if he had realized how carefully he had handled you since you first laid eyes on him, thinking not of his threats and harsh demeanor but the thoughts behind his actions. Ever so thoughtful and very unbecoming of him, yet somehow entirely expected of his character. You lowered your head, letting your hair fall around you as you tried hiding how the corners of your lips suddenly turned into a frowning smile like you were in on a sad secret only you knew about. 

As you tried forcing your lips to maintain their straight appearance, you raised your eyes carefully after some time, observing Arthur through your lashes as he gazed into the fire. Leaning against an oak, he sought shade from the sun after providing you with something to eat. He seemed deep in thought as the flames caressed his face in the darkening evening, highlighting his sharp, harsh features. A heavy shadow cast over his eyes, hiding what thoughts lay behind them. 

He looked no doubt like a man to fear, with features just as deadly as he was, like the guns resting on his hips and the twitching of his fingers ready for even the slightest inclination of danger. It looked like he was sleeping, yet he was vibrating with tension, like his mind was resting without his body, as if it ran on auto, already aware of every danger that could occur upon you as if it was plastered in the back of his eyelids. 

You conclude that living the life he did would surely do that to a person. You’re not sure what he’s been through since you last saw him but deem it nothing good. Your eyes wandered over his face, gazing over the slightly suntanned skin, watching how the evening breeze made his roughly cut hair tickle his face. The trail of beard started to form, littering down to his neck, where a cluster of chest hair took over, disappearing invitingly into the unbuttoned part of his shirt.

Lingering over the bare skin that glistened with an inclination of sweat from the still humid air and fading sun, they followed over the expanse of his chest that stretched the fabric of his shirt, rising steadily in harmony with his breathing. The faint feeling of his skin under your fingertips ran through your mind, the slight memory so far away that only the feeling persisted. The sharp, musky smell of smoke was almost burning under your nostrils as the feeling persisted, coupled with a smoldering scent that was hard to word; you could nearly feel the warm skin underneath you—the faint sense of hair tickling your cheek. 

It calmed you to watch him, the slow breaths that left him making your eyes grow heavy as time ticked on, the chilling fog of night settling in, accompanied by the warmth of the fire you so desperately relied on. It wasn’t until you were at the brink of sleep a pair of darkened eyes met yours, bathing in the glow from the fire, that your eyes faltered, a scorching blush fighting its way up the skin of your chest till it covered your cheeks wholly—shit. It grew hotter, the air suddenly turning stuffed as embarrassment from your delirious, wandering eyes had been caught red-handed.

You could only stare at the ground in shame, the small pebbles suddenly turning interesting as your eyes stared in false interest. You blamed it on your worn-out mind, the fatigue that had overtaken your body, trying to justify it to yourself. You felt the brutality of another pair planted on you, unwavering, hoping to higher powers they would dissipate so you could pity yourself without an audience. 

“Cold?” Arthur’s gruff voice broke the silence, the words still quiet, making it sound more like a statement than a question.

Did he mistake your blushing cheeks for you being cold? Or, had your distracted mind kept you from realizing that the cold air had done so when the darkening sky fell upon you, too? Crossing your arms over your chest, you felt a shudder run through you, hairs raising as if on cue. 

“I suppose so,” you mumbled, inching closer to the fire that had begun to falter. The embers around it were glowing red as they crackled loudly into the night, the sudden noise making you jump slightly. 

“Mmh.” 

You stared into the flames as silence followed, refusing to meet his eyes. Your pulse was still pounding quickly, and your mind was caught in the horrible moment. Hell, you’d say it bordered on humiliating, throwing off your facade of irritation directed at Arthur and his actions that you were so dead-set on keeping up as well as your walls—so high he couldn’t peer over them the way you couldn’t look over his.

“Come here.”

Your eyes fitted to his, in an instance, baffled by the words that left his mouth, if even that was what he said and not something your sleep-deprived mind made up.

You could only stare at him for a while, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind his words. Your face was straight as Arthur stared back at you with an expression that could rival yours, arms crossed over his chest, and he leaned against the tall oak. You damned his ability to keep his face so unreadable, eyes still as sharp as they always seemed. His voice was calmer, perhaps slightly warmer, heating like embers glowing in the hearth.

“What?” you mumbled tiredly, voice laced with a sleepy confusion.

“You’ll die of hypothermia before I even get the chance to get you out of here.” His tone was laced with annoyance, grumbling irritably as if the mere thought of the conversation you had bothered him immensely—as if the words leaving him were reluctant and bothersome. 

He didn’t continue, staring at the flames flickering wildly when the wind suddenly picked up—if it was a means to avoid your now wakened eyes or the nonchalance in his spoken words, you couldn’t tell.

The irritation that had been simmering in your mind grew at his words. Your throat constricted with words you wanted to speak, wanting to tell him that there wasn’t a single fiber of your being wishing to be close to him, to give him such a privilege. Had the world turned his head that daft, or had he simply stopped caring what effect his words and actions had on others, no less you?

A few moments passed, and you stared at him, eyes growing hard and sharp like glass, where confusion and fear were replenished. So, to rid both of you from the onslaught of feelings coursing through you, you turned around on the hard ground, bringing your arms tighter against you for warmth as a shudder ran through you.

“When did you grow so cruel?” you asked quietly into the night, watching the warm air leaving your mouth become clouds when you breathed a shaking breath. You weren’t sure if you were speaking about his sudden audacity or the change in his character that so starkly contrasted the one you had known. Nonetheless, you didn’t expect an answer, but you did get one, and a humorless laugh accompanied it as if the truth was some masochistic joke.

“If you only knew.”

—

The night continued in silence, and you woke between the hours from the cold, staring heedlessly into the darkness, ears taut as every noise made your breath hitch, almost expecting to find prying eyes staring back at you when you got the guts to open them. But, as sunlight found its way to you behind the trees, rising warmly over the cliffs, you could finally feel yourself relaxing against the hard ground, bringing the jacket that lay over you closer as you breathed in the scent of smoke and something warmer, muskier.

Blue orbs, hidden beneath the surface of anger and hatred, gazed at you through squinted eyes as the orange tendrils hit the skin of your cheeks just above ĥis jacket. They followed along the strands of hair that ran down your face, tickling your skin slightly as you shook them away from your face in deep sleep.

For far too long, they had only seen gruesome sights—things that would make even the strongest men empty their stomachs. So they stayed a while longer, feasting their eyes on something lovelier—a forbidden fruit laid out before them. The steady breathing lulled them closer as if calling for them, begging them to stray nearer until skin touched skin.

The skin he had once known so well, so well the mere thought of it had become less of a luxury and more of a second nature, a constant need. You might’ve let time do its part in receding the memories, but not him—not when every thought of you had become his way of finding something good in this world—his world. Whatever was left of it gnawed at him, clawed at the inside of his flesh, the scars with age growing visible, larger to only himself; only the aftermath of anger and resentment was what was shown to the world. 

Embedded in the darkest corners of his mind, you laid like a hidden haven, formless yet shaped by recollection. He rarely touched it, for every time he did, he found the flesh of you that was once so bright, so warm, turned colder and grayer, rot spreading its way up your delicate skin, his disease only managing to span through your body. The eyes had grown too lifeless to be associated with yours, the sunken eyes dull and almost bordering on hateful. He couldn’t stand it, so he let it be after some time, outmost refusing to taint your memory with his cruelty and violence, refusing to cover you any longer with his filthy hands. 

It was a part of his life he’d had to lay behind him, a chapter that he had looked upon so fondly laid to rest, only for the next to take form. Oh, how it was riddled with filth and violence, the edge of the papers burnt and soiled. It was simply how it was, he’d concluded at the time, all too aware that it was what lay before him, what had always been destined to be his life. 

What once was a heroic attempt, a means to do good, had been overtaken by gluttony, the constant want for more. A bare and raw sin was what he had turned into, a hungry wolf, led by his brutality and fear—a fear of realizing what he was, what he had always been.

So, he couldn’t help but just for once take you in now that your watchful eyes weren’t gazing at him in fright—a fright he had grown all too used to when others looked at him, whether it was by the end of his gun or in the final short few breaths of their life. You had turned in your sleep, chin resting against the hard ground, when his eyes fitted over you, resting in the soft curves of your face and lashes that lay delicately on your skin. 

The gentle rise and fall of your chest was a lullaby of sorts, a contrast to the storm inside of him. He wondered what dreams might be drifting through your mind, hoping they were far removed from the darkness that often clouded his own, hoping he wasn’t turning them vile.

Arthur gazed over the plump cheeks that seemed fuller, akin to his memories, a soft glow over them as the morning sun washed over you. You had always looked prettier in the sunlight; it was something he had always thought, for it was like two twins meeting each other again, laden with the same light and warmth. The ghost of a wistful smile begged to tug at the corners of his mouth as he indulged in this rare moment of stillness—the rough edges of his hardened soul seemed to soften, if only for a heartbeat.

He wanted to reach out a hand, rough and scarred, and try to let it hesitate above your cheek as he thought it would break the spell of sleep that enveloped you. He could feel his breath caught in his throat, a mixture of awe and sorrow, for deep down, he was aware that the world he lived in had no place for such beauty and peace. He was a ghost in your serene world, an intruder with no right to stay. Still, he would linger, savoring the moment like a condemned man savoring his last meal. 

A dream was all it was, to imagine a different life where you could bask in the sun’s glow without fear and violence. But, as the sun climbed higher, reality would begin to seep back in, and he would reluctantly pull his hand away, the humid air now filling the spaces between you. The weight of his choices and the path he’s walked pressed down on him, so for now,  he’d indulge in the simple act of watching over you as you rested—not sure where to go where the men now seeking your death couldn’t find you yet promising to himself he would keep you far, far away from them.

—

When the sun’s warmth began to cover your skin in a faint layer of sweat, you awoke, being met with the smoking of a dying fire and a soreness in your body that only laying on hard ground could create. You had almost expected to awake in the comfort of your old bed, feeling the soft wind caress your face as it blew through the open window, curtains fluttering in the air as the far-away sound of people chattering could be heard, and the constant chugging of the train.

Homesickness, you thought. It was strange; never before had that feeling grappled you so intensely; never had the thought of being back with Eustace seemed so wishful, so desperate. It pulled something inside of you, and as you sat up, you could only find yourself wishing the feeling away, rubbing your eyes as you set your gaze forward, refusing to ponder over it any longer. 

“No sight of Jesse’s men yet, so I think we’re good,” a voice called out nearby. Looking behind you, you found Arthur going through the saddlebag, his back facing you as you slowly stood up.

“Do you-” You cleared your throat, still riddled with sleep, both rough and quiet. “Do you think they’re still after us?”

“Sure,” he drawled, fastening the bag before patting his horse encouragingly. “We just killed their leader; I don’t think we’re off the hook that easily.”

“You,” you stated, dragging your fingers through your hair as you felt the various knots get stuck in your hand. You tried to sort them out but found your effort unsuccessful. 

“What?” he said.

“You killed their leader, you mean.”

“Yeah, I guess, but they’re still coming for you nonetheless.”

“And the law?”

“If we keep away from Blackwater, we’ll be fine,” he said, turning towards you.

“Then where do we go now?” you asked, staring at the ground as you grieved at the thought of not being able to head back to Blackwater, back to Eustace. He only glanced at you, the slight movement of his shoulders indicating he wasn’t so sure either. 

You walked tentatively towards him, meeting his gaze as he leaned towards the tree where his horse was stabled. He watched you cautiously as if he had any reason to be careful around you.

“How did you know Jesse’s men were after me?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing as he considered his response. “I have my ways,” he muttered, eyes darting to the horizon. “Words travel fast in these parts, and I keep my ears open.”

You only gazed at him for a while, hearing him sigh when you didn’t let your eyes waver, his eyes narrowing as he studied you, measuring how much truth to reveal. He adjusted his hat, the shadow casting a veil over his expression. “We heard things. Rumors in the towns. Jesse’s men have a way of making themselves known.” You nodded, absorbing the information. It made sense in a twisted way; your past seemed to chase you no matter where you ran or how far you went.

Arthur shifted his weight, his voice dropping lower, more serious. “And when we ran into some of his boys a few days back, well,” He stared at you hard. “They mentioned you.”

“Me?” Your breath got caught in your throat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded.

“How did you know I was in Blackwater?”

Arthur’s eyes darkened slightly, a shadow crossing his face. He took a moment before answering, his voice low and steady. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you,” he admitted tersely.

You blinked in surprise, the revelation catching you off guard. “Why?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, your tone betraying none of the turmoil. 

He only sighed, glancing away briefly before meeting your questioning eyes again. “Because I had to make sure you weren’t getting yourself killed,” he retorted sharply, his words tinged with frustration. “Especially after everything that happened all those years ago.”

Many emotions flooded through you—confusion riddled with anger, a strange sense of relief you wanted to cast far away. Anger at his presumption, a deep ache for the man he once was when he mentioned the past. “So you’ve been watching me all these years?” you countered, your voice carrying a cutting edge.

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his temper flaring. “I’ve been trying to keep you safe,” he mumbled, his voice growing snappier. 

The reality of his words sank in, and you struggled to process the implications. You met his gaze, trying to keep your composure, refusing to let his anger shake you. “Protecting me by keeping me under surveillance?” you shot back.

“Call it what you want, but I had to make sure you wouldn’t end up lying dead somewhere,” he said gruffly, staring stubbornly at you. “Jesse’s men aren’t exactly known for sending love letters.” 

“And did it ever occur to you that I might’ve been wanting to be left alone?”

“You don’t get it, do you? They’ve been after you this whole time; they still are. You think you can just walk away and be fine?” 

The air hung tense between you and Arthur, his words cutting through the warm air like a sharp blade. “You had no right,” you hissed, your voice low but filled with simmering anger. You knew you were right, and you were sure Arthur knew as he quieted down, grumbling as he strode past you, stepping on the fire’s dying embers to put it out, his movements stiff and rigid.

“We’ll keep moving, get you out of the wild for a bit.” You stayed facing away from him when he spoke, only moving when he extended his hand, motioning you towards the horse. 

“Listen,” he murmured, turning you around before you could sit behind the saddle. “I didn’t—” he turned his head away from you for a moment as if thinking about his following words, hands gripping your shoulders carefully, flexing slightly. “I know how these types of men work, and you would thank me for keeping an eye on you if I told you what they would’ve done to you.”

“And how are you so different from these men you talk of, Arthur?” Your voice was accusing and bitter, and only silence followed from his side. “I used to know a different man,” you murmured. One who was understanding,” you finally said, your voice barely a whisper as your walls crashed, a somber look glazing over your eyes. “Kind.”

You felt him stiffen before you, and he didn’t respond immediately, as if surprised by your words. “Things change,” he replied curtly, his voice devoid of sentiment.

“I can see that,” you said, lifting your hand as if to move his hat out of the way but faltering at the last second. “ I barely recognize you.”

You hadn’t failed to realize it, and it had consumed your thoughts fully since you first discovered it was him when he held that gun toward your head. Never did you imagine he would be the type of man to wield such a dangerous weapon towards a woman—towards you—yet that’s precisely what he’d done.

“You don’t understand the world we live in now,” he said, his tone hardening. “Things aren’t as simple as they used to be.”

“Maybe not,” you replied, feeling the weight of your disappointment settle in your chest. “But I didn’t think you’d let it change like this; I didn’t think you’d become-”

“What? Like them?” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “You think I had a choice?

“There’s always a choice,” you shot back. “You used to be a different man.”

“And what good did that ever do me?” he snapped, stepping closer. His breath was warm against your cheek when you lowered your face, staring at the fabric of his shirt. 

“The world is cruel, whether you want to acknowledge it or not, and I had to make sure to keep the gang safe, and I still do.” The last part, he muttered to himself. “And since you decided to leave me-”

“Leave you?!” you gasped, appalled at his choice of words. The familiar stabbing pain gripped your heart when he accused you, and you stepped backward slightly only to find his hands rooting you in place. “I had no choice!”

“No choice, huh?” He said, his lips curling into a bitter smile as if your words were ridiculous and filled with lies.

“I asked-, no begged, you to come with me, but you refused! Talking all sorts of rubbish about loyalty and Dutch this and Dutch that!” It felt like a stone the size of your fist was plunged down your throat while the muscle could only constrict around it, twisting your body slightly so he would let go of you. 

“I realized there wasn’t a place for me there, with you, any longer, so I had to leave before I went insane!” you said. “I couldn’t bear it, living that life anymore. My whole life had been filled with cruelty and violence, and I needed to feel as if I was the one living it instead of watching myself from the sidelines!” Flashes of faces, both grim and cruel, passed your vision, the image of a younger you looking for somewhere to hide but only finding broken souls wandering around you.

Like lost in a maze, you had tried left and right, but with no guidance, it proved useless as you kept wandering, trying to make sense of the world that you grew up in, parentless and abandoned in a gang whose hearts had been ripped out of their chests and feasted on by the devil. His pupils were all that was left, and you, a lost child, were made to endure a world that had been stripped of both kindness and care.

“But you-” your voice was choked up, trembling as your frenzied eyes flickered around you. “You didn’t care enough to see that, and now I can see why.”

“You’re just like them.” As your words ended, the onslaught of feeling simmered underneath your hectic breathing, and you finally felt the pressure loosen on your shoulders. Taking a few steps back, you passed the back of your hands over your eyes, feeling the warm liquid rub into your skin.

Those years felt distant now that they were brought up, and you had done your utmost to keep them far away until one day, you woke up feeling like that life hadn’t been your own; the person you were hadn’t been you and the memories entirely someone else’s. It had become too much, the air around you thick and nauseating when it felt like none of it would stop, like you were in a loop that never ended, only bringing you back to where you first started but with different people this time.

You soon realized that since you managed to remove yourself from Jesse and his men, you’d only wound up sleeping on a hard ground once more, the twigs and sticks poking you through your back like they’d always done. However, the people around you were new, but they were still the same lost souls as you, and the thought terrified you. You couldn’t handle the idea of that being your life, of always following someone who strived towards a goal that, when reached, would only be replaced by another one.

You didn’t dare glance at Arthur, yet you felt his eyes on you. As you tried to calm your breathing, you wondered why he didn’t say anything, defend himself, or retort and fight back like you thought he would. Yet, his lack of words made you second guess your revelations, shame soon filling your body when you realized how much of yourself you’d given a man who no longer cared to understand, who was so far gone your words meant nothing, just like the men he killed in cold-blood—a menace and an obstacle.

“Let’s go,” was all that he replied with after some time, avoiding glancing at you before grabbing your waist carefully to sit you behind the saddle, stomping one last time at the dying fire before sitting before you, no doubt noticing how your hands ghosted around his waist as if touching him alone was a vile and horrid thought.

—

You couldn’t help but ponder over what transpired this morning, all too aware it had to be spoken about sooner or later, but you wished he’d tell you more, explain why he’d acted the way he did and why he’d changed so much even though the words might’ve been said in anger. Yet, perhaps, that is a ridiculous exception, for who can say why they’d change if they even stopped enough to notice they did?  Still, you realized what he had to say might not be what you wanted to hear, and the thought didn’t fail to make your heart sink.

It’s terrible what time can do to one person, but you could not understand how it could wound its way into Arthur so firmly, as if not considering his past self that had been so different from who was before you now. Perhaps being young and in love had made you fail to realize that maybe the man he was now is only an older version of who he’d been then and that he’d only shown the sides he felt deemed to you. Why, you wondered. Had it been shame or fear, knowing very well the cruel place you came from, not wanting to admit that he was a criminal—that he did exactly what every other man would do when following another blindly?

Bringing yourself out of your thoughts, you observed that day had once more turned into night, the familiar setting sun casting its warm gaze over the landscape as the horse huffed underneath you in exhaustion from running all day—tired from the lack of rest and the growing tension that was heavy between its riders. 

Rising your gaze to look at his back for the first time since you set off, you let the follow along the chestnut tone of his hair, trailing over his tense back, eyes focusing on the various scratches and stains on his clothing, the blood that had been rubbed so many times it had turned into a lighter shade, yet the slight pinkness still resided, marking him unknowingly, as if his clothing represented his being. 

It was so unfair, you concluded, yet you felt angry at him, furious at yourself and the world for being unpredictable, for never making anything easy, and more so for laying trouble over minds that from the start were pure, a blank canvas now to be trifled with. But there was also a tinge of sadness over the people you had turned out to be and grieving over the man you seemed to have lost behind smokes of black and anguish.

The pit of darkness that now filled you turned into thunder, and as the rain began to pour, the cold drops doing nothing to wash away the hollowness you felt, you failed to hear the hooves that could be heard from a distance. Arthur, though, had sensed them for some time now, trying to make his abrupt, faster pace less noticeable, hoping to gain some distance before you could see their dark figures form behind you.

Unfortunately, they only gained on you with every minute that passed, reaching out for you with their slinky arms and wild gazes, bullets vibrating in the metal, begging to be released so they could bury themselves into your flesh. Yet, it was hard for them to see, the heavy downpour blurring their vision of you, the fading sun offering them no help, and the galloping of their horses dizzied their sight.

A gasp left you as the horse suddenly stopped abruptly, the reigns held tightly as it skidded across the slippery ground. You didn’t get the chance to be surprised, hastily brought down to the ground, Arthur’s hands almost lifting you with the way he pushed you as you clumsily glided across the ground, grasping onto his arms to find stability as you walked up the small stairs that appeared on front of you.

A small porch, desolated and lonely, spread out around you; from the hasty look you could get, the windows seemed dark and lifeless—not a single light shining through them. The two-story structure seemed to stand on the outskirts of a forgotten, overgrown field, its once-white paint nor a peeling, weather-beaten gray where ivy and wild vines clung to the sides, creeping through the cracks in the wooden boards. The roof sagged precariously, shingles missing in place, revealing patches of rotting wood underneath.

“Shit!” You could hear Arthur shout as the loud weather dampened his voice, grasping the handle as it refused to open. 

“What’s going on, Arthur?!” you said loudly so he could hear you, but you got no answer to your question. He pushed you to the side with one motion, trashing his shoulder into the door, and rusty hinges groaned in protest; the flimsy wood bent slightly before he bolted against it again. With this attempt, he opened it, and it smashed against the wall; the smell of something musty reached your nose as it escaped the house, contrasting heavily with the freshness of the rain. 

“Get inside!” he shouted, and as you hurried inside, you heard the door slam shut. Your back pressed against the wall beside it, and Arthur stood before you, peeking out carefully from the window beside it.

It grew quiet the minute you stepped inside, the rain reduced to a slight humming as it splattered against the one-story house that seemed long abandoned, the faint smell of mold and neglect traveling through the air–the stale, dry air left a metallic tang in your mouth, the taste of dust was ever-present, gritty and unpleasant, seemingly coating your tongue and throat with each short, terrified breath you took.

“Arthur,” you whispered, craning your neck so you could gaze up at him where he leaned against the window, his eyes scanning the storm outside as his hands squeezed your arms gently but firmly.

“I gotta hide you,” he said, his voice low, his throat straining around the words when he finally looked into your eyes.

He pulled you from the wall, leading you deeper into the cabin. The floorboards creaked underfoot, threatening to give away with each step you took. Moving through the tiny parlor, past the broken chairs and sagging sofa, you moved into the kitchen where the cabinets hung open, their contents long since scavenged or rotted away. 

As you gazed back, you found Arthurs’s eyes darting around the place, searching for a place where you would be hidden from the gruesome and horrible event that would soon take place in this already damned building. A small pantry, its doors hanging loosely on its hinges, seemed to be the only hiding place he deemed approvable.

“In here,” he said, guiding you towards it. 

“Why?” you asked, hesitating to enter the small space.

“They caught up to us,” he murmured, watching your hand grasp his shirt. “Jesse’s men.”

“What about you?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ll be fine,” Arthur replied, momentarily passing his hand over yours. “I’ll handle them, just please-” he trailed off, grasping your cheeks between your hands so you would focus entirely on his and his words. “Please don’t come out until I tell you.”

A few moments passed before you tentatively nodded, feeling his hands leave you so you could squeeze into the pantry. The small space was barely big enough to hold you as the doors were closed gently, slightly ajar so you could breathe through the thick, consuming air.

A few moments passed, your eyes wide in the darkness as you took in his words. It surprised you there were still so many, remembering the night in Blackwater where it seemed like bodies littered every corner of the streets when you passed them, lifeless and now soulless. How many, you wondered, were outside now, and how had you not managed to feel their presence before, to catch sight of them behind you, yet Arthur could without a glance?

As the first sign could be heard, you held your breath, the beating of your heart almost audible in the small space as it fought against your chest, your hands covering it as if it would give away your position. That was when the door burst open, and you could only clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a gasp that escaped against your will, listening tentatively at every noise that could reach you.

You could only make out Arthur’s voice, low and steady, even though you couldn’t make out the words that left him, almost wanting to cover your ears as if it would help against the terror you knew would soon erupt, praying-no begging Arthur would be alright, that you wouldn’t have to be dragged away from there a weeping mess as Arthur lifeless eyes stared into your own, bullets imbedded in his flesh as you awaited your fate.

The sound of struggle filtered through the storm—the clatter of boots, shouts of men that boomed through the cabin, and the crackle of gunfire. Each noise made you cringe, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to block out the terrifying reality, hands shooting up to cover your ears as the loud sounds lessened; instead, the more vile noise of flesh hitting flesh ensued, the noise bones made when broked and the bloodily smack of skin against skin. 

It ensued for a while, the disgusting sound of grunting and groaning making you remember the many times you had to hide your smaller self and only listen. Listen till the danger was over, examining every sound that could be heard to tell if you’d be alright stepping out or whether it would lead to your death—which had most of the time been the biggest possibility. You felt like you had traveled back in time, with not an ounce more courage than you had lacked back then, quivering like a fool while others fought like madmen around you, wishing you could be somewhere else—for someone to swoop down and save you like in some sad fairytale.

Minutes felt like hours as you waited, heart pounding in your ears as you didn’t dare to peek out from the cracks. Then, amidst the chaos, you heard a voice—Arthur’s voice, calling your name as you heard him breathing heavily, your name strained as he spoke. A sense of relief coursed through you, now knowing he was alright, yet you still lingered for a second, hand hesitating at the door as you feared what sight you’d be presented with. Yet, as you pushed it open, you stepped into the cabin again, taking small steps leading further into the house, trailing over the dark red liquid as you closed your eyes at the bodies it came from.

“They won’t hurt you no more,” Arthur murmured. 

He stood there, hands at his side, his eyes as blood-filled as his hands, the red liquid dripping onto the wooden planks, staining them til they flowed beneath the cracks. Fitting to yours, you could only gasp, taking a step back as you were filled with dread over what he just did, the brutality of his actions, and the lives that now lay devoid of it around you. There had been too much death over the last few days, and although it was either their life or yours, you couldn’t help but detest the constant smell of the deceased resting just under the tip of your nose. 

You gazed over the chaos; the broken glass shattered on the floor, blinding you when the sun was reflected on their surface. The white porcelain was stained red, and the walls had been painted the same color. You felt his eyes stay on you, unmoving and seemingly not bothered by the brutality he just possessed—always had possessed—but not making any attempt to move, as if he was waiting for you to make the first move, speak the first word. 

He looked tense where he stood, and despite his horrible deeds, he looked at you as if he searched for your acceptance, as if trying to convey that he did this for you, that he dirtied his hands only to keep you safe, just like he’d always done. And, as you stared at him, you could almost see his hand flex slightly, as if it wanted to reach out to you, yet was held back, rooting him to the spot.

It might surprise him what you would do next, as the first tentative step towards him—although riddled with a faint fright and shaking hands—never wavered, carefully stepping over the bodies in your way until you stood in front of Arthur, ignoring their deathly, vengeful eyes that almost followed you, rolling into the back of their heads when you went out of sight. 

His hands were still shut tight, knuckles white against the suntanned skin that flexed slightly when your fingers ran over them, bringing them higher as you felt the callousness that bruised his hands. They contrasted so heavily with your own, soft against hard, the veins beneath his skin protruding til the blue shades created valleys, irritated and angry. The warmth of your touch contrasted starkly with the cold reality of his actions, a shiver running down your spine when the blood on his hands painted your untouched skin. Arthur didn’t attempt to push away from your touch but stood like a statue, eyes cautious when you brought his knuckles to your lips, closing your eyes as you ghosted over them.

Every breath you took was heavy; each inhale difficult to make as his gaze remained locked onto yours. The bluish shade grew molten on the edges, warming up the coldness of the otherwise sharp hues, staring into yours like he was waiting for something or perhaps fearing something. It made the ache in your heart settle daftly, staring into the eyes you could now recognize from the ones you had known many years ago, see the man you hadn’t been able to remember till now rightfully.

You pulled away slightly when you realized that man wasn’t standing before you but a figment of him, perhaps a vivid remembrance yet not reality. Your fingers lingered on his skin, though, as if afraid to let go, afraid you might’ve lost him as you’d done before even though he wasn’t whole—the pieces of him scattered wherever he went, falling away like fragments with every step.

Brutally and cold, the devil resided in his eyes, each glance laden with sin and searing pain that engulfed like wildfire, encircling and trapping in its flickering, scorching embrace. It was a warmth that turned cold, caressing with its chilling touch, raising the hairs on your skin in protest—an unwelcome sensation that one dared not wish for. Yet, amidst this, your heart beats heavily–not in fear, but in yearning for his touch to linger.

How could your heart betray you so? How could it stray so far from reason, captivated by a man who made you unable to tell between reason and desire? Traitorously, it thudded heavily within, not out of fear but wishfully. It created an ache that settled so deep in your bones it hurt, a pain born of longing—a desire that scorched like a fever. Every instinct screamed for you to flee, to turn away against your now abandonment of all sense and sensibility—to run far away from the life he reminded you of, a life you’d so desperately feared.

You were caught between shame and confusion as if he could sense your pulse racing against the barriers of cotton and leather. Did he notice your heart’s betrayal and the quivering of your lips as your shaking breath rose like wisps of smoke in the cold air? Maybe he did, for as you closed your eyes, unable to handle the downpour of emotions coursing through you, you suddenly felt his breath against your lips as his presence enveloped you, casting a shadow over the world when he drew closer. Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes opened in protest; the space between you dwindled, narrowing to nothingness until you could feel the heat of his breath mingling with your own. 

His eyes burned like smoldering coal, holding you captive as every voice in your head told you to run, hit, scream–anything to get away from him—only to silence when his lips brushed against yours in a feather-light caress. It was far away and fleeting, the small touch of skin almost ghostly as they moved over your trembling lips. His breath was warm, so warm it made heat crawl up your neck, spreading slowly throughout your body.

His careful touch made you wonder when the world turned him so cold. To carry the burns of his soul, hideous and bare, with not a single kindness seemingly left inside him. Was he ashamed of his skin, which wrapped so harshly around his bones, scarred yet strong–cold but fond? Was it right for you to fear the hands that once fell so delicately on your skin, porcelain never having been touched as carefully as he had touched you? There were days you now could remember so clearly, the warm look in his eyes as they caressed over your skin, the naivety and desperation that shone so bright within them—a want so fundamental it made you wonder if it was even possible. 

The years had passed now, and you were both older and saner, but through the shades of blue in his eyes that were covered with darkness that rested like a veil over them, you thought you could still see the same man you had once known, and as his lips met yours firmer if felt like the past washed over you again. And it was good, so good you felt your knees almost give out, stumbling backward slightly but finding yourself not falling heedlessly towards the ground. Instead, the pressure of standing on the ground disappeared as your felt fingers worm their way under your thigh, lifting you in the air. 

Softly, your back met the planks that creaked audibly when Arthur pushed you against them, the material groaning and protesting when he leaned more of his weight against you as if the pressure was too much to bear. You were trapped in his embrace that spoke only of desperation—desperation so raw you wondered if it spread from his skin to yours like a disease, if it traveled through your body, infecting everything it passed in its way.

A certain rigidness could be felt in the hands that held you, their grip tight yet unmoving as if he battled against letting them touch any other part of you. They were there, yet somehow unwilling, like he needed to touch you but couldn’t bring himself to go any further. Perhaps, you thought, he shouldn’t. Maybe it would be best to end it here, not to get any more pain that would surely hurt more than do good. Yet you missed him, missed Arthur so much it felt like a part of you had returned when he was this close as if you could imagine him being who he once was. 

You chastised yourself for it when his lips caressed you softly, letting them push further against yours. The distant sound of chattering and calls beckoned you from afar, the clanking of pots loud in your ears as he had you pushed up against a tree, far and hidden from curious eyes, all your senses focused on him. It had been so simple then, such a warm, inviting touch, the feeling differing strongly against the violence and pain that had followed you until you met Arthur. It was the only reason you’d stayed with him for as long as you had, for never had hands handled you so carefully, so tender; never before had you stared into a pair of eyes that, without a blink, promised to keep you safe and sane.

It felt different yet the same; for now, those feelings mingled together, the brutality shining so strongly within him. Yet, his hands were so gentle, his means to keep you and cradle you in his arms til no one else could touch you so palpable it made every fear you had for him dissipate with the wind that flew through the cracks in the wall. It felt like you held a giant in your grasp, a lost soul seeking the goodness of his past, wishing to erase the bad and expel the vile, monstrous thoughts that he’d been forced upon—expectations he grew up with. How could you possibly blame him? How unfair was it for you to tell him he was wrong, that he acted wrongfully?

Your hands shook as you brought them up to his cheeks, claiming< them in your grasp, feeling him sigh when your fingertips ghosted over him as if the feeling alone chilled his blazing—scorching—skin. Following that means of human nature, his hands that kept you lifted from the ground raised one, caressed its way over the swell of your hips, letting it feel the warm flesh emitting from under your clothes until it followed the path of your sides til it found the valley which where your waist sunk in, letting fingers grip under the harsh bones of your ribs.

A gasp left you, lips parting as if to speak but only inhaling his warm breath, pushing your head away, yet your grasp on his cheeks making him follow you—ordering him to chase the pink, swollen skin that begged for the sensation of more—demanded it. You realized soon that you didn’t have to, his imposing frame pressing you further into the wall, no longer needing to hold you by the tight to keep you from the ground as his lips sensually now found yours again, a deep, dark rumbling—like thunder brewing—could be heard deep into his chest.

It was sickening, the air thick and pasty, like breathing into sourdough bread, the swelling yeast filling all spaces around you, making it difficult to breathe. When you needed air too much, begged for the oxygen yet displeased with the thought of parting with Arthur, he pulled his head away slightly, eyes opening to gaze at your closed eyes, the warm tint of red rising from your chest to your cheeks.

 Opening them, you’d only be given a moment to stare upon his face until he leaned in again, his lips finding their way to the dip of your collarbone, rising to cover the space where your shoulders dipped up to the slope of your neck. Inhaling, exhaling, he breathed in the dizzying warmth of your neck, groaning when he let his tongue taste the humid skin that was scorching under his wet, slippery touch. 

So divine, yet so dangerous to touch what wasn’t his anymore, what couldn’t be his—but he couldn’t deny he longed for you, couldn’t deny that your smell alone awakened the man he had been, your hands reaching out to him like the gates of heaven shining with its door wide open. A cruel joke was what it was, but he had no want to dispel it, to turn it away. It taunted him, laughed at him, giving him a fair bit of pleasure so the rest of his living days would turn to torture, a small taste of what he could’ve had before dooming him to an eternal defeat—dooming him to live the rest of his days a hollow shell.

Your hands found the back of his head, fingers threading through the strips of hair that felt like velvet under your skin. You couldn’t help but push on the back of his scalp to bring him even closer, dismayed when you realized he was as close as he could be, fingers gripping his hair so tight you feared you would leave tufts of it when you released your grip. You only got a hum of satisfaction in return, the feeling of a wet muscle traveling down your collarbones til they ghosted over the swell of your breasts carefully, like waiting on a signal before they could devour, let their touch consume you.

“Arthur,” you mumbled, lost in what was wholly him, the very fibre of your being begging for him never to stop, wishing he’d never done all those years ago.

You only got a low, appreciating groan in return, only gained the feeling of cold air hitting your legs as he snaked his hands under your skirt, hitching it up as he let them run over the bare skin like a starved man, not even an inch of you left untouched. The wind’s chill lessened when his rough, warm hands caressed you, soothing your aching, quivering legs. Almost, it seemed, he mended every bruise and hurt, internally or externally, replacing them with something that felt so divine you were nearly sure you were dreaming when he returned to your lips, his once guarded eyes bare before you.

He took a few steps back, letting your feet hit the floor as you followed him. You did not let him back away further as you walked with him, rising on your toes and writhing your arms around his neck. You were now the one to cage him in—cage him with your want and desire, your love and hope. It would be a terrible defeat if he stepped away from you, and your stomach twisted at the thought, the familiar pang of sadness only love could create.

“Don’t go,” you whispered, feeling his arms wound around your waist as he stumbled backward, his tall frame big and clumsy in the tiny house. He frantically ran his hands over you before hoisting you up again, seating you on the dark wooden table in the kitchen’s front of the sink. Your mind had grown clouded, his whole being morphing into the man that had once caressed you so gently—and when he did now, it made you dizzy, wondering if they were so unlike as you thought.

“I won’t,” he mumbled against your lips, the words hasty and muted when he didn’t want to waste a second of feeling you against him.

“I won’t,” he spoke once more, this time the words only coming out in nonsensical grumbling as he pushed you softly towards the poorly sawed planks after pushing the various knickknacks of it, plates falling audibly to the floor to join the rest of the mess, burying his face into the nape of your neck to once more take a final breath before standing up.

The mess around you turned vile and filthy compared to the wondrous look on your face as you watched him, the familiar pang of pleasure beating so heavily in his stomach he thought he might puke—coupled with the still warm, wet blood now lining the skin of your legs from his hands. A few moments passed where he stared at you, ignoring your hands that reached out to him as the horrid monster clad in black garments and poisonous fingers got to him first, digging its claws into his back, wrapping its fabric over his mouth till he felt himself suffocating. 

It wasn’t until he felt nimble fingers ghosting over his hands, running along the inside of his wrist until they intertwined with his, that the small, supple kisses on his cheeks became his saving grace. Diminished the cruel and twisted devil that rested on his back, all he could think about was the gentleness of your hands, gazing to watch your furrowed eyes filled with understanding—yet a gracious knowledge at that.

“I know you, Arthur,” you whispered, laying your head on his chest. Listening to his wildly beating heart, you found comfort in his erratic breathing.

“No,” he mumbled, resting his head on top of yours. His arms were slack on his sides as your hands passed over the broadness of his back. You gripped the dark leather of his haunches as you slid them down his arms, letting them hang in the stuffy, thick air. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

“Well, you’re still as stubborn as you used to be,” you said softly, the corners of your mouth rising slightly when a grumble left him, acting like you couldn’t feel his slight smile against your head. “Still as warm as you were then,” you mumbled, hands slowly running over his arms that flexed slightly at your touch, mouth opening slightly as they came to rest on the table, trapping you beneath them. “Still as strong,” you gasped when he leaned over you, pressing his weight into you.

He closed his eyes as you spoke, basking in your quiet, warm tone, which he missed hearing. “That don’t matter anymore,” he said, feeling you snake your arms around his neck, arching your body against his, as one of his hands naturally found sanction on your waist. “What I’ve done—” he trailed off. “What I am, it’s not something I can run from.”

You felt your brows furrow, grief finding you at his words that rang so melancholy into the quiet air, the heaviness of his voice alone ripping the tapestry and breaking the windows. As you were about to tell him he was wrong—that although his actions had been so blood-filled and vile, you knew who he was deep down, for you had seen it, seen it in his eyes when he looked at you, seen it in the way he still cared about you—he instead laid you back down on the table carefully, covering you with his body as he hitched your legs around his waist.

Your breath hitched when you felt the rigidness rest against your warmth, feeling it lay heavily under the fabric of his pants. “Yes, you can,” you gasped, hands finding his shirt as you searched for something to hold onto, wishing it away so you could see the skin underneath it and feel it against your own. 

You didn’t gain an answer, only the tugging of your undergarments, the chill from being bare cold against your skin, yet Arthur’s hands warming them straight back up when he tenderly caressed your inner thighs, stabilizing their trembling although never letting his palms stray too far, ignoring the way your legs tightened around him, trying to chase his touch as they attempted to chase his touch but finding his hips pressing into yours further, leaving you no place to go but stay in place.

The motion made a groan, quiet and unprepared, leave him, yet you had heard him. As your hands wound their way beneath his shirt to palm over the broadness of his chest, hips moving against him with the bit of space you had in protest, you looked up to find his gaze planted on you, head raised. Yet, eyes looking down at you, like he was trying to hold himself away, failing to escape from the softness of your touch. 

He was too deep into it now. He felt the restraints that once were so tight around him lessen as he kept staring into your eyes, those deep and fascinating eyes that he didn’t deserve—that no one would ever get the chance to deserve. It was selfish for him to continue, but he wished to feel you one more time so he could restore his memory of you until he turned viler, meaner, the black poison coiling around his heart til he faced its death wrapped up in its grasp.

So, he found himself leaning into you once more, focusing on your hands that now had seen the planes of his back, his muscles flexing involuntarily as you did, his hand hitching your dress up further, letting it go past the delicious curve of your waist, groaning internally when he realized he couldn’t rise it further. So, he let his head rest between your breasts, pulled out from the tightness of the fabric, letting his tongue run over the warm skin. 

You felt the arms of your dress hastily go over your shoulders down your arms, breath hitching when you felt his mouth able to travel lower until it caressed the inside of your breast, his rough stubble like sandpaper against the sensitive flesh. It was addictive, his whole persona making you desperately cling to every bit of him you could manage, grasping wildly as if he was made from thin air, trying to find something that would turn him back into a solid form, something you could touch. 

The slight feeling of him grinding into you made you clasp harder. Your hands found his biceps as the back of your head hit harshly against the table, and your hips wound tighter against his waist. The roof above you blended, the colors of brown and ashen blond mingling as the morning sun shone through the windows, the tendrils of the light casting the room in a way that almost looked ethereal—too good to be true.

And it was, the whole moment was, and you memorized the touch of his hands and traveling mouth, imprinting it in your mind so you could remember it forever. It still, despite his words, felt like he would somehow dissipate, and it turned into your worst nightmare, like the last pages of a book that would send you reeling, biting at the corners in despair and slamming yourself against the wall in anger. It was pitiful, the way you were brought to your knees in front of the man you had not nearly long ago feared—more so wondering if you feared his actuality or feared how long a time had passed, how time changed and ruled people's character, how you didn’t know him anymore.

Or perhaps you feared the way you knew it had been doomed from the start, always known, the very first day he had planted his brisk, blue eyes on you, full of life yet the underlying promise of something that could only be transcribed into pain—of hurt and blame. Perhaps you were afraid of knowing that it didn’t matter how often you’d come upon one another; it would always end the same way, for you were both too broken by the life you laid upon you. The chance of redemption was maybe possible once when you were younger, but you feared that it was lost. And, while Arthur reminded you of a past you’d rather lay behind you, prayed and prayed through years of peril and hurt, wished you could run from it, you perhaps had reminded him of what he’d once had and what he could never deserve to have again.

As Arthur lifted his head, you could see in his eyes that he knew, knew there might not be a time when you could live out your life together, for he too was aware that it might be too late, that the world's grip on the both of you was too firm. Yet you both ignored it, entangled with one another as your limbs melted into the others, your motions becoming erratic and desperate, wishing—no, seeking desperately to bring the other back to life, back to what you once had been. 

“Please, Arthur.” Clawing and almost beating his chest in desperation, the tension so ripe it felt like you might combust, you begged him to let his skin lay upon yours, bare and exposed, as close to each other as was humanly possible. It felt like a border, keeping you apart in a pitiful, almost laughable way. 

“I know, honey,” he murmured, his voice steady, yet the beating of his heart speaking more than his tone ever could. “I know.”

Rising from you for the slightest of seconds, he hoisted his pants down his hips and over his thighs, dark, desirous eyes never taking their gaze off you where you lay breathless on the table that, compared to you, looked like rotting wood. He damned himself for letting you lay upon such misery, to unveil you in such an appalling space that now reeked of death and foulness.

When your hands reached out to him, he let them bring him back down, watching the way your eyes fluttered when he graced upon your pulsating warmth, his own eyes closing for a second before opening again, looking away so he could regain his senses, regain his clouded vision that only flashed with pictures of you beneath him, as if you had surrounded him. That is, only for a short while, not taking long before he had to—needed to— return to you once more, to slip through the warmth of your walls that wrapped around him, the palm of his hands slamming down the table as you clenched around him, the sheer bliss that left your throat burning like embers inside of him.

There was no outlet for him, nowhere to go, so he hitched you further up the table, pressing into you so he could feel you closer. The feeling of your hands in his hair was nauseating, the taste of your skin intoxicating as he kissed the corner of your neck, burying his head into it as he felt your strands tickle his cheek. Slowly pushing out to then enter you once more, he grew greedy, not wanting to spend even the slightest of time away from you.

It was tender the way he moved—careful—and you could only follow his movements as he stayed on top of you, the strokes desperate and short. The small moans that left you rose into the quiet house, your breathing hitching with every thrust of his, almost feeling like the air was being punched out from your chest as you slid further up the table. Arms wound themselves under your shoulders, one hand grasping the back of your head to keep you in place—to avoid letting your head hit the hard surface.

It wasn’t enough; how could it ever be enough? Wrapping your arms around his neck, you gasped audibly when his hips moved faster, now almost grinding into you, his breath shallow and erratic, white knuckles grasping on the end of the table, as if he was controlling himself, unsure what to do with the pleasure that was riding through his body, bleeding into his very bones.

“Come here,” he murmured, gently lifting you so you were seated upon the edge of the table, looking up to meet his eyes. Continuing his tender thrusts, your lips sought him, finding his eyes not closing but planted on you, eyes lidded and chest red from exhaust. A sheen of sweat dripped slowly down his neck to his chest, disappearing through the unbuttoned shirt, the material sticking to his skin like glue. 

Pushing your hips further against his, he groaned, resting his head atop of yours when you placed mindless kisses on his exposed skin, mumbling nonsense as he hugged you closer, his breath hot and ragged. Every movement sent a jolt of pleasure through you, sharply white and burning red, coiling tighter and increasingly tighter within you. The sound of your mingled breaths filled the room, and you could feel his muscles tensing beneath your touch, almost seeming to tremble.

You whispered his name, a plea and a promise all at once, and he responded with a low rumble that resonated deep within his chest—a guttural groan escaping his lips as he pushed deeper, the table beneath you creaking with the force of his movements. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, just like you were before, just like you once had been—Arthur guiding your movements as if he was determined to merge his body with yours. 

His arms tightened around you when you straighten your back to reach his lips, capturing them in a kiss that left you more breathless than you had already been as his pace quickened. The friction, heat, and sheer desperation were too much to bear, yet you craved more. His eyes were wild, almost desperate, as he responded to your plea, every thrust, every gasp, every whisper filling up inside you as you begged to god it would never end, hoping and demanding that nothing would take it away from you.

Yet, you knew it wouldn’t last, and therefore, you felt the tears burn at your eyelids, the hot liquid falling slowly down your cheeks as you found your back pushed against the surface of the table once more, Arthur’s hand softly wiping away the tear that fell from your eyes as despair filled his own.

“Don’t cry,” he mumbled, a low groan leaving him when you tightened around him, unable to ignore the way you sucked him back in. “I can’t-” He ground his teeth when the familiar coil spread through his stomach, wrapping itself around every organ and bone. “Please, honey, I don’t want you to cry.”

“I miss you,” you gasped under your breath, words choked up as you focused on the way he dragged himself in and out of you, feeling like someone was twisting your guts inside your stomach when you thought once more about him disappearing from you hold like ash, only leaving faint memories before blowing away with the wind. “God, I missed you, Arthur.”

He struggled to catch his breath, his hand finding your thigh as he pushed it further up the table, the new angle making your breath hitch. “I know,” he groaned. “God, I know-”

Was it all a dream, he wondered, would fade away from him as his evil deeds caught up to him, for once letting karma do its part? Would you vanish right before him, leaving him to face the consequences of his actions alone? He only held you closer as the thoughts passed, keeping you tight in his embrace as his elbows encased your head. Capturing your lips on his own, his eyes shut tightly as he tried to memorize the feel of you—the warmth of your breath, the softness of your lips, the way your body moulded against his. 

The time seemed to stand still, yet it passed too fast, the coil wrung so tight it felt like your stomach would combust, pleasure so raw filling you it felt more like torture than anything else, and as you felt his hips ground themselves into you, one hand stroking so tenderly over your brest it felt like shots of electricity zapped its way through your body, you thought yourself tightening around him, gasping for air.

“You’re alright,” he murmured against your lips, consoling you as your moans left you without your allowance, desperate and bordering on pitiful as your whole body felt like it was burning up—like the very flesh was set afire with gasoline. 

“Please, Arthur,” you gasped, not knowing what you were pleading with him for, yet the words left you involuntarily. Perhaps you wished for him to remove the hollow feeling that resided deep within you, to soothe the pain that never seemed to go. Or, possibly, it was deeper than that as you pleaded for him to return to you, to show that he was the man you’d remembered.

“That’s it,” he cooed at you, kissing your forehead softly as you clenched around him. Your hands found his shoulder as they gripped tightly, head knocked back against the table as a long, drawn-out moan left you. Staring up at the ceiling as the world grew dizzy around you, the bliss that traveled through your body was like no other. 

His movements didn’t slow as you relaxed slightly on the table, now running your hands over his skin soothingly, gazing into his eyes as he groaned audibly, chest heaving heavily as he frowningly stared into yours, observing you like you held something he couldn’t have that he strived for, pushing and pulling you closer to him.

Lost in pleasure, it felt like he was gasping for air, the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoing through the now quiet house, only the splatter of rain still audible from outside, yet his ears were focused on something else entirely as you whispered his name, beckoning him to your as your eyes were tired yet warm in the afterglow, looking like something not quite real—more or less surreal—or perhaps ethereal.

With one final thrust, he buried his head in the nape of your neck, hands grasping the edges of the bale as he grimaced, taking a few seconds before letting a guttural groan leave his chest and travel through his throat, muted into your skin as he gritted his teeth. Pulses of pleasure wound themselves through him in intervals, the warm, wet feeling of your walls encasing him, wrapping around him wholly as he, with one last movement, buried himself deep, so deep there was no way out—and god, he thought as his breathing stayed hectic, god how he wished there wasn’t.

Especially when he rested against you, trying to catch his breath, revelling in how you hugged his head closer to you, pressing small, quiet kisses against his jaw as if you tried not to disturb him, letting him regain his senses. Letting a hand travel down your sides, he caressed your skin, feeling the softness underneath it as it went further down to then rise back up again, finding pleasure in the way your breath hitched from the sensitivity as he passed a thumb over your breast. 

You didn’t speak much, for there was so much you wanted to say that it became overwhelming, leading to you saying nothing. How could you, when you weren’t even sure how to describe your emotions, which seemed still but then everywhere at the same time, running through your mind endlessly with no sense of direction or heading? Where could you go from here that would satisfy you both and let you stay with one another despite your differences? 

You wished you could drag answers out of Arthur, torture his mind and soul until he had no choice but to respond, yet you doubted he could even know what to tell you, for he wasn’t sure, and you could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch that contradicted his mind starkly. Every motion and caress was soft yet reluctant, and you could hear the slight sway in his voice when he spoke to you as if he battled against his will and obligations. It tore you apart to realize he struggled against himself, struggled against his beliefs and wants.

You realized that whichever hands managed to strangle your relationship before would surely do it again. To be quite honest, it did scare you, more than you dared to admit, for you knew you were two different people now, and when your bond wasn’t strong enough all those years back, how could it be now that you both had your inner anguish that clawed itself inside your walls, thrashing and screaming. More so, changing for someone else is a terrifying thought per se, and there was no mistake in thinking that would be the case for both of you. A cruel, horrendous fate, indeed.

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Cornflower Blue

SPOOKTOBER SPECIAL

❥Yandere Outlaw Song Mingi x fem reader

➯a/n: this is my darkest fic yet imo, be sure to read the contents and take care of yourself! also im super proud of this, it took like three months tbh and i still didn't get to fit in everything i wanted to. enjoy some yandere minki 💙

✃The moonlight seeps in through the sheer curtains and paints your skin in a haze of blue. The bruise on your temple like a water color bloom.

♫ "You love me 'till you wear me out, then you love me more." -Cornflower Blue, Flower Face ♫"Love's never been more than pain, so Baby, show me how bad you hurt." -Dog Days, Ethel Cain ♫"My Babe would never fret about what my hands and my body done- if The Lord don't forgive me, I'd still have my Baby." -Work Song, Hozier ♫"I just wanted to be yours. Can I be yours? Just tell me I'm yours." - Strangers, Ethel Cain ♫

✫彡wordcount: 14k

♡'･ᴗ･'♡(ಡ‸ಡ) (>ᴗ•) genre: plot heavy smut, yandere, angst

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: GOOD LORD WHAT HAVE I DONE ??? wild west au, HEAVY yandere themes, murder, reader near death experience, mingi is CRAZY, bribery, manipulation, threatening, gun violence/shoot-out, injuries, invasion of privacy, 'off-screen' death of main characters, kidnapping, NSFW; multiple sex scenes, masterbation, unprotected(BOO), first time, head(reader receiving), size difference, spit, breeding kink, overstim, biiiiiig dick mingi (i'm a sucker😞), praise, dirty talk, soft sex turned rough, extreme possessiveness

not edited, definitely grammatical errors 🥲

⁂taglist: @stvrfir3 @tunaasan @marievllr-abg @nini4m @senpai-of-doom

MATURE UNDER CUT MDNI

"Ellis~" Your sing song tone echoes out through the alleyway, crates of stored food blocking your view. "Oh, my! Is that a corn snake?" You yelled out dramatically, crouching down behind a crate.

"Where?!" The young boys voice gets closer by the second until he runs up to you and you snatch him up.

"Wraa! I got you!" He laughs loudly, an heart-full sound that rings out in the dead town. Everyone has gone besides very few to a new market up North. "I've caught you, and I'll eat you up!" You pull him up as he yells and laughs and swing him around as you twirl to the main road. "I'll have ye for supper," you laugh with your best witch-like voice.

"No, I'm not tasty!"

"No? Well... I guess I shouldn't do this then!" You playfully nom at his sweatered shoulder, tickling his ribs.

"Auntie, please, I'll do it! I'll sweep!"

You stand up like nothing ever happened and smile, "great, Miss Carmen will be most pleased." You had recruited multiple of the youngsters left behind to help you maintain the vacant homes while the market took place, and some off them were less than happy to have been roped in. "Would you like me to carry you?"

"Ye' , please!" His smile is missing a tooth, and it makes you chuckle.

You place him over your hip and begin the short walk, planning out the rest of the days chores in your head when he screams, "horsie!"

You follow the path his chubby fingers points to, and find a large figure riding in past the town sign on a similarly large white horse. His face is obscured by his large droopy hat, but that isn't what makes you suspicious at first.

The man riding into town has multiple guns on his figure.

You scramble to the side of the dirt path and hold Ellis' head to your shoulder, looking up at the stranger as he slows his horse to come to a stop right infront of you.

   "Hello, Si-"

  "Auntie, I'm scared." Despite your best efforts, the young boy had caught a glimpse of the towering and dangerous-looking man, shivering in your hold.

     You crouch down and set him down carefully, rubbing his back for a moment before you turn him in the direction you want him to go, "run off to the schoolhouse, tell Maria to come and cook up our guest a meal. You can do that, right?"

     He rubs his eyes and peeks at the man before looking back to you, nodding eagerly. "Go on and get, then." You pat his shoulder and watch him run before turning to the man.

       "Room and board, Sir?" You speak formally to the hidden man.

    "Yes." He speaks simply, swinging his leg and jumping down from the horse.

    He's no less intimidating now that he's technically level with you. He looms over you like a shadow and places a chill in your bones. "Is this place a ghost town?" He has an accent that you can't place, but you lock onto it anyhow because it's quite clear he isn't from around here. You look away from him, trying to hide your nerves at the fact that he's the first real stranger you've ever met.

    "No, Sir. Most are away to sell our spring crops." He hums shortly in response, watching you closely from under the shadow his hat casts over his eyes as you grab his horses reigns. You can feel the way his eyes bore into your every move as you begin waking, "follow me, then."

    It's a silent and most awkward walk down the deserted main street, and you can still feel his gaze burning into your back as you lead his horse into the stables.

"So, where are you from, stranger?"

     "Away." Your feeble attempt at small talk is shut down by the man immediately as he stands in the large doorway, broad shoulders nearly touching its sides.

"Very well," you step back out of the horse's temporary home, and are put in the shadow his large frame casts. "Uhm, my name is (Y/n)," you extend your hand, trying to remember your manners despite the fear in your gut.

     He takes your hand, roughly. You can't tell if he means to- or if he's just that strong. "Mingi."

     His hand is cold. It shocks you. You pull away from his grip and push past him, head lowered. You've quickly found that you don't enjoy strangers. "Miss Maria can help you get settled, show you around if you like. Nothin' much to do 'round here besides drink or play ball." You ramble on as you head to the bar, just down the road. You don't have to look behind you to know he's following. You can feel his gaze locked in on your back, that same feeling you get when men at the bar have one too many or that time when a wild boar almost got you.

      The bar isn't anything special, though nothing in the town is really. He looks around, silently. A few wooden booths and rickety tables. A pool table. A small island that separates the main floor and the bartenders area. Beyond that, he can see a kitchen. He almost thought his luck had run out when he rode into the seemingly deserted town, and then he saw you twirling the young boy into the main road.

     He nods his head, maybe subconsciously, to say he's pleased enough to stay. "Up this way," your voice echoes in the empty space, and you touch his arm ever so lightly to get his attention. The staircase is hidden by the corner, and he has to crouch to ascend them. When he does, he's pleasantly surprised.

     The room has a homey, lived in feel to it. Well, most of it. It's a large space, walls decorated with dried flowers and boxed in dead insects, chalk drawings of all kinds of things on the dark oak walls. There's a slanted shelf that's adorned with carved wooden trinkets and toys, most of which have a small layer of dust if he looks hard enough. A large open window is on the back wall, facing the town, and a dresser that fits perfectly under it. The bed on the left side of the dresser is messy, a large fur blanket that's bundled up to expose pristine white sheets.

     The part that doesn't look as lived in is on the right side of the dresser. An fresh lantern candle placed neatly on the made bed, dark red sheets and grey comforter.

     "I hope you don't mind a roommate... I'm not here for the most part, I won't be in your hair." You're shuffling around quickly, hiding a few things that he didn't get to inspect into the left side of the dresser. "You can," you gulp, clearly uncomfortable with the silent man, "you can put your things away in these drawers if you like."

He stands, like a scarecrow, holding his rucksack tightly. When he moves, you flinch, sliding closer to what he now placed together is your bed. He chooses to ignore that, sitting down on the other bed and feeling the soft fabric. "You own this place?"

You're taken aback by his unprovoked speaking, gathering you thoughts as you sit across from him on your own bed. "Uh, no. A man named Louis owns this and the bar."

"Hm. And you?"

"I work down in the bar, bartending and such. So he lets me stay."

A small smirk plays at his lips, hidden by his hat as he looks around again. You've clearly lived here a long while. There's more to your story than just working downstairs. "Kind of him."

    "Very. You may be able to thank him for his hospitality, he gets back in a few days." You pause for a moment before you ask tentatively, "how long will you be staying?"

     He stands and turns his back to you as he takes off his hat, beginning to unpack his bag. "Few weeks maybe."

    "Ah," you draw quietly, anxiety growing in your gut. The very few visitors you could remember stayed for only days, if that. Even then, they weren't total strangers. They were people that others in town knew from the market or city.

    "Hope you don't mind a roommate," he turns back around and tosses a look your way as he starts to fold his clothing into the unoccupied drawers. And if the air wasn't gone from your lungs by now, it is now. This stranger, Mingi, is the most handsome being you've ever laid your eyes upon.

     His eyebrows are softly arched, beautifully curved nose and lips. And his eyes- oh, his eyes. You swear you could get lost in them. And it seems you do, staring at the man despite the fact your intuition is telling you to look away. "Handsome, I know."

    A heat flushes your face and you force yourself to look away as he smirks your way, "w-well, you know, uh- let me go and fetch Miss Maria, you must be famished!"

     With that, you're down the stairs and out the bar. He watches as you speed walk away through the window, blissfully unaware that he's opened up your drawers to have a deeper look into his roommate.

༄

You dodged the handsome stranger until you no longer could, the sun was setting and there were no more excuses to be found to avoid going back home. He wasn't in the room when you returned, but the bathroom door was closed and you could see the flickering of a candle from the cracks.

    You lit a few candles on the dresser before the sun fully set, taking some deep breaths as you heard him moving around. You remove your boots, a groan of relief settling behind your lips as you wiggle your toes.

    As you're unfolding your night gown, the door to the bathroom creaks open. "Hello, Miss," he greets, much warmer than his earlier aura.

     "Mingi," you greet back with a small smile, "have you found your way around well?" You shift your weight uncomfortably as he tilts his head at you, as if he's trying to read you.

    "Mhm, this ghost town isn't as bad as I thought," he sits down on his bed, rolling his head with a groan.

     "Very good, maybe when the other return you'll find it even better." You can't wait for the day. His presence makes you... uneasy, is the best way to put it. You know he could easily over power you and the others. Elderly, young, and women who don't have a single idea of self defense. Maybe that was stupid on your towns part- but you needed all of the hands on deck to sell the bountiful harvest.

      You excuse yourself and lock the bathroom door behind you, double checking before you begin to remove your day clothes. As you change, you start to wonder if maybe Mingi was just uncomfortable around strangers as well. He's seemed to have warmed up quite a bit to you. You'll have to ask Maria in the morning about their encounter.

     Perhaps he won't be as bad as you expected- "Oh, dear me!" You stumble as you re-enter the room, covering your eyes with your hands. "Uhm, Mingi?"

    "I'm just cleaning my wound," he chuckles, watching you with a glint in his eyes.

      You peek through your fingers, keeping your hands to your face to hide.

    Indeed, he's shirtless. Your eyes hadn't played a trick on you.

      You swallow the gathering wetness in your mouth as you peer at his naked torso. He's slim, toned in all the right places. His arms are something of a dream to you, and you have to force yourself to look away from them as sinful thoughts begin growing in your mind.

    Instead, you take a look at the wound he referred to.  A shallow gash going from his hip around and around to his back. The edges of it are already scarring, leaving only the middle of it as a wound.

You slowly approach the end of his bed, hands resting on the metal bed frame. "May I ask?"

"Every man his enemies. Mine happen to be good with throwing knives."

"Is that why you carry all those weapons?" The question has been nagging you. He has so many. And you don't like them. You don't like that they are in your home. He's left them on his side of the dresser.

"Perhaps." He groans as he tries to reach around and clean the part of the cut that stretches onto his back. "Would... would you be so kind, (Y/n)?"

It's your turn to be the silent type. You move to sit beside him, taking the damp rag and jar of salve with shaking hands. You haven't been this close to him until now. You haven't been this close to any man, really.

He smells shockingly good.

He shivers as you begin cleaning up his wound, and you apologize under your breath.

Unbeknownst to you, that was not a shiver of pain.

He's always been the nosy type. He couldn't help himself but try to get to know you through your belongings while you were gone. And he struck a pot of gold when he found your diary.

The entries dated back seven years. And he read through all seven of them. With every word, he became more and more infatuated with you. And your touch on his body solidified that infatuation. It felt right. Your innocent, helping touch turned his infatuation into something more sinister.

So, no. It was not a shiver of pain.

"There you go," you can't help but stroke the large expanse of his back once you've finished, it's a work of art. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice.

But, oh, does he. He has to bite his lip to hold back a moan, looking down at his lap. His member twitching to life from the smallest, most pure of your touches. "Thank you kindly." He forces out, breathily.

You're in your own bed much to quickly for his liking, hiding under your blanket. "Goodnight, Mingi. I shall see you in the morning."

༄

     "Hello, stranger," you smile at him as steps out of the building, earning one back. "Slept well, I hope?"

    "Very, thank you." He takes a seat on the steps of the bar next to you and watches the sun grow higher in the sky. "May I ask you a personal question, (Y/n)?"

     "I suppose so," you shift slightly, toying with the strings on your boots. While your knees are pulled up to the step just below your bottom, his feet stretch all the way off of the steps and onto the dirt.

    "Where is your family?"

    "I'm sorry?"

   "Well... it's just, you're a beautiful young woman. Don't you have a husband and a couple of rug-rats?"

    "Rug-rats," you repeated with a chuckle, shaking your head. "No, no rug-rats."

"And a husband?"

"The closest I have to a husband is Castle... my mutt." You look to him with a bigger smile, your nerves and anxiety around him unwinding. When he laughs, you feel a flutter in your stomach that makes them disappear completely.

You turn back to the sun as it rises, trying to convince yourself that the heat you feel on your cheeks is from the warmness of it. "Why do you ask?"

He hums, leaning back on his elbows and allowing his eyes to flick up and down as they observe you. "Wanted to know my chances."

"Oh!" You look back at him, his eyes shining with that glint once more, "the cow boy is a flirt? I see."

"I'm not a cowboy."

"No?" You lean back and join him, crossing your legs. Maria had told you just earlier that he was strange, that she sensed a darkness about him. But you only felt warmth and light. "What are you then, Mingi?"

"An outlaw." The smirk on his lips makes you think he's joking, and you let out a laugh.

If only you knew that Mingi was being truthful.

༄

      The wagons roll into town the next morning, bright and early. You're still asleep when the first one comes, but the happy hollering from Maria wakes you and Mingi both with a start.

    He's dazed and confused, rolling around and glaring at at ceiling above him. While you, well you nearly jump out of your skin to run downstairs.

     Still in your nightgown and soft socks, you almost slip and fall as you jump off of the last stair and slide into the main area. "Lou!" You collide into him and sway happily as the older man lifts you up in his arms.

"There's my girl! You been holdin' us down?" He sets you down carefully and inspects you, making sure you've been kept safe in his time away.

"You know I have," you give him a wide and toothy smile, "how was the new market?"

"Oh, it was wonderful, dear! Next time I should take you both with me, so many new things," he reaches into his satchel, handing his wife something small and shiney.

Mingi, in his own sleep clothes- a loose pair of pants, slowly descends the stairs, silent as a mouse as he watches the three of you.

Miss Maria, the older woman with a scarf permanently affixed to her head, looks down at the ring with a teary smile. "Oh, Louis, you shouldn't have." You lift yourself up and sit on one of the tables, watching the two kiss with a small smile.

"Why shouldn't I? A man is meant to spoil his wife, isn't that what I always say? Besides, we made quite the profit this time around." His wrinkled hand cups her cheek, and you can't help but coo at their affection.

"Y'all are too stinkin' cute." Maria looks away bashfully, admiring the ring on her hand. While Louis turns to you with a smile, which fades as quickly as it came.

"And who is this?" His hand is on his belt, twitching at his pistol as he spots Mingi coming up behind you. You turn, and then back, moving his hand away from his weapon.

"That's Mingi, he got here a few days ago. A traveler." You don't know if that last part is necessarily true. Mingi never did tell you why he was passing by your isolated town. "He's quite alright."

"He's half naked- and so are you! Young lady-"

"Lou!" Maria is flabbergasted by what he seems to be implying, while you don't seem to see the innuendo. Of course you are? You just awoke.

Mingi stays silent, and simply extends his hand to Louis. When he doesn't take it, he puts it back to his side, joining you at the table. It seems to you that Mingi is indeed weary of strangers. He seems only comfortable with you. Yesterday, he followed you around almost like a lost dog. Insisting that he wanted to help you with your daily chores.

His eyes flick down to your chest. Sure, he's seen you in your nightgown. But that was in the moon or candle light. The sunlight from the many bar windows exposes just how sheer it is. He can see your nipples if he looks hard enough. And, oh, he's looking.

And Louis notices, ears flushing red with anger as the strange traveler looks you up and down. "Alright, dear, go get dressed."

"Oh, but I wish to hear of the market! Unc-"

"Now, (Y/n)."

With a sigh, you slide off of the table, patting Mingis exposed shoulder as you pass him. He goes to follow you back upstairs when Louis grips his wrist. Hard.

Maria is fiddling with her new ring, almost cowering behind her husband as she feels Mingis aura once again. She can't seem to pinpoint why. But she doesn't like this man one bit. He's done nothing to her, to anyone for that matter. But she feels an evilness seep from his gaze.

"Have a seat, Mingi." Louis doesn't seem to like him either. Maybe because of his silent demeanor or the way he was ogling you.

He does so, with a bored expression, plopping down on one of the wooden booths. Louis slides into the booth seat across from him, waving Maria off. She doesn't need to be told twice. She doesn't want to be near that man for one second more than necessary.

Alone in the seating area, the two men stare silently at one another. As if sizing each other up.

Louis is the first one to break, reaching into his pocket. A rusted old locket is slid across the scratched table top, and Mingi catches it before it falls into his lap.

As he opens it up, he sees a picture of two people in either of the slots. One, a woman with a wide smile. The other, a man looking down at the baby held to his chest. Their features seem... familiar.

"Her parents."

He looks up slowly, and sees the older man leaning back, "I'm sorry?"

"Those are her parents. My little sister and her husband. Died seven years ago. Train crash. Hit a cow on the tracks. Hate those damned things. They can't slow down quick enough to avoid hittin' something."

It's silent again, save for the sounds of Maria cooking up a storm in the back of the kitchen.

He looks down at the pictures again. Seven years ago... that's when your diary entries start. But you never mentioned the crash. Did you just decide to forget about it? Move on?

Louis can almost see the cogs turning in his brain as he looks at the worn photo. Before Mingi can ask, Louis is answering. "I seen the way you looked at my little girl. The same way I look at my Maria. So Imma tell you," he points to the locket, "I made a promise the day that train crashed. You know what that promise was?"

"No."

"That I'd gut anyone who ever laid an evil finger on that girl."

"Maria!" They hear you coming back down, and Louis snatches up the locket from Mingis hands as he stands. You stop briefly and look at them, but move on when you see Louis smiling down at him. "Have you seen my vest?" Your voice grows distant as you join your Aunt in the kitchen, unaware that the smile was followed by a threat.

"Don't make me gut you, boy."

༄

"You're so soft," you mutter as you brush the white mare with your fingers, stood just outside of her stable. She neighs loudly at you. "Oh, I know. So many strange horses, you must be frightened."

The once empty stable house was now filled again, everyone was back in town by high-noon. She seems like her owner, and like you. She doesn't like strangers. She nearly kicked the short door down when you approached with a handful of hay.

A few minutes later, she's letting you pet her. You're stood on a stool, bent over the edge of the door to dust the dirt off of her white coat. "You're a sweet girl, huh?" You smile at the animal, receiving more neighs in response.

"Who you talking to?"

The abrupt interruption makes you stumble, nearly falling off of the wobbly stool. You steady yourself on the door and look back, throwing a smile his way when you see it's Mingi. "Your horse."

He joins your side at the door, holding his hand out to his mare. "You know she can't talk back, right?"

"Don't mean she can't listen."

He smiles at your response. You really are a kind soul, giving affection to an animal that can't give you anything in return.

"Busy, Miss (Y/n)?"

You shake your head. Nobody has come by the bar yet, and you don't think anyone will for a while. They're all spending time with their families.

"How about a ride, then?" He's opening up the door before you can respond, making your upper body follow it, legs outstretched to stay on the stool.

"Oh- I don't... I don't know how."

He keeps putting the saddle on the horse despite your words, a smile playing at his lips. By the way your smiling as well, he knows you want to. "I can teach you. Are you afraid?"

     "I must admit... a bit."

    "Don't worry, I won't let you fall."

    "Really?"

    "Mhm."

      You hop down from the stool and move it out of the way as Mingi walks the mare out of her stable, following close behind him with a wide smile. You get a few strange looks from townspeople as you and the towering stranger stop in the middle of the main dirt road.

     One pair of eyes watches you even closer. Louis stands from his rocking chair on the porch of the bar, staring dumbfounded as Mingi picks you up and helps you onto the animal. Jaw dropped as he hops up and sits in the saddle right behind you, hands guiding yours to hold the reigns. Before he can even get off of the porch, the both of you are galloping out of town.

     The cool October air against your face as you slowly gain speed feels freeing, like it's washing your very soul. Your nerves are still shaking a bit, and you lean your back into Mingis chest, holding onto the reigns tightly. You jump ever so slightly when one of his hands rests over your stomach, gently holding you.

     "Don't worry," he says, "I've been riding since I was a child."

And so, you don't worry. You let the freeing feeling wash over you, relaxing into him and letting the mare take you where ever she pleases. Which just so happens to be the furthest you can ever remember being from town. You nearly forget that Mingi is even with you until you feel his hand move away from your stomach.

He grabs the reigns, his hand over yours as he pull her head back carefully, slowing her to a stop in the middle of a field. He pulls your hands back with his and settles them in your lap, atop of your bundled up skirts.

She lowers her head and starts chewing on some of the green grass. You look up at the sky, clear and bright.

"Not so scary, right?" Mingi speaks up gently, his hands never leaving your own as he looks up at the baby blue with you.

"Not at all, though maybe it's because you did all of the work," you let out a small laugh, turning your hands palms up and letting him weave his fingers into yours, enveloping you in warmth. "Is this what your life is like?"

The endless expanse of nature staring back at you, birds chirping their lovely songs.

"For the most part." He doesn't want to tell you about the other parts of his life. The bloody and harsh parts. You don't need to hear about that. Not when you're so pure and soft in comparison.

"I like it. I can see why you don't settle, cowboy."

"I'm not a cowboy."

A grin on both your faces, a comfortable silence overcomes you for a moment. He leans and slowly, almost nervously, rests his forehead on your shoulder. When you don't make a move to lean away, he absolutely melts into you. His heart beating loudly in his ears, he's shocked you haven't looked back to look for a marching band with how loud it is.

"I think I may stay a little while longer," he whispers tenderly into your back.

"I think I may like that."

You revel in each others touch for a few more moments before he moves, scooting back away from your backside. "Let's stretch our legs." Before you can complain, he's jumped off the horse and is holding out his arms for you. Deciding 'why not', you lean over and let him essentially pull you off her back.

You stretch your arms over your head as you wander, smiling back at him.

Oh, he could get addicted to that smile.

Directed at him, and him alone.

He watches with a flicker in his eyes as you start gathering wild flowers, folding up the rim of his hat to get a better look. You start braiding them together, fingers working nimbly. The song of nature overcoming you as you work, and he admires from a few feet away.

You look like an angel, the sun beaming down on you and shining from behind you like a halo as you turn and face him. "Crouch down, big boy," you tease him softly, a heat creeping up your face as you see him blushing.

He leans down, letting you affix the flowers around his hat. When he comes back up, he does a small twirl, "how do I look?"

"Pretty!" It slips your lips before you have the chance to think, and it makes him blush all the harder.

"Let me see," he takes his hat off, short hair wild and blowing with the breeze.

He pulls the hat over your head in the next second, and the large accessory falls over your eyes. He laughs, hand over his mouth as you tilt your head up and peek at him from under the rim. "How do I look?"

"Like a doll," he exclaims breathlessly, eyes not leaving you for a single second as he takes in the sight of you in his hat. The wind blowing your loose hairs and skirts. A shy smile stretching your lips as you look away, admiring the sky as he admires you.

"Oh, hush."

"It's only true." He comes behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders loosely.

You have to remember how to breath as he looks over your shoulder at you, shit-eating-smirk on his lips. "Doll~"

"We should head back!" You squeal, ducking out of his arms as heat overwhelms your body. He only laughs, and the melodic sound echoes in the field.

"Alright then, up you get," he hoists you back onto the saddle, hands lingering on your exposed thighs as your skirt pools around your hips while he hooks his boot into the stirrup.

And you're off again, this time slowly. Like he knows that you crave to spend time with him as much as he does you.

༄

It's a few days later when he awakes in the night. The moon his only source of light. His breaths uneven and heavy.

Why did he have to wake up? That dream was ethereal, it nearly made him ascend to the heavens.

He groans as he flips onto his stomach, not a atom of shock in his being as he feels his hardness pressing into the mattress. Not after he just experienced the wettest dream of his life.

You looked like a Goddess below him, head tossed to the side and exposing all of the marks he left on your neck. The bed rocked in time with the yells of his names that left your bruised lips. Over and over. Louder and louder. Your eyes rolled back, your chest rising and falling as you tried desperately to keep up with his pace.

He's certain that's your rightful place, taking his cock and calling his name, soul intertwined with his. "Fuck..." Just six days and you have him wrapped around your little finger. He's never felt like this. You must be the one.

    He can't help but look over at your bed across the room as his hand travels into his pants. His eyes nearly flutter shut, but he forces them open once again.

You're a restless sleeper, he's discovered. Your torso is pressed into the mattress while your hips are rotated slightly up, one leg hiked up and making your nightgown slip past the round of your ass.

God, your subconscious must know what he's doing.

That's the only 'reasonable' conclusion Mingis lustful mind can come to as you moan in your sleep, rolling onto your back and spread your legs to get comfortable. It takes every fiber of self control in him not to pounce on you and take you right there.

He's content to fuck himself silly for the moment, and he's almost ashamed at how fast his release comes- but he can't help it. You look so fucking delectable and he hasn't touched himself since before he rolled into town.

He bites into his pillow with a growl, eyes never leaving your peaceful form until he's overstimulated himself into oblivion. His arm sore and cock even sorer, he finally lets up, breathing heavily into the quiet night.

As he slinks to the bathroom and cleans himself up, he wonders what it would be like to feel your body close to him after such a release. Well-

Why not find out?

He leans over your bed with tears in his eyes, gently grabbing your arm and calling out to you.

"Min?" The nickname that you utter while half asleep almost has him ready to go again, but he pushes it away as you sit up groggily and look at him with concern written on your face.

"I don't feel too well, Doll... Can I sleep with you? Keep me warm?"

You feel his head with the back of your hand, a frown on your face as you feel his heated flesh- unknowing of the true cause.

"Mh, come on, big boy," you scoot to the wall that your beds on and lift your fur blanket, a sleepy smile on your features as he dives into the bed. The metal frame creaks under both of your weight but neither of you pay it any mind.

He melts into your body heat, wrapping his arms around your waist and keeping you close.

It's so much better than he imagined.

༄

That's the best sleep you've ever had. You felt so safe and warm. And Mingi doesn't feel any different, he hasn't had a restful sleep like that since he was only a boy. You seem to have kept his reoccurring nightmares of his past away.

All the damage he's done and all the pain he's endured, wiped away as you rested your head on his shoulder.

Your legs are tangled together, arms wrapped around one another. Your head in his neck and his chin resting gently on top of it. Soft, gentle breaths as the both of you wake.

Rain beats down on the roof, creating a soft and steady melody.

Neither of you can tell how much time has elapsed, but it doesn't seem like it's ever enough. So when you finally sit up, a pout forms on his features.

You feel his forehead, a smile on yours. "No fever."

"Hm, maybe a night bug." He sits up and swings his legs over the bed, facing into the room to hide his growing blush as the memories of his dream flood his mind.

He feels the bed shift under your weight as you crawl up behind him. "I had a dream last night," you whisper as you gently rub up his back.

"Mh?"

"Mhm." Your heart flutters as you muster up the courage to continue speaking, "a dream of you and I."

"Oh, do tell."

And tell, you do.

"Well... it began with you and I, sat in the bar. A few too many drinks in our bodies. A few kisses... A few touches... and then we came up here." His breath hitches in his throat, surely he's still dreaming. This is an elaborate trick of the brain. "Mingi?"

"Y-yes?" He wants to both explode with joy and collapse with embarrassment.

"Will you touch me? Will you kiss me? I'm sorry if that's wildly inappropriate- oh it is, I'm so ter-"

Your rambling is cut off as his lips collide with yours ever so softly. One of his hands cups your cheek, the other finds purchase on the small of your back.

He slowly pushes his weight onto you, laying you down on your back as your lips meld together. A curse falls past his lips as you ghost your fingertips over his abs.

He kisses down your jaw, savoring every inch of your skin until he reaches your covered breasts. He looks up, and the look in his eyes makes the heat in your belly grow ten-fold. "Can I see you?"

With the slightest nod of your head, he's slipped the straps of your nightgown down and tugged it down past your chest. His mind is racing. His heart is about to beat out of his chest. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He whispers, voice rough and barely heard over the storm raging outside.

His calloused hands trail down your chest, ghosting over the pebbled flesh on your breast and down to your skirt. You can't help the gasp that escapes you when he lifts it up, letting your entire nightdress rest in a bunch on your stomach. He's already panting, and he hasn't even touched you.

You're just so beautiful. You're a Goddess in his eyes.

He smiles up at you as he lowers himself, your legs spread by his wide shoulders. "I'm going to make you cum your brains out, Doll~"

Before you can even question what he means, his tongue is darting out and swiping up the length of your cunt. "Ah!" Your back is arched off the bed at the simple motion, and it solidifies his theory that you're a virgin. Your keening at the littlest bit of attention, your poor neglected pussy is begging for more.

You slap your hand over your mouth at the noise, looking shocked that it even came from you. He can't help the chuckle that vibrates in his throat- that is, before his taste buds register the most delicious, mind blowing juice he's ever had the pleasure of putting in his mouth. "Oh, fuck..." Then he's just as flustered as you are, diving back in between your thighs like a man starved.

     The little noises that manage to slip past your hand urge him on even more than the way that your wetness just keeps coming and coming and coming as he slurps it all up. His tongue darts and licks and rolls all over you, and you can't even register all of the pleasure you're getting from it- it feels that good.

     He slips his arms under your thighs and grips them tightly to ground himself as he allows himself to drown in you. He lets his instincts do all of the work, enjoying himself more than he ever has. His nose nudges against your clit as he slurps noisily.

     The way you taste. The way you smell. The way you sound. The way you feel.

     All of it. All of you. He's going mad with lust. With love. He's going to explode, he truly believes it. And then you call his name.

      "Mingi—"

    So sweet and desperate, absolute music to his red hot ears as he sucks the bundle of nerves above your sopping wet heat. He doesn't even register that you've cum all over his chin until youre tugging at his hair roughly and forcing him away from your throbbing pussy.

     He moans out loud as you harshly pull him away, jaw dropped as he pants. "You taste so good, Doll," he slurs drunkenly. Your essence has gotten him drunker than any alcohol ever could.

     You're panting even heavier, chest rising and falling quickly as you tremble in the aftershocks of your first orgasm that's come from another person. 

     He rubs his finger tips over your thighs gently, luring you back down to Earth as he gawks at you. You swear that there's hearts in his shining eyes.

     "W-" your attempt at words comes out as jumbled whine, and you let yourself fall back into the pillow.

     "It's okay, Baby," he coos, licking his lips as he sits up, folding his legs under him and pulling your limp hips into his lap.

     The new nickname makes your cunt twitch, and he catches it. "Oh, you like that, hm?" His index and middle finger spread you wide, and he purses his lips- spitting directly onto your sensitive hole. "C'mon, talk to me, pretty Baby."

      "G-god!" You cry out embarrassedly, forever thankful for the angry storm outside that hides your sounds from any neighbors. "Yes, I do, I really do," you draw out, grabbing the sides of his thighs as he teases your entrance. You're still hyper sensitive, twitching with every small movement he makes.

    And he absolutely revels in it.

    "Yeah? I bet no one ever made you feel that good before," he smirks, letting another wad of spit hit your hole.

     "Nuh-uh," you shake your head, peering up at him, and your next words make it hard for him to keep his composure. "Stay. Stay here and- and fuck me."

     Little do you know, after that first night- he lost any plans he had of ever leaving.

"I will never leave you," and he means it. He has no plans of ever letting you go. And he's about to let you know that.

       He slides you back off his lap and lays over you, holding your head with one hand as the other guides his leaking tip into you. "Oh, ngh," you whine, holding onto his biceps tightly. He bites his lips as he feels your walls for the first time. So warm and tight around him. So soft. "M-min, be gentle," you whimper, leaning up and hiding in his chest.

     "Don't worry, Doll, we'll go slow" he strokes your head gently, slowly -oh, so slowly- sinking into your tight core. "Such a pretty little thing, so fuckin' tight f'me," he growls, and again as the noise makes you clench around him. "Gonna have to stretch your little pussy out before I can even move, you've got me in a fucking vice, Baby."

       "Mingi, d-don't talk like that, it's dirty," you pant into his chest, the warm air making goosebumps form.

     "Well, look at you," he nearly purrs, pulling your head back from his chest gently, "look." You blink a few times, taking in the sinful scene.

    Your legs spread around his slowly moving hips. His thick monster of a cock gradually disappearing into your stretched folds.

     "Can't not be dirty while we're breaking in this cute little cunt," he says matter-of-factly, looking down at said cunt while it clenches around the half of his cock that's he's managed to sink in. A lewd moan leaves his parted lips, looking back to you as you whimper and fidget. "Hey, hey," he coos, cupping your face in his palms. "Half way there, Doll. How's it feel?"

     "Like you're gonna split me in half," you ramble out, looking up at him with the softest eyes he's ever seen. "Please, c-can we take a break? You're jus' so big..."

     "Of course, sweet girl," he leans down, careful to keep his hips locked despite how badly he just want to slam into your welcoming heat, and kisses you. Stroking your cheek bones with his thumbs. "You feel so good, like heaven." 

    The praise makes your rapidly beating heart skip a beat. "Mingi?"

    "Yes," he moans in response, looking deep into your eyes.

    "I think I'm falling in love with you." The sudden confession makes his cock twitch, his heart jumping into his throat. "Is that silly?"

     He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, which are admittedly a chaotic mess.

    "If it is, we would be silly together."

     "You mean-"

    "Yes."

    You grip his shoulders and lean up, pressing your lips to his in an act of pure desire. The both of you get lost in each other, tongues darting out and lapping at one another like a lifeline.

    Sufficiently covered in each others spit, you pull back. "Keep going, I want to take all of you." You have a newfound confidence after your short trade of admissions, demanding that he go on and fuck you.

      A few more moments of excruciating stretching pass when you suddenly feel his pelvis flush with your clit, both of you panting like wild animals as you feel each other completely.

     "Holy shit, Baby," he sneers, resting his face in the crook of your neck, taking in deep breaths of your scent to keep himself from jack hammering into you. You are truly the best thing to ever happen to him, and your cunt molding into the shape of him is just a bonus.

      There are no words that you can find in your brain. All if it is wiped away as you feel his rock hard cock stretching you out, filling you wall to wall. When he breaths out, a content sigh into your neck, you feel the veins on his length pressing into your gummy walls. "Hah~" Is all you can manage, thoughts turned into mush as he begins to slowly pull back out- just an fraction of an inch. Before sliding back in quickly. "Fuck!"

     "Doll, please, please," he whimpers, holding onto your waist tightly as he rolls his hips, "please say you're ready, I don't know how long I can take it."

    "Y-" the second the first syllable is utter from your lips, he's already pulled out half way, "yes!" He thrust back in, steady and slow at first.

Words are lost between you - minds absolutely flooding with hormones as he begins thrusting harder, faster. Moans, groans, loud whimpers. The slapping of your skin is so loud that even the rain pounding at the window can't drown it out.

He's stuffing you beyond your wildest imagination. His cock was made to stretch you so deliciously, and your pussy was made to take it.

It's his dream coming to life, quite literally, as your eyes roll back to the depths of your head and you're squeezing him tighter than before. It's almost impossible for him to keep thrusting, but he finds a way.

He grips your hips tight and is making you bounce on his cock effortlessly, all the while pounding his hips into yours. He's so deep inside of you, it feels like he can feel the same coil in your gut that you do. And it's about shatter.

He slips a hand down and begins swirling his fingers over your clit, pushing you off the edge roughly, making you cream over his member with a broken yell of his name. He leans in, all of his weight on you as fucks you through it harshly. His lips right next to your ear.

"You. Are. Mine."

And with that, a warmth like no other spreads inside of you.

༄

Nearly two months passed like they were nothing, days seemed to fly with you by his side.

     He felt he finally had a place where he belonged.

    He found himself work cleaning peoples guns in the bar, even selling and trading some.

    He had a bed to go to at the end of the day. After that first time together, you both rearranged the room. Pushing your beds together under the window and putting the dresser on the wall.

     He had the other half of his soul. You. He knew everything there was to know about you, and you knew everything there was to know about him. Well- all he was willing to tell. Sometimes, there was a dark glint in his eyes that made you feel like you didn't know the full story of the man you shared your life with. But all doubt faded away when he smiled at you.

     All was well- more than well. It was perfect.

      Until a group of strangers rode into town. Strangers to the town. But strangers to Mingi, they were not.

     He walked into the bar and Mingis heart stopped. He saw all of his hard work to get you, to settle, to make a life- all of it- vanish. It disappeared.

     "Fuck me," he groans, keeping his head low and cursing himself for not wearing his hat today. He hopes that he'll go unnoticed. But that hope is squashed when the man slides into the booth across from him.

     "Well, slap my ass and call me Pamela. Song Mingi!" The rowdy man immediately catches Louis' attention from behind the bar.

     "Why are you here, Buck?" Mingi keeps his tone low, hostile.

   "You know why I'm here. You want in?" The man, Buck, has a smirk playing mischievously on his lips.

     "No. You, and whoever else you drug into this town are leaving. This town is off limits."

     Buck lets out a shrill chuckle, "says who?"

     "Says me. This is my town. Get the fuck out before I shoot you." Mingi growls, placing his pistol on the table, finger twitching at the trigger.

      That gets Louis' full attention, his hand immediately unlocking the safety on his gun as he makes his way over. "Mingi, who's your friend?" He hates to admit, but he's grown fond of Mingi over these long winter days.

     "He's leaving. Ain't that right?" Mingi tilts his head at Buck, who takes a look around. Multiple patrons of the bar have their hands on their guns, ready to draw.

     He isn't stupid. Mingi is apart of these people now and they'll protect him.

    "Yeah, that's right." He slides out of the booth, giving Mingi a seemingly innocent smile. But Mingi knows him all too well. "I'm glad you finally found yourself a nice girl to settle down with."

      With that finally threatening congratulations, he's back out the bar the way he came. Mingi watches from the window with wide eyes as he joins the posse of men outside. As soon as they start wandering away, looking into shops and other such buildings Mingi has come to be so fond of, he snaps into action.

    He runs up the stairs, nearly bumping his head. They've been casing the town, that's the only way he'd know about you.

      "Mingi!" Louis follows after him, slowed by age.

     He finds him reaching under the bed, staring bamboozled as he places gun after gun after gun into the mattress. "Mingi!"

      He ignores the panicking man, loading all of them up. "Son!" His head snaps up, tears threatening his waterline.

      "Louis, they're going to raid the town."

"What...?"

"I don't have time to explain, I have to go- go get (Y/n). You need to gather everyone who knows how to shoot. I n-"

"Boy, I don't care much for nonsense."

"Listen to me, Louis!" He clearly panicked, an expression he's never seen from him before. "What reason do I have to lie? This is my home too! This is my home and my woman, and I'll be damned if I let Buckey fuck-face and his thugs ruin it!" In his panic, Mingi doesn't notice the ring that falls from his bag as he gets out more ammunition.

Louis bends down next to Mingi and picks it up, puzzle pieces falling together in his mind.

Mingi snatches it back and shoves it in the bag.

"You're gonna propose to my little girl?"

"Not if we all die," Mingi responds shortly, shoving an armful of guns into Louis.

   They share a look.

    It seems Mingi made a similar promise to himself about you.

"Go and fetch her, don't raise any suspicion. If the townspeople know what's coming, it'll start a panic."

Mingi gives him a short nod. To say yes, sir. To say thank you.

He keeps his head down, hat covering his face as he weaves his way to the very back of the town. Trying his damnedest to avoid everyone from his past.

When he successfully makes it to the river, he spots you and is filled with relief.

    You hum quietly to yourself, bundled up in his large poncho to protect yourself from the frigid January weather as you clean your clothes.

    The harsh winds whip your loose hairs around, makes the clothes on the line flap loudly.

"(Y/n)!"

"Hey, Darlin-" He pulls you up, holding you close to his side as he drags you away, "what're you doing?"

"Just keep your head down, when we get back to the bar, go to our room, lock yourself in the bathroom. Okay?"

"Min, you're scarin' me..."

"Do you understand?" He asks firmly, stopping at the edge of town, turning you to face him.

He looks deadly serious. You haven't seen this kind of look since the first day you met. So you nod, committing what he said to memory.

"I love you," he kisses you deeply, shortly.

And then he drags you through town, and into the bar. But he pushes you right behind him when you walk in.

Buck has Miss Maria and Louis tied up, pushed to the floor. The few patrons are gone, and the yelling outside tells him Louis' plan to keep things calm has failed. Multiple men are rummaging around the bar, cleaning out the register. He can't hear any noise above them, and he's thankful that the entrance to your small home is so well hidden by the corner. 

     He feels you grip the back of his leather jacket, and he's about to turn and tell you to run when he feels you get ripped away.

     Your scream echos in the building as one of Bucks men tears you away, and Mingi has to stop himself from shooting the man the second he puts his hands on you. Doing that will just get you all killed.

He's deadly silent as he watches the man toss you to the floor. His gun was drawn the second you got tore away, and he's itching to use it.

You try to scramble away, but Buck comes up behind you and places his boot on your back, shoving you back down with a thud. Maria is sobbing uncontrollably into her hands, Louis' jaw is locked in anger as he looks away.

He bends down, putting more pressure on your spine. He grips your hair and turns your face to the side. "Well, well," he smirks, "you're even prettier up close, ain't you?"

Everyone stops in their tracks as you spit in his face. "Fuck you!" One of the men closest to you has a gun to your head in the next second, but you refuse to break.

"Feisty, I like that," he shoves your head to the floor, hitting it against it roughly. Mingi is seeing red as the world around him resumes, men ransacking the bar and chortling at your family. His family.

      "Buck."

   "Oh?" He turns, leaving you on the floor, "got something to say, pansy?"

     "Yeah." His eyes flick to yours as you push yourself up dizzily, and over to one of the booths before Buck even realizes he's looked away. "You need a key for the safe. I gonna give it to you, and youre gonna take it and leave."

     "Is that so? That's what's gonna happen?"

   "That's what's gonna happen."

   "You really lost your guts, aye? Found a nice girl and a cozy town and decided you're too good for this life, I see."

    Mingi slips his pistol back into its holster on his hip, sauntering over to the bar with all eyes on him. He stands infront of Maria and Louis, shielding them from what's about to come. "You see it how it is, then." He lifts up the pot of dying chrysanthemums in the middle of the wooden island and scoops up the key. His eyes spot you curling up under the booth he glanced at. Thank goodness you got the message.

      Cause shit is about to hit the fan.

    He tosses the key to Buck, and as his hands raise up to catch it-

     He puts a bullet in his brain.

     You can't help the scream that rips past your lips, covering your ears and hiding your face in your knees.

    As the men behind the bar start shooting at him, he ducks, shielding the older couple as the men infront of them begin firing. But he's too quick. Only one of them gets close, grazing his shoulder and stunning him briefly. He drops his pistol and takes the larger gun off of his back, propping it up over the island blindly and spraying the rest of the men in a hail of bullets.

     And then all is silent.

    With a heavy heart, you look up from your lap. The building is covered in blood, light seeps in from the holes in the walls caused by stray bullets. Maria is crying silently. Louis is looking at Mingi in shock as he falls onto his backside, holding his bleeding shoulder. 

     "What the hell was that, boy?"

     "That was me saving your ass."

༄

    Mingi and Louis, with the help of a few good samaritans, cleared the bodies out of the bar and drug them to the outskirts of town. Leaving them for the coyotes and bears. If it were up to him, Mingi would have hung them up as an example.

     Maria, seemingly in shock, scrubs the floor with a blank face as you fix up the register and dig out all of the bars belongings from the bandits bags.

     You feel a roll of papers at the bottom of one of the bag. A silent hum of amusement leaves you as you see what it is. They kept their own wanted posters. Proud of what they've done. You flip through them. Maybe out of morbid curiosity of who your boyfriend just gunned down.  And then you get to one who you know wasn't a victim.

     Because he was the gunner.

    Mingis face in a sketch stares up at you.

    WANTED.

    DO NOT APPROACH. ALERT THE AUTHORITIES.

 DANGEROUS FUGITIVE. SONG MINGI.

    The door to the bar swings open.

   The world spins around you as you look up from the drawing. And come face to face with it, brought to life.

    "Mingi..."

    "Are you okay, Doll?"

   You can't seem to find any words that describe the way your heart is breaking. Louis approaches you first, his own heart stopping as he sees what's held in your trembling hands. He tears it from you, glaring down like it's a hallucination.

    "Who are you?" Is all you can manage to whisper, backing away with a grip on your uncles sleeve as Mingi steps forward.

     "What is that?" He nods to the paper, although deep down he has an idea of what it is.

   Maria snaps out of her trance, joining your side, a gasp leaving her lips as she looks back and forth from the paper to Mingi.

     "You get out of here, you never show your face in this town again," Louis grips the man's collar and pulls him to his level, "You're lucky my girls are watching or I'd hold true to my promise."

     Mingi shoves him away and grabs the paper from Maria, his worst thoughts come true as he sees himself staring back at him.

     "Wh..." He trails of in a whisper, heart breaking into a million pieces as you look at him fearfully. Like you did the first time you met. He thought he'd never have to see that look again. "(Y/n), please, hear me out."

     Maria holds you to her chest as he approaches. "I knew I sensed evil in you, boy." She bares her teeth at him as she seethes, like a wild mother bear.

"Leave," your voice trembles, raw with all of the emotions that are flooding you. You lean further into your aunts arms as he reaches out for you. "You lied to me! I never want to see you again! I ought to turn you in!"

    "You have to believe me, I'm not like that anymore. Baby, listen! I only did what I had to to survive, you don't understand. I'm not like them!" He fights against Louis as he drags him to the door. "Please, I love you!" He's thrown off the porch, only getting a glimpse of you as you crumble to the floor before the door is slammed in his face.

༄

Mingi drapes his mare's reigns over a poll, trudging through the snow until he's at a familiar door.

He doesn't bother knocking. He barges in and stares down at the man at the desk.

"Mingi, long time no s-"

"I have a job for you." He slaps down a wad of cash, "more where this came from when you're done."

The man sighs, but takes the cash, thumbing through it. "And why don't you do it?"

Mingi ignores the question. "Louis and Maria Donelley. Shoot them, make it quick. (Y/n) (L/n). Tie her up on the tracks."

He hesitates for a moment. But in the end, "More where this came from, huh?"

༄

     It's been three days since Mingi has gone away. Rather, since he was forced away by his past and your reaction to it.

     You've slept for most of that time. Cried the rest. You barely eat. Barely talk. You hardly even move off your side of the once-shared bed.

    Maria, Louis, all of your friends tried to comfort you. Telling you that he was just a fling. That the one for you will come around and make all of the pain Mingi left disappear.

     They don't know that Mingi was the one.

     He made you so happy. Happier than you'd ever been. He made everything seem... right.

     "Hey, Dear," Louis knocks at the wall, slowly coming ascending into the room.

     "I don't want the soup, Uncle Lou..."

     "Auntie!" Ellis comes barreling past Louis and jumps onto the bed, hugging you tightly.

     "Ellis? Hey, Buddy!" You force a smile as you hug him back, sitting up with a groan and holding the child in your lap. "How you been?"

      Ellis goes on and on about what the new teacher from the city is teaching his class, a big smile on his face. Louis sees the smile pulling at your lips in the slightest, and he excuses himself silently.

     He, admittedly, is a very good distraction from your pain.

You spend quite a few hours playing with him, catching up on the things that are going on in town. He drops the ball onto the jacks and giggles loudly as it rolls away, under the bed. "I'll get it, set us up another round."

You bend down and feel around for it blinding, heart skipping a beat as you feel Mingis bag. You haven't found the courage to touch any of his things, even if to throw them away.

You move away from it and grip the ball, rolling it back to Ellis. "El, I'm feeling a bit tired, why don't you come back tomorrow."

"Aw... okay! I'll bring Violet and we can play outside!"

"See you then, Kiddo," you ruffle his hair as he passes you to leave.

It was a nice break from your sorrows while it lasted.

You crawl back into your half of the bed as the sun sets in the window above it, pulling Mingis pillow into your arms as you sob yourself to sleep once again.

Deep into the night, you feel the bed dip. You open your eyes with the littlest inkling of hope that Mingi has returned despite your harsh words his way.

But you're only met with a stranger.

You open your mouth to scream, but only get a small squeak out before you are met with a hit on the head.

༄

You awake as your body is tossed into the air, a loud groan leaving you as you collide with something hard. Through your blurry vision, you can see the moon high above you.

You look to the side, and you put two and two together that you're in a wooden cart as you see the stranger from above your bed riding on a horse that's got you attached to it. "Hey-" You croak out, getting his attention.

"Morning!" He yells, making you wince. You have a splitting headache. "Just in time for the show," he mumbles under his breath, pulling the horse to a stop.

You can hear him shuffling around in the snow, and you try to sit up before you realize you can't. Your entire body is tied in a thick rope.

The back of the cart opens up, and you try -you try so hard- to shimmy away as he reaches in and grabs your foot. But to no avail.

      He pulls you from the cart and lets you fall into the snow. It wets the back of your nightgown and hair, soaks your thin socks and makes you shiver. You don't think you've ever been this scared. Even during the shootout, Mingi was there to protect you.

      You watch with a fresh set of tears brewing in your eyes as you watch the man double knot some ropes onto the tracks. "Oh my God..."

      He ignores as you begin to beg for your life, telling him all sorts of things about you to try and make him sympathetic. "- and his name is Louis, he took me in when my parents died! Uncle Lou and Aunt Maria, please! She'd die of heartbreak!" He scoffs, knowing she's already dead. So is Uncle Lou.

    He followed Mingis request and made it quick.

       He pulls you by your binds to the tracks, the metal on the tracks is the coldest thing you've ever felt and it makes you yelp. You cry out in the night as he begins tying the ropes on the tracks to the ropes on your body.

    "Please, why are you doing this?!" Your voice shook with pure horror, tugging at the ropes that were wrapped around your entire body and tied to the tracks by the bandit. He crouched down at your feet and smirked, his simple answer making you cry all the harder.

     "Why not?"

   All of your pleas and prayers fall to deaf ears as the man turns away and to his cart, rummaging in his chest. The tracks begins to shake and you begin to except your fate. You turn your head to the side and watch the pebbles rumble, your sobs visible in puffs of air as you exhale into the harsh winter air.

    A loud thud and a groan makes you look back, and you see a tall figure on a familiar white horse.

    "Mingi!" He drops the crowbar he used to whack the man as he rode past.

    He looks back at you briefly- his face hidden by his droopy hat. But you can tell he's pissed. His jaw clenched and shoulders tense before a gunshot rings out and he ducks and rolls off of Mare, slapping her to make her run away as he draws his own gun.

    Between the rattling of the tracks and the thrumming of your heart, you can barely force yourself to watch as he approaches the man bravely, your eyes flicking from them to the horizon repeatedly. A sob of his name makes him pause for a split second before he comes back to his body.

    "Too close," Mingi scowls at the man, using his gun to smack his hand and make him drop his, kicking it away as he scrambles for it.

    "Aye, man, I did what yo-"

    "Too close."

    "Just give me my mon-"

       His gun smokes by his side in the next second as the man drops to the desert floor dead. He takes a moment to bask in the way the blood pools in the pure white snow before the steam whistle catches his attention.

      "Mingi, please!" He drops everything and runs to the tracks, crawling over your body and looking at your binds frantically. "Mingi, oh my God, please- I'm so sorry! Please untie me, hurry," you babble on in a panic as the train appears just over the horizon, sobs wracking you body under his as he tugs at the ropes.

     Your horror breaks his heart, but he knows it's necessary. He knows he has a knife strapped to his back, but he plays the panic card and 'forgets' as he forces a false worry onto his face. He won't let anything happen to his Doll, but you're too caught up in your fight or flight to remember that.

    "I got you, I got you," he murmurs as he pulls the ropes on one of your sides undone, taking his sweet time with the other as he watches the train grow ever closer- the conductor blaring the horn.

     Your free hand grasps at him, clawing at his leather jacket, eyes wide and soaked with tears as you stare down your death as it barrels towards you. Just a few feet away.

    Mingi yanks you up and falls to the ground besides the tracks with you on top of him, hands roughly holding you to his chest as his hat blows away with the wind that the train creates. You willingly slump into him, sobbing into his warm chest as the tracks rattle loudly besides you, drowning out your cries.

     He relishes in the way you cling to him well after the train passes, not daring move away from your savior as you cry your heart out and ramble on to him about how you're so sorry and how you never would have really turned him in and on and on until he silences you with a tender hug.

    He knows all of this. His Doll would never betray him. But it's best that he get a subconscious message through your thick, naive, skull early on.

   The message being: the attempt to leave him has failed miserably. Why even try to leave when he's so clearly your fate?

༄

Mingi locks the bar door behind him as he carries you into the building. He kicks off his boots. He knows you hate the mess.

    It was silent the entire way back to town.

And it remains that was as he carries you up the stairs and to bed. He doesn't even acknowledge you as he gets you some clean, dry clothes.

"Mingi..."

He sighs, shoulders dropping.

"I'm s-"

"I thought you hated me?"

"Min... I was just- just in shock! Why didn't you tell me you were... an outlaw?"

He kneels at the bed and slips your socks off, replacing them with a warm, thick pair.

The moonlight seeps in through the sheer curtains and paints your skin in a haze of blue. The bruise on your temple like a water color bloom.

"Because I was afraid." He bites his lip as it trembles. That's the plain truth. He was afraid you'd leave if you found out all the things he'd done. But now that you know, he still doesn't plan on letting you leave. "Please forgive me, Doll."

He lowers his head into your lap and smirks as he feels your hand rest on his hair.

"Come back home, Mingi."

"Really?" He looks up with the most puppy like gaze you've ever seen.

You nod, wiping your tears away, "I don't care what the others have to say. We can leave this place if we have to, I just need to be with you, M-" His lips collide onto yours as he pounces on you, pushing you onto the bed and nipping at your lips like he's starved. And he is, because-

"I missed you so fucking much, Doll," he growls into your lips, melting into you as you wrap your arms around him. It feels like it's the first time in forever, and it is to him.

"I love you, Mingi," you whisper as you look up at him, chasing after him as he sits up on his knees.

     He lifts your ruined nightgown, looking down at you as if you're a work of art as he tosses it away. "I love you," he whispers back, cupping your breast in his warm, big hands. "I love you so much it hurts."

You lay back with a moan, arching into his touch. Your mind is so fried from this weeks events, all you want to do is disappear into him.

     And you let it be know. "Take your clothes off." You tug at his buckled belt with an utterance, licking your lips at the sight of his happy trail. "Show me how much you missed me. Show me how much you love me."

     Your sultry words have him undressing in a hurry,  slamming his pistol down on the nightstand he made and kissing you deeply as he removes his belt, heart beating rapidly as you cup his cheeks to bring him closer.

     You're the closest to heaven he's ever been. Kissing down his neck and stroking his back. He doesn't know how or why this infatuation grew into something wild and untamable. And frankly, he doesn't care.

       You are quickly working to undress his top half while he kicks his pants away, letting his larger gun clatter to the floor. You no longer care if he leaves them out. You just want him home.

      "I was so worried about you, Baby," he pants, "I know I hurt you. I'm so sorry," he places kiss after kiss after kiss on your face, rubbing your thighs as he slides between them. "I love you. I adore you. I want you. I'm yours. You're mine." Every statement is accompanied by a kiss.

      "I'm so sorry, Min," you look deep into his eyes as he rubs his member on your wetness, "you're my one and only. I don't care what you've done to get here. As long as I have you in my arms. As long as I'm in yours."

     He hugs you tightly, forehead against yours as he slips inside of you. "I will never leave you," he moans out, settling deep inside of you as you pant and whine.

    You've taken him quite a few times at this point, but never like this.

    He always takes his time sinking into you, reveling in the slow stretch.

    But not tonight. Not after what you've been through. He needs to feel you, and now.

     He needs to feel your emotional connection on a physical plane. And so do you. That's why you don't stop him or push him away as he lowers into you quickly.

     You ground yourself by wrapping your arms under his and gripping his shoulders, careful of his healing wound.

     His chest against yours, heart beats drumming together as you try to disappear into each others being.

    Affectionate touches are left all over the both of your bodies. Tender kisses and promises of love.

    "You're all I ever wanted," you whisper into his chest as he starts a languid pace. "I want to be yours, tell me I'm yours."

"You're mine, Doll, all mine." He speaks ever so softly, cradling your head to his chest. He can't believe how lucky he's gotten.

"Make me believe you, show me I'm yours."

And he does.

     God knows how or why Song Mingi has so much stamina, but no amount of time passed stops him from pounding into you, he stops when he thinks you've had enough.

     He's made you cum seven times through the night, and with the sun beginning to rise out the window, he's still at it.

     Its been hours, and his pace hasn't slowed one bit. If anything, your pants and whines stir him on and he almost hammers into you. The quick in and out rhythm makes him moan. Your heat encasing him as the cold winter air seeps in through the walls that makes him want to bury himself in your body and never leave.

    He knows he's big. He's so big and you're small compared to him. But he doesn't care when he's balls deep in your sore and swollen pussy. He makes you take it to the base and chuckles deeply when you try and crawl away.

    "Min- can't take it," you sob, but that doesn't stop him.

    He grips your hips roughly and pulls your clit flush to his pelvis, holding you there as you squeal out, banging your fists onto your shared bed.

     "Fuck you can't, your pussy was made for me to stretch out." His next thrust sends your hips into the mattress, finally able to rest your exhausted body as he plunges into you from behind.

      Each rough thrust wipes away every thought from your mind until it's all Mingi.

   Mingi is so deep.

   Mingi is so thick.

   Mingi fucks you so good.

   Mingi treats you so good.

   Mingi loves you.

   Mingi.

   Mingi.

      "Mingi!" You moan out loudly into the pillows as you seize up, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you cum all over him. Vision dark and blurry, drooling all over the place, barely conscious after your eighth orgasm around his massive girth.

     He's panting and growling into your ear, continuing to thrust. He's relentless. He's really out to break you.

      "Please," you slur, wracking your slush of a brain for a way to get him to cum. You love him, and you love fucking him. But he just won't stop until he cums. And he won't cum until you essentially force him. He's so hell bent on making you get there, he forgets about himself, like he's outside of his own body. And he's extra determined after almost losing you. Your usual tricks haven't worked. So you pull out the big guns. "Please, Min... put a baby in me." Oh, you know him all too well. He's made multiple comments about how good you are with children. How pretty you'd look with that pregnancy glow, your belly round with his baby.

    "F-fuck, Doll," it seems as if that is enough to satisfy his hunger, slamming his tip into your womb and filling you with his warm and sticky seed so much that it splashes back on him and makes a mess of his lower stomach.

Still buried deep inside of you, uncaring of the mess, he lays ontop of your back gently and wraps his arms around your shoulders, his head next to yours. You shaking breaths and trembling legs calmed by his warmth over your entire body.

     "Holy fucking shit," you whimper, making him chuckle quietly.

     He places a gently kiss to your shoulder, "I didn't go to hard, did I?"

    "You did... but I liked it."

    He smiles as he rests his head, hands rubbing up your arms and to your hands, intertwining yours fingers. "I love you." He states. Loud and proud. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to share everything with you and I don't want to keep anything from you. I want you all to myself. Will you marry me?"

    The words almost get lost in translation on their way to your endorphin flooded mind, and your silence makes him nervous. That is until- he sees the giant smile spreading on your lips. "Yes."

"Oh, thank goodness," he sighs a breath of relief followed by a soft laugh.

    "But you'd better get me a ring," you joke, groaning out as he slowly pulls out of your abused core. There's a smirk on his lips that you can't quite place as he gently turns you on your back and helps you get comfortable.

     He reaches under the bed and grabs his bag. "You didn't-"

    "I did," he has his signature shit-eating-grin on his face as he takes it out. A dainty, pretty, thing. Much like he sees you.

      He cuddles into your side, fur blanket draped over your lower halves. Calloused and rough hands take yours. Gently and loving with you. Their past of violence is lost as he slides the ring onto your finger tenderly.

     "Mrs. Song."

༄

[dancingbirdie]

This feels more like a character study of Astarion than anything else, but it's part of the series I'm working on called "The Planets Bend Between Us."

Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here, Part 4 here.

Everything on Ao3 here.

My Astarion Spotify playlist here.

I hope you enjoy! Comments always appreciated and hoarded like shiny magpie trinkets.

Only You. Only Me.

Rating: Mature (for descriptions of sex/fantasizing)

Pairing: Astarion x f!Tav

Word Count: 2.4K

Warnings/Tags: Astarion's trauma responses, mental health, coping mechanisms, self-degradation, discussion of sex/physical intimacy, angst, fluff.

Summary: Halsin propositions Tav, prompting another important conversation between her and Astarion. Astarion works through more of his feelings about Tav, physical intimacy, and recovering from the torture he previously endured.

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Astarion had always enjoyed reading. It was one of the very few discreet pleasures in which he could partake when skulking about Baldur’s Gate at night. He would read by the light of the lamp posts dotting the main thoroughfares, slouching against them and perusing texts at his leisure. He could even justify the habit to Cazador and his siblings, as on numerous occasions, it captured the attention of unsuspecting passersby who considered his behavior intriguing enough to strike up a conversation. It was a more passive means of gathering victims, true. It felt akin to fishing for prey as opposed to stalking them. But, still, it got the job done, especially on nights when his skin and bones still ached from his master’s beatings. 

Suffice to say, when he pilfered an armful of books from the druid’s grove several weeks ago, he was excited to finally indulge in the familiar activity once more. He had just selected a worn edition of Traveller’s Guide to the Sword Coast Vol. IV: The Risen Road and begun reading the author’s note when Tav barged into their shared tent with an audible huff. 

“Honestly, I was only making conversation…” she grumbled under her breath as she began aggressively rummaging through her pack to retrieve her night clothes. 

Astarion peered at her over the top of the tome, quirking a brow. 

“Is there something you want to talk about, my dear?” he casually intoned. 

Tav scoffed before turning to look at him over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe the conversation I’ve just had with Halsin,” she grimaced. 

Ah, so it finally happened, he thought to himself. He was grinning wickedly as he closed the book and laid it next to his bedding. 

“What’s that smile for?” Tav accused. 

A true, hearty guffaw burst from his mouth at that. Tav would have found it delightfully endearing if she weren’t so flustered. 

“I was wondering when you were going to ask me about this,” he replied, still chuckling. 

“What? How could you tell? Did he say something to you already?”

“I guessed! The man can’t stay quiet about ‘enjoying the freedom of Nature’s gifts’,” Astarion said, adopting a low, throaty tone to mimic the First Druid’s voice before cackling again. “Why, I bet he’d outlaw clothing if he could.”

Tav clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “It’s ridiculous. I was trying to make conversation with him a few days ago, because he seemed lonely and out of place. I mean, at least we all sort of know one another now. Tadpole business and all that. I thought he could do with a friend. So I merely asked if he had someone special waiting for him back home. And, apparently, that’s a coded question for ‘I’m interested in you?’ Honestly,” she scoffed. 

Astarion continued to watch her with obvious amusement. 

Tav turned back around and began undressing. He swallowed thickly as he watched her shrug out of her armor and begin untying the laces of her chest binding. The fabric fell to the ground with a muffled thump. He caught a mouth-watering view of the side of her breast as she bent over to fetch her nightshirt. 

His nightshirt, to be more precise. She’d taken to wearing his clothes (with permission, of course) soon after they had begun sleeping together. Said article of clothing was long enough to serve as a nightgown on her.

His eyes followed the curve of her waist and hips as she slid her breeches over the peaks and dips of her legs. His chest began to feel a little tighter, his breathing a touch ragged. He knew he should turn away. Be a gentleman. Give her some privacy, even if she wasn’t asking for it. 

Tav had grown increasingly casual about her nakedness inside the confines of their tent. She wasn’t doing it as a means to tempt him, he realized. Experienced as he was given his former… raison d'être… he would have picked up on the first whiff of it had her intent been to cajole him into sleeping with her again. 

No, her behavior stemmed entirely from a place of trust. She let her guards down - physically and emotionally - with only him. It was a pure thing. Borne out of a sense of security that Astarion hadn’t thought anyone would ever feel with him. The thought alone was enough to send a surge of blood toward his groin. The tent suddenly felt a lot warmer than it had before she’d entered. 

They hadn’t slept together since the night of tiefling’s celebration. It wasn’t because he didn’t desire her. He did, much more than his conscious self possibly cared to admit. He was especially reminded of that truth during moments like these, when she undressed in front of him as though she had done it a thousand times before. Like she’d do it a thousand times again. The way she shared her body with him, even non-sexually, was enough to kindle fire in his blood.

But he still felt tainted, no matter how many times he scraped and scrubbed his skin clean. The sense of it was still there, like an invisible grime marking him as unclean. Unworthy. And the act itself was still tainted in his mind. It wasn’t an easy place to return from – that cognitive hellscape where sex was a weapon, a vulnerability to exploit, a means to another’s end. 

He would frequently picture himself filling her to the hilt, wrapping her legs around his waist, thrusting into her with all the passion he could muster. And at first, it would bring him nothing but unbridled feelings of pleasure. Of yearning. But then the vision would be overshadowed by other thoughts, memories of previous trysts. Reminding him of who he was. What he was. What he’d done to others. What had been done to him. And by the time he was able to beat back those intrusive thoughts, the urge to ravish her would be lost. And he would be left loathing himself for even thinking of touching her, or having her touch him, in that way. 

You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve her. That’s not meant for you. The thoughts would taunt him like crows circling a dying animal.  

He knew she wanted to be with him again. Of course, she never asked for it, the polite and empathetic sweetling that she was to him. They had discussed the subject thoroughly, and she had resolutely accepted his boundaries. He knew she’d never overstep them unless he permitted it. But he could feel her wanting in the desperate way she kissed him. In the way she touched him, so reverently, when they curled up in their bedding to rest. It caused his heart to flutter and fracture simultaneously. Because no matter how desperately he wanted to give her what her unspoken actions craved, he couldn’t figure out how to bypass those horrible memories and thoughts that plagued him. 

Things had gotten better, he had to admit. His aversion to touch and intimacy was slowly but surely fading. There were many nights he and Tav lay together in each other’s arms, lips moving together in perfect, glorious synchrony. They explored each other’s bodies – fingertips ghosting along skin, leaving heated trails of gooseflesh in their wake. 

“Tell me to stop,” she would whisper against his neck, her hands roving the planes of his body, as she peppered kisses along his jawline and the column of his neck. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

“Keep going,” he would murmur in return, touching her just as desperately. “Please. Keep going.”

It would continue like that for some time, until it became too much. Until her touch stopped feeling like an analgesic to his mind and more like an agonist. He would tense, and she would feel it. He would quietly whisper “stop,” and she would halt immediately. He would clutch her in his arms, and they would lie still as he recovered. 

He wished he could give her more. Give her everything. She said she never minded. That she wanted them to take this slowly. And he believed her. But still. He knew he was a different sort of lover than she likely imagined her first to be. 

Which was why he had resolved to accept the possibility that she might want physical pleasure with someone else. Someone like Halsin, who could give her that attention immediately. Without the additional baggage and self-loathing that he came with. 

Under Cazador’s enslavement, the question of whether he preferred monogamy versus polyamory was just a cruel joke with an even crueler punchline. And before that, well, he couldn’t remember how he’d preferred his relationships. It was disorienting, to be so unsure of himself. Not knowing whether his decisions and preferences now were a reversal of his former personality or an exact alignment. Maybe some craved that sort of clean slate, but to Astarion it was terrifying. And enraging. 

But matters of self-identity aside, he had pondered long and hard about how he would respond were Tav to express interest in someone else. He had seen the way the gazes of some in their party lingered on her, knew they were curious about his little hellcat. Knew it was only a matter of time before someone became brave enough to proposition her. And he’d resolved to tell her, should she ask, that he would be all right with it. If she wanted to be intimate with another. He wouldn’t mind. 

Because it wasn’t her body he wanted, he had realized. While, yes of course, she was exquisite and beautiful and incomparable. She had a feral sort of beauty that drove his senses stark-raving mad sometimes. But what he really wanted – what he craved from her – lay so much deeper within. He wanted her heart. Her trust. Her pride. Her love. Even if he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. He wanted to know it, wanted to learn. 

“It’s all right, you know,” he murmured finally. 

Tav turned to face him, tying her hair up in a tight bun for sleep. His nightshirt inched up her long, taut legs as she stretched. 

“What’s all right?” she frowned. 

“If you do wish to be intimate with him. I wouldn’t mind. I’m happy for you to have as much… Halsin as you wish.”

Tav just stared at him, her expression unreadable. 

“I just have one question, though,” he continued, pressing on while he still had the courage and vulnerability to ask. “It wouldn’t be because… you know… we haven’t… in a while?” 

The answer mattered so much to him. It was all he could think about for some time now. It made the defensive, self-preserving part of his mind absolutely seethe with rage, but try as he might, he couldn’t shake its importance.

Objectively speaking, he knew it was reasonable if she did respond with yes, it’s because we haven’t in a while, and I really do want to have sex. She was free to feel how she wished. He wouldn’t dare try to force her to stay with only him. He wouldn’t take her agency away from her like that. 

But still, he couldn’t deny that it would gut a part of him, if that would be her reason for taking the First Druid up on his offer. Astarion knew his penchant for misery and self-loathing would seize that answer like a prized jewel. Taunt him with the reality that he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t worth the effort, wasn’t deserving of anyone’s sole focus. 

“Astarion. Look at me,” Tav intoned, interrupting his frantic spiral. 

He hadn’t realized he’d dropped eye contact, his unfocused gaze instead directed somewhere to the side of her head. 

She knelt down before him, her knees pressing into his thigh. Gently, she took his hands in hers. 

“I don’t want to sleep with Halsin. I don’t want to sleep with anyone else,” she said resolutely. He could hear the conviction in her tone.

He stared at her, stunned into silence. In all his pondering and fretting over this, he hadn’t prepared for that answer. Once again, her response left him feeling flat-footed. 

“Listen,” she pressed forward, scooting closer into his side. “I’m fairly new at this, at all of this really. There’s a lot I don’t know about relationships and… physical intimacy… But I do know myself. And I know that sex doesn’t mean nearly as much to me as our emotional connection does. 

“Really?” Astarion whispered, his eyes darting rapidly across her face, desperate to suss out the truth.

Tav nodded seriously, squeezing his hands in hers. “While, yes, I want you in that way… it’s you I want, Astarion. Not the act itself. Just you.”

He wanted to break down in sobs at her words, at just how much they meant to him. That she just wanted him. Astarion. No gimmicks, no quid pro quo, no expectations. She had said it to him before in a different manner of phrasing, but he wasn’t sure if he would ever tire of hearing it. 

She couldn’t possibly understand how her simple truth, her sincere love for him, was upending his entire concept of life and relationships, like a meteor obliterating the ground beneath it. And out of that obliteration, something new and wonderful and terrifying was arising within him. 

Marvelous as it may be, it was still too much to process. The self-preserving part of him reared up in desperation, anxious to shield him from the unknown. He slipped into his costume of confidence and ease once more, although a distant part of him noted how this façade was beginning to chafe. 

“I know,” he chuckled with an offhanded shrug. He could sense the false bravado in his voice and wondered if Tav could discern it as well. 

“I was being foolish,” he continued. “But thank you for saying it.” 

Tav gave him a warm smile and squeezed his hands one last time before releasing them. 

“Of course, my star” she replied lovingly. “Let’s get some rest then, yes?”

“Yes, my darling. Let’s,” he returned.

He gathered her up in his arms as they burrowed down into their bedding. Tav sprawled on top of him, her head on his chest, a leg hitched between his, an arm banded across his waist. 

Within a matter of moments, she was fast asleep. Careful not to shift too much and wake her, Astarion picked up the previously discarded tome and resumed his reading. 

Astarion had always enjoyed reading. Although, he had to admit, the surroundings and company had dramatically improved since the last time he cracked open a book.

[heavenlymorals]

How a Modern Perspective Skews Historical Characters: A Mini Rant on the Hatred of Female Characters in RDR2

This isn't that organized cuz it's more a rant than a retrospective but fuck it it's my blog, I do what I want-

There are so many people who have actual hatred, not criticisms, for Abigail, Molly, Grimshaw, Mary, and other female characters in the Red Dead universe.

And honestly? I find it very interesting. Sure, men will probably always find a reason to hate a female character, but what I find interesting is how many women also hate these wonderfully crafted characters.

It could be so many reasons as to why this may be the case but honestly? I think it's because people forget that they CANNOT analyze this game authentically through the modern lens of morals and behaviors. This game takes place in 1899 America. Let me say it again. This game takes place in 1899 America.

One more time, just for good measure- this game takes place in FUCKING 1899 America. Women had to be dependent on men because otherwise? They'll either be in poverty, exploited, killed, or all three. There was also the honor system. When had to be the moral high ground for their family so them messing up has consequences on their fathers, mothers, siblings, cousins, and anyone connected to their family name.

Abigail getting pissy at John for getting in trouble all the time? If course it'd feel annoying if you're looking at it through the modern perspective but when you don't, it's a woman telling her man to act like a man and be careful because if he doesn't, she and her son will be destitute and destroyed.

Mary not getting with Arthur but using him? What's the likely hood that the law would bother to help Mary when the two people she needs help with are her father and brother- two grown men who can make their own choices that she literally can do nothing about because as a woman, it wasn't her place to dictate what they do. Arthur was her only option. "Girl, what her family thinks doesn't matter, she still should've gotten with him" girl no, because it's much harder and difficult than that- it's like tearing away an entire identity that you depend on to fucking survive.

"but what about Sadie? She was also living during this time period and she isn't drowned by societal expectations-"

Seriously. Do some research, read a book, expand your knowledge of gender roles and what that entails for people because it explains so many things about these characters in such a human way. They aren't "bitches", they are women of their time and people have to understand that.

No. Sadie isn't a part of this discussion because though she is a fun character and an amazing character, she is a mishmash of historical women who did masculine things to survive at one point but then went back to traditional roles, even if they did occasionally go back to to those old activities for sport sometimes, like Anne Oakley or Calamity Jane. Sadie's entire character is basically "but what if they didn't and committed to the nontraditional lifestyle". There are many inconsistencies that Rockstar did regarding the time period that they established earlier to accommodate Sadie's character better. Sadie is a great character but she doesn't belong in this discussion.

Edit: Ok, since this was a rant, as mentioned previously, I was a bit too rushed with the Sadie aspect of this post and ignored some crucial details. I'm not gonna change the post besides just this though. @hillbillyhipster84 made some great points that Sadie was a reference to Appalachian women and real outlaw women who did run and were accomplices in men's crimes, that I was too ignorant to mention prior beforehand because I didn't do much research. I still don't believe that People should use Sadie to bash the other women though, because those women mentioned above were not the status quo and thus were more trivialized because of it.

So many cultures still operate like this too so if anything, you're just learning something new about another culture.

But I swear, anytime someone talks shit about these characters, y'all got me looking like this-

[jakes3resin]

Can you tell us about your other fics if you already have an established plot?

I'd love to! So there's quite a number of them I won't lie. I tend to get inspired by the randomest things. These are all in various stages of plotted out and written.

A/B/O fic (technically turning into 3 fics) that follows Bucky & Buck through the war, described below.

Courting Arc (top of my list to finish writing) - Bucky POV as he is anonymously courted during his time in the states just before he gets sent over to England (there's a post I'm basing my writing around I'll link it in a moment) <- published

England Arc- a quick look into their lives as they run missions with A/B/O elements (this will be pretty short I think) mostly snippets of scenes from the show just now with Omega Bucky and Alpha Buck <- published

Stalag Arc - Omega Bucky and his awful time in Germany. Here is where we see what being an Omega in war is really like in my omegaverse. Bucky is the highest ranked Omega in the camp meaning he's technically 'in charge' of keeping those Omegas in line. He's tested by his heats, keeping his pack together, and finally by a German order that could tear Buck and Bucky apart. This is a big fic for me to prepare for, and I'm building up to it by writing the Courting Arc first <- next on deck

Biker Gale AU (my beloved, genuinely obsessed with this AU) - this was inspired by one of hogans-heroes AUs. So, Gale leads an outlaw-esque biker club, and Bucky used to be his right hand (and lover) except one day out of the blue he just disappeared. Gale does everything he can to find Bucky, but there's no trail to follow, no clues to put together, nothing. Fast forward about two years, Bucky arrives on Curt's doorstep holding a small baby with the brightest blue eyes and prettiest blonde curls and begs Curt to watch his baby for 5 days. 5 days later Bucky comes back in town bruised to all hell with the FBI on his tail with their own nefarious reasons for tracking Bucky down. Bucky has nowhere else to turn especially since when he comes back to Curt's he finds Gale holding his little baby. (This could be A/B/O I haven't decided, but it's definitely at least mpreg)

Amnesia fic - this is based off of a post I made about the effects of Bucky getting hit over the head like 3 times in the span of two days, its... somewhere (edit: here). But its about Bucky waking up with no memory of who he is just before he gets interrogated by the Germans and sent to Stalag Luft III where he meets a man that his heart rejoices at seeing but his mind doesn't recognize. Buck of course has to deal with the love of his life forgetting him.

Magic AU - Bucky is a Scamander and its now everyone's problem to deal with it. The tag to find all of my ramblings for it is magic au (not that Tumblr's tag system works), and @getinthefuckingjaeger just wrote the best ever fic of Bucky and Theseus so go read that.

I've also got a few paragraphs written of Foster Kid Bucky somewhere but that might never see the light of day (that's also from a hogans-heroes AU) where Bucky is a jaded teenager just trying to make it to 18 to get out of his shitty foster placement when in comes Buck whose mother finally divorced his dad, got custody of her kids, and moved to her hometown to escape. It's about a Bright Buck meeting a Jaded Bucky (a flip on their usual dynamics)

Blonde Bucky AU - I wrote a blurb on the Twin Cleven AU post, and the idea of Bucky bleaching his hair on a drunken night out with Curt and Bubbles has haunted me since <- published as well

There might be more? But these are the only ones I can remember off the top of my head right now that are plotted out beyond oh that'd be a good fic. I have a lot of time spent sitting and waiting right now, so I have the ability to write a multitude of fics. I'm happy to talk about any of these fics if you want to come into my inbox or my messages.

[zarkishere]

y/n x Javier talk because I'm insane (also normal Javier talk but I talked a lot about his dating life and trust issues blegh) I think if you dated Javier it'd take him AGES for him to trust you, and I'd take even longer for him to let his scars show

in part, it's because of his ex lover in Mexico, but he's also an outlaw on the run c'mon shits dangerous can't let your guard down you see, I think he sees them as a failure. he let someone get close enough they'd be able to...yknow...almost slice his throat open, break his nose, cut so close to his eyes...

and while some may take that as a 'fuck you I lived I'm better' he takes it as 'I'm fucking stupid and a moron and how could I fuck up so bad' specially given he's so particular about his looks, mans HATESSS THEMMMM he can't control how those look, they're just there, and he hates feeling out of control

so if you dated Javi, you'd have to be VERY CAREFUL about those, specially at the beginning

you catch a glance at the one on his throat? Pretend you're fucking blind and saw nothing eyes accidentally landed on the one on his nose? look away

you were kissing him and accidentally moved his scarf down? pull it back up and DON'T glance down, it'll make him feel bad and weak and stupid and JUST DON'T

slowly but surely he'll open up, maybe give you a hint of what happened (he's never telling the full story tho), if they hurt maybe he'll let you know he needs some time, he'll let the scarf be looser when it's only you two

much later on in the relationship, he'll ask you to massage the scar tissue when it hurts (ex:when it's cold), scarf is off more often (again, only when it's you two), glancing at them isn't such a deal but don't stare years into it if he can't do it himself (ex:he got shot and can't use his arm well) he'll ask you to shave him (BE CAREFUL THOUGH, OBVIOUSLY HAVING A BLADE NEAR HIS THROAT IS A HUGE FEAR), no scarfs around the house, etc working with him through the self-hatred is obviously encouraged, he may seem like a scary guy, but boy has a billion issues and needs his reassurance that things are okay, and you're not going to run away and leave him (he has massive guilt over leaving his family and is so afraid someone will do that to him) (+if it's post vdrlnd gang it got worse lol)

also just talking about just flings/prostitutes, I think if the person he's with accidentally pulls his scarf down (yes it stays on during sex) he'll actually panic like he'll try to play it off and just pull it back up and act normal, but bro is PANICKING and thinking the worst edit - i'm adding 1 more sorry i think if you tell him they're not ugly and like a mark of strength or whatever, he'll give you a side eye and say somth like " don't act like it's a good thing " and he just doesn't like taking compliments when it comes to them </3 (with time he'll accept them, but will never LIKE them)

that's all just giving a few thoughts ough I'm insane about Javier if you couldn't tell <3

[firstsprinces]

Thank you @anincompletelist for the tag this week! I can't wait for more of the dom!Henry/Alex you've got us begging for! I've been purposely saving the rest of bridesmaids so I can read it all in one go, and partially because I'm not ready to say goodbye to them yet!

We’re so close to this WIP finally being posted! This may be the last preview you'll get from this chapter. Below the cut, you'll also get a bonus share of this fic's title.

The radio announcer’s voice comes back in, breaking up in between his words as the signal Henry’s found seems to weaken, “if you are planning any kind of travel for this weekend, the Deputy Sheriff advises everyone to be cautious as the ‘Boxcar Bandit’ moves his way closer to our city. Policemen have begun to post these signs in businesses as well as passing around a sketch of what this twisted man may look like from an eyewitness who described him after spotting a suspicious-looking person rummaging through his pigs' feeding troughs late at night.” At the mention of the wanted poster, Henry twists around to reach into the pocket of his coat where he’d placed the paper the policeman had given him at the train station. He quickly unfolds it in excitement because he’ll finally have an idea about what the notorious outlaw may look like. When he opens the paper’s final fold, his eyes are met with the large bold letters spelling out ‘WANTED’ with a picture of a man wearing a black cowboy hat and a kerchief that covers everything but his eyes. Dark brows are furrowed on top of filled-in eyes, making him look deranged. Henry studies the way the man’s expression has been drawn because how could a witness describe the angry look in his eyes if he never approached him, especially if his face is covered and it had been dark outside? Henry wonders if this sketch will also be printed in the Western Observer, or if it already has been included in today’s edition. Surely, they must have because this is the biggest news story to hit the city since the railroad workers’ strike during the last war. Nobody’s going to bother with reading Henry’s column about the church’s fundraiser and bake sale when they can read the exhilarating update about the outlaw from the Southwest. He doesn’t blame anyone for wanting to skip his piece because it doesn’t compare to the increased fear about this criminal that could be heading their way. Henry doesn’t want to be a columnist anyway, but at the time it had been the only job available for the paper once he’d been granted entry into American territory. One day he hopes that he’ll be able to impress his boss enough so he can become a featured journalist and write and report on more newsworthy material that giving his short personal thoughts on things happening in the city or the surrounding farmlands. He doesn’t necessarily wish to be a reporter on politics and international affairs – partly because he has come to America from a different country and he will not tarnish his homeland just to please other people. He wants to travel and write about all the places he’s been, or maybe become an investigative journalist – just something with a sense of adventure.

Here’s the bonus share of the inspiration board with the fic’s title! I’m aiming for this week, or Monday at the latest to start!! If you'd like to be tagged when I publish his to AO3, let me know!

I know you've been tagged alreadt @priincebutt but you're also someone who always tags me and I also always appreciate when you do! This tag is always open and I will be checking in with everyone's posts shortly!

[kyomunosaki]

I started Hypnospace Outlaw

...and I've noticed a few small things that are super interesting, mostly with the idea of tutorialization.

I didn't plan to do a writeup on this, so I don't have any of my own gameplay's screenshots. I remember most of the gist, so I can probably write a few sentences on this topic that really stuck with me. I would've gone back for more screens but I'm feeling very lazy and I might repost this with editing/photos in the future lol

So Hypnospace Outlaw is basically a pre-2K "internet janitor simulator" except that you don't do it for free. You're like a free contractor/PMC janitor, where you get comissions to hunt down certain infringement of internet/Hypnospace law.

The first case is to find instances where the copyright for a 1968 of a cartoon character named Gumshoe Gooper is being infringed upon. I found this case to be a phenomenal tutorial for both the game mechanics and the philosophical(?) questions the game wants to ask.

Gumshoe Gooper (Hypnospace Outlaw)

At first upon getting this case, I was still grappling with the game mechanics, exploring the Windows 98-ass interface with the skill of an old man in a nursing home. At the time I entirely forgot about the search function, so I just explored by going through various web portals and webrings, a la Geocities.

I found a lot of interesting sites that I don't really have the time (nor screenshots) to talk about and do justice with, but there's a lot of awesome things to find in Hypnospace if you're willing to just take time and look around. I do want to possibly talk about that later if there's interest.

After just stumbling around the internet and remembering how hard it is to find stuff through web portals, I remembered the search function existed thanks to one of the sites I ended up on having tags that open up the search window. So I searched for "gooper"

You find 3 sites from that search, two from AbbyWrites58 and another from another woman who's name I can't recall right now. The first site is a typical late 90s personal site you might find, for a first-grade teacher. It contains mentions of memorials to dead lost ones, a Hypnospace Heaven or something, and is part of a "Spirituality" web ring, but otherwise not much to note. The first link however, is a link to "Drawings of Gumshoe Gooper by my first graders"

Webrings on Abby's World (Hypnospace Outlaw)

On the link, its filled with pencil/crayon sketches of Gumshoe Gooper by a bunch of children, but also 2 gifs that seem like legitimate copyright infringement. I still felt apprehensive about reporting this page to the Hypnospace Enforcers, because it felt like a teacher just wanting to share the work of her students and I was hoping to find other violations to fit my quota. Regardless, even if I were to fill out my quota there were only 2 very clear examples of copyright infringement on the page.

So, I went back and checked out the other site by AbbyWrites58, and this one was... a political support website for a local politician? Who was seemingly a politician that had different views than, I, the player did? And she was using a GIF of Gumshoe Gooper saying that he supported her? I didn't have much hesitation just hitting her with the copyright violation on this page.

The third page was just another site but with an official Gumshoe Gooper strip posted on it. As you can tell the rest of this essay is lazily thrown together and just a retelling of events, but I do not remember the exact details of the page. I just remember still feeling apprehensive about reporting stuff on the page with children's art, so I think I reported that strip.

I still hadn't reached my quota of 3 violations reported, so I begrudgingly made my way back to the initial site I had landed on in my search. I decided to report one of the GIFs, and didn't feel too bad about it since while she did teach first graders I did find her political views somewhat, off-putting. I was going to make my way back to the case page to finalize it, but I got a notification on the not!Clippy software, telling me that if I find more violations I could get a bonus on closing the case?

A child's drawing of Gumshoe Gooper (Hypnospace Outlaw)

So, I decide to report the other GIF on the page as well, and look at that: more money. And then I have a dark urge to test something out. What about this first grader's art? What if I file it for copyright infringement, what would happen? Would the kid get in trouble? Will the teacher get the blame? Did the teacher even deserve any blame? Well, I hit the report. It works. So I go through the page, filing every crude drawing of Gumshoe Gooper by children as a violation of copyright law.

I get a lot of money, and I don't feel too bad after learning more about AbbyWrites58. Besides, the other members of her webring were openly fascists! That sort of association makes you liable to uh, getting in serious trouble over copyright infringement of a 1968 cartoon character right? It's just my job! I needed to hit the quota! And what if I flag her account to the authorities, her account with her location and other personal information tied to it?! What is the worst that could happen, and maybe I would feel a bit more bad about it if her political views weren't so, wrong?

This sort of self-justification I found myself doing just felt fascinating. It was some of the most engaged I felt with a game's narrative in so long, and it's only been made more fascinating by later cases like even the one just following this with ZANE_ROCKS_14. If you liked this post, maybe I'll actually try to edit this one down properly and actually take screenshots too. Regardless, if you got this far thanks for reading!

Edit: I can see how this makes me look like kind of a dumbass but I guess what's more accurate is "what her political views were being signalled as" is more accurate for some of the stuff I say above lol, but I'm too lazy to edit the post more than this

[four-white-trees]

SUNDAY SIX - Original work edition!

I'm goin rogue! Partly bc my March challenge crashed and burned lmao but this week! i am opening the vault and sharing some of my original stuff.

the general premise of this is a romantic fantasy story about necromancers. Lily is a young woman just beginning to understand her power, and Benjamin is an outlaw wanted for cheating death (among other things). i wrote this in 2019 when "romantasy" was still a niche - a growing one, but nothing close to the giant it is now.

Tagging my besties @mike----wazowski @skysquid22 @overdevelopedglasses @passthroughtime @jichanxo

Enjoy blorbos from my brain ❤️❤️

Lily shook her head. “I’m not a necromancer. Where would I have ever learned that? No one I know has those techniques.” 

“Necromancy ain’t learned, darlin’,” Benjamin’s deep voice spoke from the back of the chapel. Lily looked back at him as he leaned against the threshold of the chapel. “We come outta the womb like this.”

“’We’?” Lily asked. 

“You think a normal mage can come back like I did?” Benjamin said with a harsh chuckle. “Mel said it, didn’t she? We tend to flock together. Got three of us right here in this little church. Bet the big man upstairs ain’t happy about that.” 

Melissa fixed a glare on Benjamin, then looked back to Lily with concern. “You okay, darlin’? You need to sit down?” 

Lily shook her head. “No, I—I need to step outside.” Melissa released Lily as she walked down the aisle to the door. She kept her gaze down as she passed by Benjamin. Her head was too full of information that would take too long for her to sort out here. She needed time to herself to think it all through.  

Benjamin watched Lily disappear around the side of the church, then saw her through the church window as she walked into the graveyard. She paced the headstones several times, glancing about her nervously as if she expected some ghost or ghoul to pop out of the ground. 

He looked back to Melissa, who had resumed sweeping. “Now just what are you planning to do with her?” 

“Are you concerned with her well-being, Benjamin?” she asked with a sly smile.

“Can’t help but wonder at the motivations of people who’re apparently collecting necromancers.” 

“We are only here to collect you, Benjamin,” Melissa said. “As for Lily, I only intend to provide support and friendship. The discovery of my own power was. . .” She paused for a moment. “Difficult. Were I alone at that time, I’m not sure I’d have made it through with all my wits intact.” 

“You’re tellin’ me you got all your wits?” Benjamin said with a shake of his head. 

“All the ones I started with,” Melissa responded with a grin. “And you? Did all your wits come back with you from the afterlife?”

Benjamin did not answer her and looked out into the graveyard again. Lily was gone. He pulled himself away from the threshold he leant against and returned to his labor outside.

[theresattrpgforthat]

hey! love the blog, could you recommend any tactical combat games in the vein of lancer/icon? I'm hopelessly addicted to moving little dudes around on a grid rn

THEME: Tactical Combat Games 

Thank you! Here are some games that centre tactics and combat. Enjoy crunching those numbers and moving around those dudes on a grid!

Trespasser, by tundalus.

It's clear even from your place of rustic isolation. Hideous beasts run roughshod through the countryside, roving bands of marauders reduce settlements to smoking rubble, wide-eyed prophets babble madly at the sky, and common folk like yourself live in a constant state of terror. Well, you've had just about enough of it. No more tilling the fields in obscurity. Of course, that's all assuming you survive your first day. 

Trespasser is a tabletop roleplaying game about peasants-turned-adventurers carving out safe refuge amid the long collapse of their dying world. Designed for player-driven sandbox campaigns of survival and dungeon crawling, Trespasser borrows themes of early tabletop and pairs them with a tactical combat system inspired by 4th Edition Dungeons & Dragons. 

You’ll get good use out of a number of dice with this game, although most checks will require a d20. Rather than a power fantasy however, this game prioritizes survival: your characters are but mere peasants, trying to make their way in a large, dark fantasy world. It is expected that your character die, and another character will have to replace them. If you admire the principles of old school gaming but also enjoy picking character options and pushing miniatures around a grid, Trespasser might be for you.

Rotted Capes, by Paradigm Concepts, Inc.

The Golden Age of Superheroes has ended, not with a BANG, but with a BITE! The Dead overran the world and humanity's protectors are missing, dead or worst of all, Z'ed!Once dismissed as the B-List Superhero, you are now mankind's last hope for survival in this horrific world where the Super Zombies sit atop the food chain, looking hungrily down upon you. 

At its core, Rotted Capes is a roleplaying game of post-apocalyptic survival in a world overrun by zombies with a particular twist; this event has taken place in a typical superhero comic book world and the players take on the roles of superheroes struggling to protect what’s left of humanity.

If you want to crunch numbers, Rotted Capes is the game for you. You have Attributes, Skills and Powers that all add up to give you modifiers on every roll, with special abilities and moves you buy with XP at the beginning of the game. With both regular zombies and zombified super-heroes, you’ll be up against varying levels of difficulty that require teamwork, strategy, and an urge to give in to the flaws that your character carries with them in order to survive. The book itself is a bit difficult to navigate, but once you get used to the system, you’ll have freed up some brain space to figure out where (and when) is the best moment to strike.

Zafir: Tactical Roleplaying Game, by Zafir Games.

Zafir: Tactical Roleplaying Game is a fast-paced, tactical, cover-shooter, tabletop RPG that brings something new to the genre. The setting is inspired by ancient middle-eastern themes and Zoroastrian mythology, with a unique magitech twist, bringing the world into a magical analogue of the industrial revolution. Guns, magic, airships, and energy crystals all coexist in the world of Zafir. 

Set just two decades after a massive world war, the nations of Zafir are at an uneasy peace. Banditry and sky-piracy are rampant, and the need for muscle and guns is at an all time high. Will your crew help fight back the tide of outlaws, or become outlaws themselves?

Zafir requires 4 different-coloured six-sided dice for play, each dice representing stats and trackers, as well as a battle map and tokens in order to keep track of what your characters are doing. Characters are broken down into your standard categories of Class, Origin, Attributes, Equipment, Abilities and Proficiencies. Your character also has a Responsibility, which gives your character non-combat skills, and languages, which hint to the complex lore of the setting for this game. The bulk of your tactical play will take place inside Missions, although there will likely also be as many social role-play opportunities as you like in between each mission. With a large world to explore and a wealth of character options, feel free to min and max to your delight!

Gone Rogue, by QuickWit.

The world is in chains, having willfully relinquished control to the automata known as the Legardien. You are members of the Rogue, the last bastion of resistance against our metallic overlords, on your way to their shining capital of Sion. You are desperately outnumbered, outmatched and outgunned, perceived as the enemy by the sheep licking at the Legardien heel. You will enter Sion to overthrow the despotic Legardien from their seat of power and restore the reigns of humanity back to our own hands. No matter the cost. To yourself, or to mankind. The time of peaceful obedience is over, the age of the Legardien at its end. We are the Rogue.

In development since late 2019, Gone Rogue is a tabletop roleplaying game in which players take on the roles of fearless revolutionaries in a futuristic pacifist dystopia. Skilled, audacious and armed with advanced weaponry, you must enter a city unaccepting of your ideals. Your mission, to reclaim mankind’s freedom in an uncompromising battle against an army of autocratic war machines.

Gone Rogue uses a series of archetypes to determine your character’s role in the party, each with starting stats and abilities. Your character will also choose a Suit that will give you traits, upgrades and inventory items. This is a game that cares about inventory, movement, hit points, cover and more, so expect to pull out your grid maps and start crunching some numbers! However, don’t forget that there’s lore and worldbuilding involved as well - at the beginning you will need to answer some questions as a group, about what the resistance looks like, what the characters’ stake is in this fight, and what kinds of NPC’s the party has access to. This game has only a starter kit right now, but as starter kits go, it has more than enough to get you playing!

FIST, by claymorerpgs.

Now: the second half of the twentieth century. The powers that be are locked in a tense nuclear standoff, and the fate of the world hangs in the balance. Away from the watchful eye of national intelligence, a cadre of exceptional misfits is assembled. These soldiers of fortune are uniquely equipped for covert and unusual operations. In these uncertain times, the line between science and superstition has been broken, and the new arms race is only beginning. You, or your associates, may be faced with weapons, tactics, and actors unlike any you have ever seen. For a price, those exceptional misfits can help. 

When you’re all out of options, it’s time to call FIST.

FIST is a tabletop roleplaying game for one referee and two to six players. It draws heavily from Chris P. Wolf and Olivia Gulin's Offworlders and John Harper's World of Dungeons, as well as being inspired by Metal Gear Solid, The A-Team, and Doom Patrol. 

Characters take on traits that act as building blocks; each trait gives you a special skill, an item for your inventory, and a stat modification. Character advancement adds on more traits, making for highly customizable characters. FIST also has community-made supplements for additional traits, foes, and missions to give you the experience that works best for your table.  When it comes to dice mechanics, the roll instructions are fairly simple. The game is designed for theatre of the mind: the tactics come into play when it comes to how you solve your problems. Thematically, you’re looking at supernatural warfare: think about modern mercenaries going up against strange horrors beyond our mortal ken.

Beacon, by Pirate Gonzalez Games.

BEACON is a high-fantasy TTRPG inspired by LANCER, D&D 4e, and Final Fantasy.  BEACON is a tactical, highly-customizable game where you are encouraged to mix features from various classes, like the teleporting Shadow Dancer or un-killable Gravewalker.

Design the details of your setting together (your Reflection), create your character (your Beacon), and get ready to do battle against the cyclical, everchanging threat of the Scourge. Will you and your fellow beacons be able to defeat the Scourge this time, or will you find a way to break the cycle forever?

If you like LANCER and ICON, you will probably like this game. Like both of the aforementioned games, Beacon uses two different systems for narrative vs combat-style play, and also uses d20s and d6s for your character’s roles. The bulk of Beacon revolves around quests, which are the adventures your characters will embark on, each with information and preparation requirements, a number of stages, specific rewards, and downtime between each quest. Highly structured gameplay allows for a wealth of resources for GMs - and with over 400 pages of character options, combat information, NPCs and setting information, Beacon at its playtest stage is a game to be reckoned with. If you’re looking for a tactical RPG with a fantasy element, I highly recommend you check this one out.

The LUMEN System, by Spencer Campbell.

LUMEN is a rules-lite system for making and playing RPGs focused on telling the stories of powerful characters. LUMEN was first developed for the games LIGHT and NOVA, and has been converted to this genre agnostic SRD so that you can use it to make your own games with the same system. 

At its core, LUMEN is designed to tell power fantasy stories. The characters played have access to incredible powers, and use those powers relentlessly in pursuit of their objectives. It’s inspiration comes from video game genres such as looter shooters (Destiny), hero shooters (Overwatch), and dungeon crawlers (Diablo). 

LUMEN uses d6 dice pools, 3 attributes, and a series of classes that give players something unique that sets them apart. While the system relies on players determining how they will go about solving their problems, much of their problems will involve combat. Games can include status affects, health tracks, spells and similar special abilities, and more. LUMEN focuses on fast and lethal combat, so you won’t be moving around on the map, but players will use the tools they have at hand to gain the upper hand in stressful situations, invoke consequences and complications, and look cool while doing it. 

Some games that use the LUMEN system include Hedge (Wardens fighting off a Faerie Apocalypse), Blazing Hymn (Mech pilots protecting humanity from monstrous Angels), and Lords of Eternity (Superhuman beings of immense power, duelling with swords).

[atonalginger]

WIP Wed on a Thursday

because @eridanidreams is right, time is a flat circle.

I forgot to post on Wednesday because I was very caught up in both writing and painting and just..well...forgot! so today it is! I also forgot to upload the next chapter of Through Plasma and Flames but I think that's okay since I had been uploading 3x a week and I can just upload later today or tomorrow or just start back up on Sat....it's ready just needs the final edit pass

any way I'm rambling!

first the art that has been holding my attention for very long hours

well some of it anyway. if you're on the Coemancer discord you've seen the version with the flat colored elf on top as well. this background took my 6 hours on top of the 5 I spend finishing the outline and building the palette and the 5 before that getting all the rough sketches in order. And I still have to finish the character not seen. Been a while since I've spend this much time on a piece. and I mentioned I was busy writing so I think I should share a peek of that as well. Yesterday I got back on my Dellarov bullshit with a scene for the next story in the Libertatia series. I'll put that below the cut for the sake of not drowning everyone's dashes.

I think eri got justabout everyone so my tag is open to anyone who sees and would like to share something they've got. It's not Wednesday, no, but it's still fun.

“So first order of business is what I think is the most promising shot we’ve located,” Becker held up a slate and shook it at the outlaws, “Tropics, you’ll have coral bugs, brainsprouts, and silver fins as neighbors and we came across a lot of those ugly space roaches Sophie seems to love so much. It’s nearish the coast. Not a simply stroll to the beach but close enough that a coastal spaceport wouldn’t be unreasonable. We found an abandoned UC listening post tucked into the hills. And like properly abandoned, didn’t even find spacers squatting in there.”

“It’s in near pristine condition,” Jay touched her friend’s hand to stop them from continuing to shake the slate, “and still has sealed supply crates from its construction. Likely built near the beginning of the Colony War and promptly abandoned when fronts shifted. We gave coordinates to your people and from what I understand Shinya has a small crew out there now to hold it until you’ve looked it over.”

“So is the desire for coastal real estate a tactical one or purely aesthetic?” Sam asked as he ran his finger though his hair, “because Cora, Manny, and Me found a spot down to the south that would be perfect but it’s smack dab in the center of the continent.”

“Both?” Del shrugged, “easier to build a spaceport on a coast where the trees are thin than needing to clear and level stretches of land. But I won’t deny the view is a definite bonus.” A playful smile flashed across his face, “And we are pirates after all.”

“You are,” Sam shook his head but made no attempt to hide his smile, “and pirates like to smuggle goods. On the beach you’re exposed, anyone nosy enough could start scanning your port from orbit with jammers only able to do so much. But if you had a large cave system you could more easily mask the hot product you’re moving.”

“Caves are very nice,” Rokov said as he looked up to Sam, “but caves on this planet are never simple.”

“They aren’t but it even that could play in your favor,” Sam tapped his temple and pointed at Rokov, “Cora and Manny located an abandoned pharmaceutical research lab in a big forest that is built more or less on top of the cave system. Nearby is an observation deck that needs minimal repairs to get back up and operational. The cave itself is home to some fungus that the lab was trying to study when the company went bankrupt. Majority of the spores are off in secluded wings and far back and with proper respirators your crew would be safe to even use those spaces to store goods. Research we found in the computers showed the spores are a mildly toxic but only really a danger if someone stands directly over the damn thing and huffs the spore clouds over a long period of time. There’s already cleaning stations build into the warehouse situated over the mouth of the cave.”

“A smuggler’s dream,” Becker looked over at the cowboy with their jaw on the table, “those research terminals didn’t mention if they found a use for the fungus did it?”

“No medicinal uses. Mild stimulant but everything they tried ended up making test subjects sick because the fungus is mildly toxic.” Sam shook his head as he chuckled low, “but the spores also seem to keep all but the peskiest of pests, like heatleeches and xenophages, from burrowing. With some reinforcements the cave could become the Liberated vault.”

“Worth checking out and potentially securing both,” Bella looked to Del and Rokov, “With a listening post and an observation deck we’d have a finger on the pulse of every movement on this planet and and both locations would mean less that needs built in the long run.”

“Lower up front costs,” Becker pointed at Bella with their slate. Bella nodded approvingly, “precisely.”

“Bogs going to have a field day experimenting with that fungus,” Rokov whispered to Del.

His husband sighed through his nose and pinched the bridge of his nose, “and Samina will be screeching the whole time.”

[tippenfunkaport]

WIPs Status Update

I am fairly confident no one cares what I am up to, but I haven't done one of these in ages so I figured I should.

In Progress Fanfic

Outlaws of the Whispering Woods

This fic is on temporary hiatus because I'm working on finishing it as part of the @wipbigbang. Participation in that event means I can't update that fic again until the posting period starts on September 8th BUT that once that posting period begins, I should have both art for the new chapter as well as regular updates through November until the fic is done which should be exciting. 

That said, there is still like 60k ish to go in that story so if it looks like I'm not going to be able to get it all done in time, I might swap it out for the Chipped Glimmer fic which has also been languishing in WIP hell because it's shorter and easier for me to get done on time. I'd prefer to use the event as a kick in the pants to finish OotWW, though, so we'll see.

Prince Glowyn the Fourth

This fic is 100% complete at last, I just have one chapter left to post and will be doing that sometime within the next week.

Going There

Just about four years after I started it, Going There is finally done as well! (Literally just finished it today!) "Done" in this case means I finally rewrote the back end and filled in the missing connecty bits I never wrote the first time so everything's written, it's just going to take me an unknown quantity of time to edit and post each of the chapters. But less time than rewriting it all took so I expect those last few updates to come fairly regularly once I get them started.

Coming Home

I have always said that I wanted to wait to continue this fic until Going There was done so now that I have finally finished it, the sequel can get my attention more regularly again. That said, with everything going on with the WIP Bang, posting the rest of Going There, running the Big Bang and posting my own Bang fic (plus, like, all the other IRL stuff i have to do this summer), I really don't anticipate getting it updated anytime before the fall at the earliest and even then who knows.

Also, because this is my last in-progress canon fic I'm not in a huge rush to get it out there, I'd rather take my time with it, so I'm fine with that timeline. It'll get updated when it gets updated.

Area First Ones

In my head, this is episodic and while i have five chapters written, I have some things I want to add in between so it's not as simple as just cleaning and posting those. So basically, this one will be one of those fics I update when I update here and there with no set timeline other than my whims.

Coming Soon!

My Big Bang fic is called Horse Girl Everyone and it's the long awaited Riding School AU! 

That one is going to be longgggg and basically never-ending and episodic (seriously, we're over 50k words and while Catradora have been circling each other for chapters Glimmer and Bow literally only just met and you KNOW how I feel about Glimbow). I was hoping to write enough in advance that I could do some kind of regular update schedule at the start but because I'm also running the Bang and having some annoying medical stuff going on, I think that's not happening.

I've written a ton in advance, don't get me wrong, I just don't see myself having time to revise it all and post weekly with everything else going on. But we'll see!

Anything else?

Well, yeah, lots of stuff but it's not fandom related so I can't tell you about it. ;-) Though maaaaybe I might have the chance for some of you to help me beta some of my original stuff in the near future if you're willing so keep an eye out for that.

I'm trying to have less things in progress at once so, though I have other fanfic projects in various states of completion, I'm purposely not going to even think about posting any other multi-chaps until GT and OotWW are done. 

One shots and shorts? Yeah, I'll be throwing those up randomly as the mood strikes, you know how I roll. I'm eyeing up the Domaystic 2024 prompts to see which ones call to me right now.

So I have other stuff planned for later but I'm not even going to tease it because we'll see how everything shakes out.

This year has actually been absolutely horrible health wise but weirdly productive writing wise so it's been a mixed bag but at least nice to get some stuff done!

[purplekiwis]

Summary: The story of a hopelessly romantic saloon girl, her long lost lover and very stubborn horse.

Genre: Wild West AU | Different Time Period | Forbidden Love

Prompt: “you’re really cute when you start rambling like that”

Warnings: Smut, Cursing and General Cowboy rowdy behaviour 🤠  

Wordcount: 28K (total) 11K ( this part)

A/N: I'm reposting this because I just noticed the original post is all fucked up and tumblr won't let me edit 😒

P.S: This story goes a bit back and forth at the beggining, so mind the dates and locations as you read, otherwise it might get a bit confusing.

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦

Gravefort, Texas. 3rd of August, 1890

Thursday nights at the Mystery Galore Saloon were always busy.

It was Gravefort’s cowboys favorite place to rest their feet at the end of a long day of working on the ranch or down the mines.

It’s facade’s warped clapboards matched the ones from the rest of the street’s woody, meager buildings... that only differenciated themselves by the color of the lettering painted on their fronts. And still, Mystery Galore still managed to be the worst looking building. It didn't help that it was situated right next to Gravefort’s bank, whose facade besides monumental, was also kept in immaculate shape.

Any visitor who dared walking through the Saloon’s swinging doors, would most likely be met with groups of men of all kinds - from the most prestigious lawmen to the most wanted outlaws.

The saloon was the place where they’d all come together. Conversing over glasses of whiskey, downing shots of Tequila by the counter or playing Poker or Monte while they bitched about their bosses and nogotiated over cattle work.

Unfortunately, most often than not these congregations ended up resulting in beating scenes and sometimes, even shootings... much to Bathilda’s desmay.

Bathilda was the owner of the saloon.

She was a large woman in her fifties, but she carried her weight well - mostly on her large breasts and strong hips, that she made sure to accentuate with a bustle, a tight leather corset and one of her characteristic long frilled skirts, that she liked to sway to the sound of piano played by Bill, the rounded looking player with permanent red stained cheeks, ebony hair and an enviable walrus moustache.

However, on this particular Thursday there was another sound echoing inside the thin walls of the Saloon...

Coming all the way from the dressing room.

“What in the tarnation is going on in here?” Sally, the new girl, asked as she walked through the door in a hurry, pushing it shut behind her. “The costumers are complaining about the noise.”

Sally wasn’t really new anymore. She’d gotten the job two years ago, but to the rest of the dance hall girls, she was still a baby. Her looks didn’t help that fact. – With full, rosy cheeks, a cute little button nose and frizzy blonde strands curling around her ears in an almost perfect arc.

“Oh no, what happened?” The blonde questioned once she was met with a scene that startled her out of her disgruntled state.

There was one of her confreres, Valerie, sitting on her vanity bowling her eyes out. Her characteristic rouge blush was running down her cheeks, along with the black mascara that she was still trying to apply in front of the mirror in between sobs.

“She’s got engaged...” Bathilda, who was standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips informed with a heavy sigh.

In Gravefort and it’s surroundings, Bathilda had a reputation for being tough as nails, as the cowboys usually said. Even the bravest of them knew better than to mess with her or one of her girls... but deep down, under the dark clothing and heavy make-up, rested a big heart of gold. Bathilda’s workers knew so, especially Valerie...

Ever since her mother had passed away from tuberculosis, Bathilda had been taking care of her almost as if she were her own daughter. Valerie still had her dad, old sheriff Monty, although their relationship had seen better days…

“Oh! That’s amazing news Valerie... you must be delighted!” Sally hooted with genuine excitement. What surprisingly only caused Valerie’s sobs to intensify as she let her head fall over her hands. “Aw…” The newbie cooed, patting Valerie's back. “I can’t wait until the day comes when someone makes me cry happy tears like that.”

Bathilda scoffed, with a shake of her head.

“You really are new here…” Said Agnes in a taunting tone from the floor, where she was kneeling next to Valerie’s stool trying to comfort her.

“What? You don’t think I’ll find a husband someday?” Sally asked with a scoff, causing Bathilda and Agnes to snort at her. “Is it a crime for a woman to believe in love in times like these?”

“It’s not that, mush-head...” Agnes replied sharply, and with another sigh, Bathilda opened the cubbord she kept her stack of spirits at.

“Will one of you just tell the newby? She’s bound to figure it out sooner or later...” Bathilda's question was directed at Agnes and Judith, making both girls exchange a knowing look between them before their attention focused on Valerie again, who was still crying as Bathilda moved around the room. She'd collected two shot glasses that she placed harshly on top of Valerie's vanity, right next to where her head still rested over her forearms.

“W-what is that?” The girl questioned in a whimper, lifting her face at the sound of glass smashing against the wooden surface.

“Tequila.” Bathilda grunted as she filled up the glasses to the brim. She pushed one in Valerie’s direction. She shook her head ‘no’, but the stern look she got from the motherly figure had her picking up the drink and taking it to her frowny lips. “Stop that crying right now.” Bathilda menaced, pointing a large finger at the girl’s face. “I won't tolerate you wasting the house's embellishments crying over that bastard anymore. If I see one more single tear, the next face powder and rouge is being cut off your salary.”

Valerie nodded, hastily wiping her face despite knowing Bathilda didn’t really mean it. “What bastard?” Sally inquired, prompting all the women in the room to share looks between them again, still unsure of what to do. “Can someone please just tell me what's going on already?” She demanded in a pleading tone.

Agnes looked at Valerie, who was still struggling to speak due to the lump in her throat. “Valerie's not crying because she’s happy... in fact, I think she couldn’t be sadder.”

“Oh.” Sally voiced with surprise. “So what happened? Don’t tell me he cheated on you with one of those calico queens working at Myrtle’s…”

The mention brought a snarl to Bathilda's lips. Myrtle’s Sapphires. The house of ill fame situated just a couple estabelishments down the street... and naturally Mystery Galore’s biggest competitor. The conflict between the places was more than just rivalry over alcohol sales and costumer frequency, however. It went as deep as blood, since it’s owner Myrtle, was Bathilda’s gruesome half-sister.

It was no secret that ever since childhood, the two had done nothing but bump heads and go at each other’s throats. Bathilda was no saint, but Myrtle was mean enough to eat off the same plate with a snake.

“It’s not that he cheated...” Judith disclosed hesitantly. “It’s just that Valerie, well... she’s not in love with the chap.”

“Blimey…” Sally mumbled lowly. “Is he ill-favored?”

Judith shruged in reply to the question. “He’s alright. You’ve probably seen him before... he comes to see Valerie sometimes.” Sally looked a little lost, for she didn’t remember ever seeing Valerie paying extra attention to any of the men that came to the hall. “...His name is Otis Montgomery,” Judith continued. “He’s a rancher. His dad owns a big cattle farm in Vernon.”

“A cattle farm?! Sounds like a good deal to me!” Sally mused, before her gaze fell on her unconsolable work partner again. “Well… Don’t worry, Valerie…” She said, pulling a stool and sitting by the vanity. “Maybe it will go like it did with my great-aunt Sylvia. She absolutely dispised my uncle, and fairly so - the guy was a nightmare. He was a heavy drinker and one time even tried to hit her... poor guy... ended up with a cracked head and two broken fingers... but anyway,” The blonde halted, realizing that she was getting carried away with her rambling. “They ended up warming up to each other after all. If you asked her now, she’d say he was the biggest love of her life.” Sally sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that maybe you’ll end up warming up to that Otis guy after all, who knows… he might be the one true love of your life!”

To Sally’s surprise, her motivational words only ended up bringing a fresh wave of tears to Valerie’s swollen eyes. Prompting Bathilda to squeeze the bridge of her nose, whist Judith rushed to join Agnes, who had resumed to caress Valerie’s back soothingly.

“That’s the problem, can’t you see?” Judith's agitated voice asked, “Valerie has already met the love of her life.”

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Skeleton Trails, Missisipi. 16th of April, 1892

“C'mooon...!” Harry hissed, pulling at the reigns tightened around his horse’s head.

Unsuccessfully, once again... since it kept refusing to move. Instead it kept pulling backwords and dragging Harry across the floor by the heels of his boots. “You heavy- stubborn- bronco!” The boy hissed between gritted teeth, pulling at the reigns as hard as he physically could.

His force prompted the mustang to give two steps forwards, leading Harry to believe that he had finally managed to get it to do what he wanted. “Yeah, that’s it… c'mon, that’s a good boy, Kiwi.” He praised, but suddently the horse stopped in his tracks.

It snorted. Projecting multiple strings of blabber directly onto Harry’s already dirty and sweaty face.

He sighed heavily, closing his eyes and pursing his lips in defeat. “You know, I really thought we were already past that attitude, my friend.” He complained, loosening his grip on the caveson, in order to wipe his face on the sleeve of his shirt.

He rested his hands over the leather belt that secured his mud stained, corduroy flares in place and decided to take a breather as he tried to work out the best way of getting the horse to do as he pleased... preferably without getting kicked in the nuts in the process.

“Why do you always have to be so rowdy?” He asked the hoofed creature, that had resumed to feed on the tall, dried-up grass underneath their feet. “Guess it's just your nature, ain't that so?” He mumbled as he affectionately patted the horse’s back where its heavy saddle was usually placed, before his attention was brought to his rear, at the sound of whistling at distance. He turned around, being immediately met with the sight of one of his accomplices, Niall, waving his hands in the air and calling his name.

“Hurry up, heh?!” The youngster urged. “Don’t wanna miss our train, do we?”

“I’ll be down in a minute.” Harry shouted back at the boy before turning to face his horse again. “Don’t think I’ll forget about it...” He said, pointing his finger directly at the stallion’s muzzle, that was now standing right in front of his face again, since Kiwi had lifted his head at the distant voice as well. “We’re still trimming and changing those horseshoes today.” Harry warned. “We’ve got a long journey ahead of us tomorrow,” In cue with his words, the horse pinned his ears back and tightened his muzzle, a sign that he was getting irritated. Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest and clicked his tongue at the attitude. “You know, I’ve heard they’re paying good for horse steak lately...” As if he could understand his owner’s empty threat, Kiwi snorted again, coating his face with a fresh layer of slobber. “Fucking hell...” The cowboy cursed, untying the red bandana from around his neck and wiping his face with it. “You my friend, are as crooked as a Virginia’s fence...”

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Gravefort, Texas. 22nd of June 1886

“He can’t keep his eyes away from you.” Judith commented, leaning against the counter Valerie was behind of, wiping cups dry.

“Nonsense.” She babbled, taking a stealthly peek towards the stranger sitting in one of the gambling tables before she turned around and began stacking the cups in one of the cupboards behind her. He was staring at her, just like he had been the last three times she checked.

He was good looking… tall, with sun kissed skin and messy pecan locks that poured from under his bone colored cowboy hat and curled around his ears. His eyes were light and bright, and Valerie couldn’t deny the way her insides twisted everytime their gazes met for brief seconds. One of those times, he even dared to flash her a smile, which she rebated by looking away and swabbing a cloth over the counter, just so that he couldn’t spot the flush taking over her cheeks at the interaction.

“It’s the forth night in a row that he comes by…” Agnes joined in on the conversation as she walked over from the other end of the counter with a tray in hand. She passed behind Valerie and placed the empty cups she had been collecting from the tables inside a water bowl before she began to wash them lazily. As she did, she stared directly at the gambling table, not even bothering to hide her gawking. “I wonder what his business here is…” In queue with her sentence, the other two girls also turned their heads to take a better look at the guy, who was luckily distracted by the deck in his hand.

“I bet he’s a gunslinger…” Judith guessed. “I haven’t seen him around before, and those are the ones that always come and go…”

“I don’t know...” Agnes hummed apprehensively. “He’s got more of a railroad worker fit. Slim with a broad back, strong arms… I’ve heard they’ve started building the new railroads for the coal mine last week, and Bill was saying they’ve hired some outsiders as well… ain’t that right Bill?” She questioned, tilting her head towards the pianist, but he didn’t descry her question - too delirious over the music and the large quantity of alcohol he'd already ingested.

“I’d say he’s an entertainer.” Judith ventued further. “Notice how he’s managed to capture the attention of the whole table…” She said as she leaned over the counter. “Plus, his trousers are too clean for someone who’s been laying tracks all day.”

“Why don’t you just go over there and ask him?” Valerie suggested with feign indifference, picking up the discarded cloth and vigorously wiping the gin splatters a group of regulars had left over the counter on their way out. “I’m sure he would enjoy the company... and I would thoroughly enjoy not having both of you knocking around my ears.”

“Thought we’d pass you the chance, you fool.” Agnes spat back, forging an offended expression. “He’s clearly trying to make a mash on you.”

“You know I don’t get with passengers…” Valerie acknowledged. “They’re nothing but trouble.”

“Nor with locals…” Agnes added on. “Swear that if your skirt was any less short I’d take you for a nun in disguise...”

Valerie decided to ignore her teasing, tightening her grip around the cloth and submerging it inside a bowl of water and vinegar before she began scrubbing the already clean counter in petulant silence. “There’s enough dirt around my name as it is, I don’t need a heavy conscience on top of it.” She fretted, finally throwing the cloth back inside the bowl. “Call me old fashioned but I would like my first to be the man I end up marrying.”

“Valerie…” Agnes breathed out with a chuckle, placing her hand over her coworker’s forearm. “That would be an awful mistake.”

“I'll have to agree with Agnes on that one. It’s good for a woman to get some experience before she gets married...” Judith started, taking a seat on one of the tall stools and resting her chin over her hand. “Some say that's the secret to a happy marriage and I believe them. Whether you like it or not, when it comes to men, it’s always easier to keep ‘em in line when you know how to please ‘em in bed.”

“That sure is…” A curly wolf sitting alone at the counter intervened. His hair was grey and moderately long, just like the hook moustache that curled over his upper lip. His eyes were cloaked by consequence of the wide brim of his hat.  

He lifted his glass in the air in a single-handed toast and downed the golden liquid inside it in a swift motion before dropping the cup with a loud clink. “I suppose none of you birds would like to join an old rag like me for a dance, would you?” He inquired, flashing his big yellow grin at the girls.

“Maybe so…” Judith disclosed with a charming smile. “Might need a refreshment to get me going though, I’m getting quite hot under all these flares…” She waved her fan in front of her exposed chest and battened her eyes at him. Contrary to Valerie, Judith was a natural in the art of flirting with the cowboys - alluring them into blowing their wages in games and overpriced alcohol.

“What do you fancy, petal?” The man asked, adjusting himself in his seat. “Perhaps some Rye Whisky?”

“I reckon that’ll do just fine.” The blue-eyed beauty agreed, nodding her head to Valerie who was already pouring both of them a drink. She grabbed it from the counter with her right hand and extended her left to the man, who wasted no time in taking it and leading her across the room to demand his promised dance.

“Unbelievable…” Valerie shook her head, watching a series of younger cowboys pushing eachother around as they desperatly tried to steal Judith away from the old man. “Can’t these fools pick on the fact that dances must be patronized?”

“They’ll figure it out eventually…” Agnes concluded. “All I know is that as long as none of them pulls out a gun, I’m going to keep looking the other way…” Both of the girls sighed in silent agreement. “Do you think he would like to dance?” She asked, nodding her head towards the handsome stranger.

Valerie shrugged lightly. “I don’t know… doesn’t look like the kind to loosen his strings for female attention...”

“Maybe he’s just shy…” Agnes ventured, shifting in the counter so that she was directly facing Valerie again. “I bet you could get him to pay for way more than just a drink, though…”

“Don’t be vulgar!” Valerie scolded. “I’m no prostitute.”

“If he was making those eyes at me I would’ve given it to him for free…” Agnes carried on, much to Valerie’s dismay.

“I’ve told you already, I don’t do that sort of thing.” Valerie insisted, and Agnes gave her a long, scrutinizing look.

“Judith’s right, you know?” She leaned over the counter, what made her dress ride up her leg a few more inches. Something that caught the attention of the quarrelsome group of boys, who were still partially wrestling for Judith's attention. “Look…” Agnes called in a hushed tone. “If you’re scared of getting knocked up, there are other things you can do without putting it up there… and even if you do, as long as he doesn’t finish ins-”

“Watch that foul mouth!” Valerie snapped, grabbing the smelly cloth she'd been wiping with and throwing it at the girl bent over the counter. She hadn’t meant for it to actually hit her, let alone smack the front of her dress… but it did, and Valerie couldn’t stop the cackle that escaped her at Agnes’s scandalized expression.

“How dare you?” She wailed. “This bodice was gifted to me by Mother Myrtle back when I worked for her!” She hissed, so that Bathilda didn’t hear her.

“Good, now it smells just like her as well.” Valerie bickered, causing Agnes to fly of the handle and jump further over the counter, trying to smack Valerie and consequentely flashing the whole room with her underwear.

“Get off of me, you snake!” Valerie retaliated, grabbing another cloth and repeatedly smacking Agnes with it.

The girls were so immersed in their discussion that they didn’t even notice that they were being loud and disturbing the costumers... at least not until Bathilda came rushedly walking from the back room and surprised them both with a splash of cold water over their heads.

“What’s all this fuss about?” The boss reprimanded, as both girls let out a squeal and cut apart immediately.

“Valerie has an admirer!” Agnes tattled bitterly, nodding her head towards the table with a mischievious smile. “But apparently she prefers to be hauling off on me rather than doing her job...”

“What are you waiting for, young lady?” Bathilda questioned as Valerie began stammering excuses at her. “I don’t care, convince him.” The woman interrupted, once she finally had enough of Valerie’s same old tell tale. “You’re a saloon girl, not a barmaid.” She said, placing her large palms on Valerie’s shoulders and pushing her from behind the counter. “Speaking of, where’s that godforsaken bartender I hired?” The woman inquired, moving her head from side to side as she looked for the redheaded, spot faced, half-grown boy.

“Probably in the back…” Agnes disclosed. “Poor thing... he told me he has been having caughing issues...” She sighed with fake sympathy. “Must be from all of the tobacco he has been chewing lately…” At Agnes’s announcement, Bathilda practically ran through the back door, yelling for Armand and leaving the girls alone again.

“You’re a rancorous weasel.” Valerie accused with a raise of her eyebrows, realizing that Agnes was just trying to put a flea in Bathilda’s ear that Armand was the one who had been stealing her tobacco. “No wonder they kicked you out of Myrtle’s… only a truly desperate cowboy could enjoy your company.” Said Valerie, making half a turn in order to dry her hands and put her gloves back on before stepping out from behind the counter.

She moved pompously around the room, flaunting her hips the way she’d learn to over the past two years she’d worked at Mystery Galore. “Howdy gentlemen.” Valerie approached the inebriated looking men sitting at gambling table with a smile. Strategically placing her body so that she didn’t have to face the nobby cowboy she had been trading looks with all throughout the evening. “How are the odds today?” She asked, leaning against one of the empty chairs.

Their cackling stopped at the surprise intervention, all of the men darting their eyes and heads up to look at the beautiful girl standing before them, with her hands behind her back and a slightly flustered appearance. One of them burst into laughter at Valerie’s question. At his odd behaviour, some of the others let out a couple of nervous cackles, clearly unsure of what they should be laughing about.

“Come on sweetheart, you know women can’t play.” The man proclaimed.  He was a greasy looking big guy, with dirty and smelly clothes, thin and fragile hair strands cascading down his back and eyes so wide and souless that, if Valerie wasn’t looking directly into them, she would’ve believed belonged to a dead man. “Would be surprised if she could tell a king from a jack, heh?” He spoke to the man beside him, elbowing him on the arm and still choking on his own laughter.

Valerie stuck her nose up at the offensive comment. “I can assure you I can… and if you must know, I also consider myself quite a decent gambler...”

The man whistled mockingly at her stance. “Do me a favor, sweetheart…” He started, taking a hand to the pocket of his vest and pulling out a couple of coins that he let fall over the tabletop for Valerie to collect. “Why don’t you leave the gambling for the men and go get me a glass of Red Eye instead?”

Valerie exhaled through her nose in frustration, but decided to collect the coins from the table anyway… figuring that it wouldn’t be wise not to keep her mouth shut to avoid causing a scene and upsetting Bathilda any further. “How much for a tit squeeze?” The man asked, with his eyes locked onto Valerie’s heart-shaped cleavage as she bent down to wipe the coins off the table.

“You’re detestable.” Valerie yelped, covering her chest and spinning around to head back to the counter. Except when she did, she heard a throathy mumble of a slur directed at her, immediately followed by the sound of a gun clicking behind her. She froze, withholding from making a single move or noise. Her mouth gasped, figuring that there was a gun barrel pointed at her back. Out of all the men in the room, if there was one who would have the audacity to shoot a woman from the back, it would’ve been a mad-looking, mannerless man like this.

“Apologize to the lady.” A gravely voice demanded in a calm tone, prompting Valerie to turn hesitantly. Harry was leaning back in his chair, right arm firmly stretched over the round table. On his hand, stood a beautifully engraved Colt Revolver, pointed directly at the offender’s heart.

“Easy boy…” The man said with nervous snigger. “Don’t be foolish,” He advised. “A piece of Eve’s meat ain’t worth a noose around your neck. Put that gun down.”

Harry’s patience was growing thinner by the second, and judging by the way his index was placed over the trigger, he’d done this before. “One more disrespectful word towards the girl and I’ll fire a bullet right through that pea you call a brain.” He warned, smile fading into a hard line. “Apologize… and leave.”

The man’s lips drew back into a snarl, but the persistence of the aim towards his chest had him pushing himself off his chair. He patted the revolver on his belt as he did so. “Sorry, miss.” He apologized with a wry smile. Valerie didn’t comment on it, only stared at the man as he stepped outside. Once he did, he loudly pulled spit into his mouth and spewed on the floor with his gaze set on her. Then his eyes searched for Harry’s again. “I’ll see you around… cowboy.” He said, straightening his back and puffing out his chest before starting to pace towards the corral.

The silence settled for a couple of moments as Harry tucked his revolver back into his belt and those present collected their thoughts on what they’d just witnessed, but it didn’t take long for the spirited and vivacious atmosphere to settle back in. After all, it wasn’t like it was uncommon for gunfights and altercations to start behind the doors of the saloon, with drunk and reckless men pulling out their guns for all and for nothing.

It was the first time, however, that someone had pulled out their gun in Valerie’s defence, and although the knife she kept in her stocking had always served her just fine, she couldn’t help the contented feeling that erupted in her chest at the handsome fella’s chivalry.

She glanced towards him, only to find him already staring at her with an exquisite gleam in his eyes. “Thank you, sir.” She expressed her gratitude sheepishly. “That was very kind of you.”

The cowboy extended his hand in greeting. “Anytime, miss.” Falteringly, Valerie placed her satin covered fingers over his hard work blemished palm, and leaning down, he placed a gente kiss right over her knuckles. The shudder that flared up her spine at the impact made her feel dizzier than the tightness of her corset did, while simultaneously making her feel sorry for deciding to put her gloves on before heading over. “If that bloke ever adresses you like that in front of me I’ll make sure he won’t live to tell the story.”

“I appreciate your worriment, sir... but I believe that won’t be necessary. I've always managed to take care of myself, it's not a crude man who's going to scare me.” With a smile and a grateful curtsy, Valerie anticipated her departure.

Harry couldn’t deviate his eyes away from the girl as she left. Eager eyes unsure of whether to focus on the long dangling over her narrow waistline or on the bright colored plumage of her outrageously short garment, that did little to conceal her stockings.

“Hey miss!” The cowboy called, making Valerie tilt her head over her shoulder to look at him. There was an effortless smile on both of their lips as their eyes met one more time. “Has anyone ever told ya you have the prettiest eyes in the whole West?” Valerie let out a nervous giggle, fixing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes focused on the frills of Harry’s brown leather jacket, that swang around as he sat back down. “Know what they remind me of?”

His question had her bashfully shaking her head ‘no’, trying to conceal her reddish brown eyes from him while simultaneously covering up the heat spreading over her face and neck at the compliment. “Cherries,” He answered his own question, and slowly, Valerie picked up her head and stared into the boy’s equally beautiful green ones. “They’re my favorite.”

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Gravefort, Texas. 4th of July 1886

As the yearly warmest days arrived to Gravefort, so did the the annual holiday festivities and exhibitions.

This year, Gravefort’s dwellers were in particular great luck and awe, since they would be able to witness Bill Irving’s outstanding skills in the flesh. Irving was one of the greatest bronco riders of the whole West, known for his familiarity with the legendary Buffalo Bill and Miss Annie Oakley herself.

Therefore, contrary to what happened during the traditional modest festivities, the whole town and residents of it’s surroundings had came out to see the show. Resulting into the whole site being jam-packed with families, cowboys, lawmen and even land workers. It wasn’t usual for the bosses to give free afternoons to their employees on the national holidays, but quite frankly, not even the sternest big bugs could overlook this year’s truly special guest. It was an unmissable event for any western… Including Harry.

“Got anything to cool down a man’s gut?” The young cowboy heaved exasperately, rolling up his sleeves and waving his already half unbottoned shirt.

“Here you go.” The bartender announced, placing a cooled down beer bottle in the small counter as Harry took his hand to the pocket of his trousers, picking out a couple of pennies and handing them down directly to his hand.

Without further hesitation, the cowboy took the bottle to his lips, chugging almost half of it in one go. It god rid of his dry throat, but the temptation to down the other half was proving to be hard to resist, so he decided to focus his attention on the ring for the time being, where a team of boys were currently trying to rope a snoozy calf.

He was just hoping the distraction would make the drink in his hand last a little longer... but that’s when he saw the beautiful girl he’d met at the Saloon standing there, with her arm tangled with a tall, handsome belvidere. The sight caused Harry’s stomach to sink a little further down his body. And Christ, he didn’t know if there was any use in beseeching, but once he noticed the man’s other arm kept the hold of another woman, he couldn’t help but to wish from the recesses of his heart for the beauty in the high-waisted skirt and tucked in blouse to be the unfettered one.

As if she could sense his staring, she peeked over her shoulder, looking away immediately as their gazes met. However, it didn’t take long until Harry spotted her skittishly glancing back at him over again. In a sudden outbreak of bravery, Harry nodded and sparked a rabbity smile at her. She greeted him back the same way. That couldn’t not be a good sign, right? He was pondering on coming over and properly introduce himself to her, when he got interrupted by a unexpected guest.

“Howdy.” Avriel, one of his work mates saluted, taking the available spot next to Harry on the counter. The boys shared a beer and engaged into small conversation for a bit, mostly talking about the venue and having a laugh at the lack of skill of the kids attempting to ride an old goat in the second ring. “Aren’t you from Horse’s Road?” Avriel asked, suddently remembering a previous conversation they’d had.

“Born and raised.” Harry confirmed, taking the last gulp of his beer.

“So you can ride a bull, right?”

Harry pursed his lips, tilting his head from side to side. “Sort of…”

“You should sign up for the contest then,” Avriel good-naturedly suggested. “I would if I could, but my crooked spine won’t let me.” Harry srunched up his nose and shook his head at the suggestion. He was already uncomfortable enough with the heat as it was, didn’t need to add physical activity and dirt to the mix. “They’re paying good money this year. 250$ for the first prize, 75$ for second and third.”

Harry let out a little dumbstruck whistle at the large ammount. “Is the entry free?”

“Completely free.” The bartender butted in on the conversation. “Hey! You two! There’s a gentleman over here that wants to sign up for the contest!” He screamed back at the some cowboys reclining against the barricades, making Harry’s eyes widen.

“I actually hadn’t decided yet...” His face was terror-stricken, once the two men came rushing over. To be fair, Harry was never the most skilled bull rider, matter of fact, he couldn’t even point out the last time he’d riden a bull. Back home, he wouldn’t have hesitated to take the lucky shot, but there was a pretty girl in the audience that he was trying to impress… And he wasn’t so sure this was the best way to go about it.

“What’s your name, son?” The older man inquired, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pencil from his shirt pocket.

“Uh…” Harry stalled, “It’s Harry… Styles.” He mumbled as he watched the man hastily scribble his name in a piece of paper. He ripped it out and handed it to him with a polite nod. Harry took a quick glance at it, folding it in half before saving it inside the pocket of his trousers. 

May God be with me, the boy thought as he ordered another beer, hoping the alcohol would help calm the ants in his pants.

He kept on waiting by bar, stomping the heel of his boot against the dry soil and chewing on his fingers impatiently as he heard the riders names being called. With his job, he’d naturally seen cows up close and personal quite often. Howbeit, he couldn’t deny that the large bucking bull before him was giving him the heebie-jeebies, especially since no man had been able to sit on it for longer than 7 seconds without getting launched into the air.

“And finally our last contestant, yet another brave gentleman.” A pounchy, well-groomed cowboy announced. “Give it up for mister…” He held the paper closer to his face and squinted his eyes. “Harry Styles.”

Harry swallowed thickly as the crowd cheered for him with little enthusiasm. Out of all the ways one could die in the west, being projected into the afterlife wasn’t exactly the most unfavorable or disreputable death he could think of… But in case he didn’t happen to die, it would still feel quite humiliating to nose dive into excrement in front of a large crowd and, especially, the beautiful young girl he had been trying to find the guts to court.

But there was nothing he could do about it now, so he mustered up all the courage he had and walked up the ring, climbing over the barricade and sitting on the edge the beast stood under. He couldn’t help running his hand through forehead. There was sweat pooling on his scalp and creeping down his face in thick globules. The cowboy flinched once one of the salted drops slithered inside one of his eyes, but he rubbed it off quickly, knowing he wasn’t in position to afford any distractions.

“All good, cowboy?” One of the men holding the barricade shut asked, and Harry nodded firmly. He breathed heavily through his mouth, trying to calm the nervous pinch he could feel in his stomach as he spreaded his legs and lowered himself until his backside was firmly sat on the bulls back. “Ready?” The same man asked in a compelling tone.

“As ready as I’ll ever be…” Harry granted, adjusting the hat on his head before he grabbed steadily onto the rope tightened around the bull’s torso. He pressed his eyes shut and focused on the countdown. “1… 2…” He tried to ignore the spine-chilling thoughts taking over everytime his eyes landed on the bull’s enormous horns, pointy and positioned right in front of him. “3.” Harry couldn’t help but to yelp out loud once the barricades opened and the bull leaped out, jumping in circles around the arena.

Harry’s brain felt like complete mush. All he could focus on was the fragile looking rope and the few strands of the bull’s rigid fur he was trying to keep a hold on to as it relentlessly reeled and kicked the air. With every wallop, Harry’s back arched forward and his butt jumped further away from place. He kept waving one of his arms in the air, trying to keep a steady balance but quite frankly the bull was relentless.

Harry’s eyes darted at the audience once he noticed Valerie’s figure standing there and cupping her mouth in shock, but unfortunantly he couldn’t even get a good glimpse of her face before the bull gave a powerful jerk and sent Harry’s narrow body off it’s back like it was nothing. Surprisingly though, mainly for Harry, he ended up landing on his feet.

The first thing he did once his soles dropped firmly over the sandy ground was letting out a long and relieved sigh but the bull was still dangerously springing around him, so he quickly backed to the barrel, staring at the time keeper. “6 seconds.” The man announced. “What makes him our forth best timer! Congratulations sir!” Harry shook his head in defeat. Don’t get him wrong, he was more than thankful that he managed to come out of that bull’s back still in perfect health, but he couldn’t deny that not winning a money prize for so little was annoying, to say the least. Especially since the money would’ve honestly done him some good. “Tough luck.” Someone commented from behind him, sympathetically patting his shoulder once before walking off.

“Tell me about it...” Harry mumbled to himself, kicking at the sand with the point of his boot as he did so.

His mood picked up though, once he felt a smaller and notably gentler hand touching his opposite shoulder. “You cut a figure out there, cowboy!” The stunning girl charmed, bending over the barricade to approach him with a dazzling smile on her lips.

Harry’s cheeks warmed at the compliment. “Thank you, miss.” He watched the gentleman next to Valerie bend over the fence and reaching out his hand to help him climb out of the ring. Harry took it as he aped up the bars, although a little begrudgingly. “Pardon my intrusiveness but I don’t think I’ve asked for your name yet…” He said, landing steadily on his feet for the second time that day.

“You haven’t…” The girl confirmed. “My name’s Valerie Bluebell,” She introduced herself. “This is my cousin Noyes… and his spouse Anetta.”

Harry breathed out in relief at the news that the bird was uncompromised after all… or at least not consorting with the handsome man that was Noyes. “Harry Styles.” He introduced himself back, shaking the other man’s hand with cordial grasp, and bowing down to greet Anetta and Valerie. “I take great pleasure in seeing you again, miss.”

Valerie wished he would’ve taken her hand instead, like he did that day at the saloon. But in all fairness, considering they were mere acquaintances, Harry would have to be a very shameless man to take her hand first in front of her relatives. “Indeed, Mr. Styles.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed with obvious infatuation as he timidly beamed at Valerie. “Oh, just call me Harry.”

Anette and Noyes traded a insightful look between them. Only a fool could not notice the way the pair were completely spellbound by one another’s presence. “Um, Noyes.” Anette pointedly cleared her throat. “Why don’t we just go take a look at the other ring and let your cousin and Mr. Styles catch up with a little more privacy?” She suggested, tangling her arm with her husband’s and giving him a little push.

Although Noyes seemed a little more uptight about leaving his cousin’s side, he ended up following his wife’s lead and walking off a couple of meters onwards, just enough to give the pair some elbowroom. “Can I buy you a drink, miss? Are you a beer appreciator?” Harry ventured to ask, after a couple of seconds of shy smiling and lumbering silence.

“Sure, why not?” Valerie smiled. “So… Harry.” She tested the name on her tongue, and Harry loved the way the syllables dripped from her lips with such natural sweetness. “What’s your business in Gravefort?”

“You know, just the usual... A job opportunity came up for the summer.” He said briefly. “Same as most fellas around here, I’m sure.” He dismissed the topic, not wanting to make the focus of the conversation about himself. He’d much rather know all about her. He wanted to know about her childhood, what her favorite season of the year was, but most of all, he wanted to know what she saw when she looked at him.

He wondered if she liked his eyes as much as he liked hers. Women usually always claimed they looked lovely… Either their blueish green color or something about the way they gleamed when he smiled. Harry couldn’t really remember their exact words, especially once the girl asked him another question. “Does that mean you’re working at the new railroad?”

“No, no...” Harry enlighted ��I came for a job at that big grange close to the post office... you know, the one with two floors and blue shutters.”

For some reason, his answer made Valerie’s eyes widen and her mouth open in awe. “That’s such a nice property!” The girl cooed out loud. “I’ve always wondered how it looked on the inside...”

Harry let out a chuckle at Valerie’s wishful suspire. “I would love to show you the house, but I’m afraid the best I can do is give you a tour of the cattle barn.”

Harry got distracted, once the bull’s horns collided loudly against the ring fence, preventing him from seeing the indignation taking over Valerie’s features. “I do not appreciate invitations of that nature Mr. Styles, and I certainly believe that I deserve better than a barn lay.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean…” Harry exclaimed, only now realizing that the words that came out of his mouth sounded an awful lot like a vulgar sex invitation. “Miss Valerie… I didn’t mean…” He placed his drink next to Valerie’s discarded one and reached for her hand instead, making both of their hearts effortlessly skip a beat as their fingertips touched. “I swear I only meant ‘cause the owner doesn’t allow the workers inside the house.”

She didn’t reply to him right away, too blown away by the warm jitters running up her hand and forearm from where Harry’s wrapped fingers were. “Right...” She sounded breathless, voice coming out simultaneously husky and pitchy. “What kind of job do you do at the grange then, Mr. Styles?”

Harry pinched his lips, trying to hide the nervous giggle crawling up his throat. She looked marvelous. Eyes bright like wild cherries and almost as dark as the long strands of hair she’d conservatively tied into an updo today, her nose was straight, yet slightly hooked at the tip, mouth full and pink like cactus flowers and oh, how Harry wished to find out if it tasted as sweet as it looked. “A bit of everything...” He managed to spurt out. “But I have to admit it's not work I enjoy.”

“What type of work do you enjoy then?” She asked with genuine inquiringness.

“I like working with horses...” Harry's cheeks grew slightly pink at the confession. “Especially the wild ones.”

“Like a bronc buster?” Valerie asked excitedly. “It’s why you were so good riding that bull, isn’t it?” Harry didn’t want to put his foot in and ruin his chances with the girl by letting her down two times in a row, so he decided to leave out the fact that he’d just striked it lucky when it came to the bull and focused on the horse part instead.

“I’m just a horse wrangler…” He admitted, feeling a little embarassed that he might have accidentally made himself seem better than he was. “Horses like me and I like them as well…” He shrugged. “I know I could make good money if I invested in my skill, but I believe broncos are wild for a reason, and that’s the way things should stay… I’ve only kept Kiwi because it kept following me around like I was his mare.” Harry snorted at the memory.

“You know,” The girl started, shyly fiddling with her white lace gloves. “I’ve heard indigenous tribes say animals are drawn to good natured people who have healing energy within their hearts…” Valerie’s eyes finally drifted from her gloves to Harry’s face, just in time to catch his lips curling with a touch of bashfulness.

“I don’t know if that’s true, miss Valerie…”

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Sanderson Acres, Dallas. 18th of April, 1892

“What are you thinking about?”

Harry smiled, deviating his eyes away from the blown out moon to look at his friend. “My Cherry.” He admitted coyly, reaching out his hand and pulling at the tall grasses both men were laying over.

“A woman, heh?” Niall asked with a knowing grin that Harry reciprocated a little shyly.

“Not just a woman...” Harry confessed, as he entertained himself with tearing some grasses into smaller pieces and throwing them back carelessly. “She’s my everything.” He disclosed as he threw the last piece away.

Crossing his hands over his stomach, the cowboy focused his gaze on the night sky again, carefully observing the stars shining above his head. He asked himself what Val could be up to at the moment... Could she be staring at the same night sky? Could she be thinking about him too? He wondered what she looked like now… he had no doubt she would still look beautiful…

He pressed his eyes shut and tried his hardest to remember every single detail of her. The collection of dark strands falling perfectly over the bones of her collar and down as she pulled her single braid apart, the way her eyes gleamed and her lips twisted into a smile everytime he pulled her into his lap and called her his lucky charm, the way her breasts rose, compressed by the material of her low-cut corset and that sweet, sweet…

“So when was the last time you saw this girl?” Niall questioned, breaking Harry away from the luscious recollection clouding his mind.

Harry cleared his throat, disquieted with the question. “A while ago…”

“So do you write her letters?” Niall asked another question, mostly out of curiosity.

“Not really, no.” Harry affirmed, his chest filling with remorse at the thought. “We haven’t really spoke since I left…”

The other boy arched his brow questioningly. “So how do you know she hasn’t married someone else in the meantime?” He questioned, sparing a brief look towards Harry before closing his eyes again.

The cowboy huffed, resting his head over his forearms, that were now bent behind his head. “Well, I don’t…” He paused, taking a deep breath of the mountain air. “She wouldn’t do that… not my Cherry… she promised herself to me.” Harry maundered, mainly trying to reassure himself.

“Did you compromise with her old man or something?”

“No, she…” Harry started, but stopped halfway. “We’re different, alright? It's not an arranged marriage...”

Niall’s eyes widened in surprise at his friend’s confession. “Well, no offense Nightingale but... ” He scratched the back of his head apprehensively. “Leaving a woman unattended with just a lick and a promise, that ain’t very smart of you.” Harry remained silent, contemplating over Niall's words. His heart growing heavy and disquiet and a tight knot forming on the tip of his stomach at the thought of someone else having his most cherished treasure.

“Don’t lose your sleep over it…” The other boy advised confidently. “You’re a handsome chap, and I’ve noticed you cut a swell with the ladies… I’m sure you’ll find yourself a nice girl.” Harry forged half a smile, but as soon as he watched hsi friend adjust the sacking behind his head and pull his hat down to shield his eyes from the moonlight, he focused on the starry sky again. Wide eyed and distressed, he allowed for the dark and begrudging thoughts to cloud his mind... What if Niall was right? What if she really found someone new?

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Gravefort, Texas. 9th. of February, 1892

Sitting in and staring at the grange had become sort of a monthly ritual for Valerie.

Each and every second Sunday of the month, she would walk to the post office with the goal of picking up her dad’s mail. She would always stay for a 5 minute chat with the receptionist, Mr. Turner, who had been a family friend for longer than she could remember.

After being handed her monthly mail, she would reach for the doorhandle and twist it open with the intention of leaving, but as soon as she felt the warm dusty wind caress her face, she’d remember him. His hands, his lips, his hold. And then she couldn’t stop herself from asking the pitiful question. “There isn’t any mail for me, is there?” Only to be met with the same heartbreaking answer every time.

Then, she would cross the street and sit on the same hay bale, the one outlooking the grange with the blue shutters. The building was so large that Valerie swore she could find different details in it every time. That day, she noticed the paint in the shutters was peeling around the corners, unsurprisingly overburnt by the western sun. Then, she observed the group of cattle workers ahead of her, attempting to repair a piece of broken fence. Although she’d seen them around, she realized she wasn’t familiar with any of their names, but then again, why would she bother to learn them? The faces changed every summer.

As she walked back home after long minutes, Valerie was surprised to find Bonney browsing outside the house, since her dad was usually never home until a little before dinner time. But what was even more unnusual was that the old mare wasn’t alone... there was another horse keeping her company… a well-groomed coal colored stallion she’d certainly never laid eyes on before.

She didn’t stand for any longer outside, fearing that for once in her life she might have actually lost track of time due to her secret wallowing and missed the 3 o’clock dinner mark. If that was the case, she would probably find Monty sitting at the kitchen table with a very displeased look in his face and an even more unpleasant half-eaten plate of canned goods in front of him.

She pushed the door open, cringing when the hinges made a rusty sounding noise. “What took you so long, girl?” He questioned in jest from the living room once he heard his daughter walk inside.

“Sorry father. I’ll go get the table ready.” Valerie appologized, removing the letters from the lace pocket over her lap and shoving them inside the mail drawer in a jiffy.

“Set the table for three. We'll have company for dinner...” Valerie’s eyes narrowed with consternation. “Actually, why don’t you come over here and say hello to our guest?”

Ever since Valerie turned 15, Monty had made it his mission to assure his daughter married well. With that purpose in mind, throughout the 7 years that passed, he'd been introducing her to any wealthy, polite and lawful gentleman that he assumed she would be partial to marry one day... Tall, short, bald, hairy… He'd tried everything! Assuming she’d eventually take a liking to one of them. She hadn’t. Therefore, when she arrived at the room’s door and saw her dad accompanied by yet another tall, clean-faced gentleman, she wasn’t so surprised.

She knew why he was here.

Just by looking at the collar of his shirt, Valerie could tell he wasn’t the average penny-maker cowboy. His trousers were nicely fitted. The complete opposite of Harry’s, since he always got them made loose, fearing that they wouldn’t fit him the following year…

His boots couldn’t have more than two springs of use and the gold chain dangling from his vest, that had definitely been made by a good tailor, really left no room for doubt. “Valerie, this is Mr. Otis Montgomery.” Monty introduced. “He’s the son of Brokenbrook’s Marshal. I believe you’ve met Mr. Abraham before at last winter’s festivities. If my memory serves me right Otis, you couldn’t make it because you were in a meeting with…”  

“I was in a meeting with Mr. Smith, yes.” He finished the sentence. “Houston’s mayor.” He clarified once he realized Valerie’s indifference towards the revelation. Did he really think he was going to win her heart by bragging about some bigwig she didn’t know? 

“It was a pleasure to meet you sir.” Valerie curtsied respectfully.

“You can shake his hand, Valerie.” Monty propounded. “It’s not like he’s a stranger, is it?” Valerie knew her dad well enough to discern that his dry laughing was a cloaked admonition for her to show a little more interest. So she swallowed the urge of saying that her greeting manners were her business to decide and extended her hand for Mr. Moneybags to shake.

“With all due respect, I’m delighted to find neither of our dads deceived me…” Otis said, encapsulating Valerie’s hand in both of his. “You truly are a beauty, Miss Valerie.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montgomery.” He wasn’t so bad himself if Valerie was honest. Tall and slim figure, nicely matched outfit, handsome features and smile... if only his black hair was a little longer and his eyes a little kinder, perhaps he could’ve gotten her to consider. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some homemaking to finish in the kitchen.”

“Of course.” The man granted, taking a conspicuous look towards the sheriff, that was attentitively watching the interaction with a hopeful look in his eyes. “I'll be looking forward to getting to know you a little better over dinner.”

“Indeed.” Valerie paltered, mostly out of politeness, excusing herself and moving to the kitchen. If she’d knew her dad was expecting a guest, she would’ve made a proper supper. Perhaps even bake one of them fancy condensed milk pies her dad was so fond of… But now, with an empty pantry and a hungry guest waiting, she truly didn’t know what to do with herself.

Valerie ended up settling for a pot of black bean soup. It was not the best meal she’d ever cooked, but it was quick and filling. And the fresh tomatoes, leeks and bell peppers did wonders to mask the strong taste of the beans. Thankfully, Otis didn’t seem to mind the simple meal, matter of fact, he even complimented the texture of the beans, saying that they were cooked to perfection. Poor guy, little did he know that they had come straight out of a can.

Dinner was going surprisingly smoothly, if Valerie said so herself. Not that she was participating much on the men’s conversation, but she wasn’t feeling completely dreaded hearing about Otis’s family orchard and his details on the house he was planning to build next to it.

Occasionally, when her dad was distracted crumbling pieces of bread and sinking them into his soup, the young man would take a glimpse in Valerie’s direction and wink his eye at her. She would either flash him a cordial smile or pretend not to notice it, mostly the last one. “So, Otis, I trust you’ve heard about the Red Hand Gang?” The sheriff questioned, once he eventually caught Mr. Montgomery staring at his daughter, who swallowed thickly at the mention, incredulous that her dad had decided to bring up what had always been a forbidden topic inside the house.

“Well, certainly.” Otis confirmed, seeming rather unapologetic about his ogling. “Who hasn't?”

“A few of years ago, one of them tried to court my daughter, can you believe it?” Monty let out a humourless chuckle. “If I could get my hands on him, I’d put him to death myself.” He waved his fist in the air to reinforce his anger, but Valerie knew better than to pay no mind to a grumpy 60 year old’s hazarding.

If one thing, she should be worrying about her dad’s health. After all, not only was Monty blind as a bat, he was also apparently naive enough to believe he could come victorious out of a frey with a cowboy in his prime. Of course Valerie trusted Harry would never willingly do anything to harm a spunky old man, but she also believed that his cowboy instincts might speak louder than his solemnity if Monty dared to point his crumbling rifle at him.

“Is that so?” Otis inquired, flashing Valerie a tickling smile from his end of the table, she returned it the best she could, but there was no hiding that the conversation was making her insides feel like they were getting tied in a knot. “And what’s that man’s name, if I may ask.”

“They call him the Nightingale.” Monty clarified, much to Valerie’s dismay. “He sings to distract the passengers while the others do the dirty work.” Monty scooped a piece of soggy bread into his mouth, chewing it as he spoke. “A coward is what he is, nothing but a chiseler. Dares him set foot in Gravefort again, I’ll end him.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that much if I were you, Mr. Bluebell…” Otis carried on, wiping his mouth with the napkin he carried with him. “Word on the street is that they’ve caught ‘em somewhere up east last month. I’m sure they’ve all been wiped out by now.”

Valerie’s expression fell as she put down the spoon she had been eating her soup with. There was a trapping cold taking over the entirety of her frame, biting from the edges of her hair to tips of her toes. “He’s not dead.” She stated firmly, with her mortified gaze locked onto the soup platter placed in the middle of the table.

Her audacious statement made Monty accidentaly drop his own spoon over the table, it ricocheted and fell on the house flooring. The metallic sound echoing loudly inside the four walls of the dining room where a uncomfortably quiet athmosphere had just settled.

“Valerie…” Monty reprimanded, as a warning for the young girl to keep her mouth shut. But Valerie couldn’t listen, all that she could hear were Otis words that kept ringing inside her ears like a haunting Melody.

“No, he can’t be...” She didn’t notice it, but she was trembling in her seat, lip quivering and eyes brimming with tears as she spoke. “You’re a liar!”

“Enough!” Monty censured with a punch on the table, before Valerie could spoil his arrangement any further. “Mr. Montgomery, you’ll have to excuse my daughter’s behaviour. She’s a very sensitive girl.” The sheriff mediated, but Otis didn’t seem too phased or shocked by Valerie’s claims. It was more like he was nettled that he had to watch the situation unfold.

Without further ado, Valerie picked herself up from the table and recoiled inside the house’s single room. But as she suspected, it didn’t take long for her furious dad to break through the door asking for justifications, only fueling Valerie’s distressed state more.

“I will not tolerate that kind of deranged behaviour under my roof, young girl.” He chastised, pointing his finger in Valerie’s direction.

“It was your own fault for bringing him up in the middle of our dinner.” Valerie muttured, staring outside through the window. “You can try all you want, I’m not marrying Mr. Montgomery or any other men of your liking. If all I’m destined for in marriage is cooking supper and sewing socks, I only want that with a man that loves me, not one who's only looking for a wife because he feels he’s at the age to settle down.”

“You think that bandit cared for you, huh? Foolish girl!” Monty spat in a ridiculing tone, making Valerie’s face involuntarily contort into sorrowful scowl. “All he wanted was to get his nasty hands up your skirt. He would’ve left as soon as he deflowered you, had you given him the chance!”

“Well, he did!” She outbursted. “Is that what you wanted to know, father? He did it and I liked it.” Before Valerie could tell it was coming, she watched her dad pull his hand back. She heard the heavy palm jab against her cheek before she felt the burn. “You hit me...” She gasped, cupping the side of her stinging face. Valerie remembered receiving the occasional lash from her parents when she misbehaved as a child, but ever since Monty’s wife had passed away, he’d never raised his hand to his daughter again. Valerie supposes that over her past 22 years of existence she’d never really given him a reason to. “You had no right…” She sniffled, looking straight into her dad’s brooding eyes.

“I didn’t raise a daughter to behave like a whore.” The dad rasped, before the silence settled, only to be broke by him again soon after. “From today on, you’re no longer allowed to work at that foul place. Being around all those men and those… unhinged women has clearly started getting to your head.” With one last look at his daughter’s broken expression, the sheriff left, shutting the room’s door behind him.

Valerie could tell he was already starting to feel remorseful, but she was a grown woman now, certainly too old to accept this sort of rough treatment coming from a man’s hand.

So without further ado, the girl let her own hand drop from her cheek and walked to her dresser, rummaging through her dresses and the few other belongings she owned. She knew that if she gave up her job in order to keep living under her dad’s roof, she’d be bound to marry one of her suitors sooner rather than later. And if she carried on refusing to, he’d probably end up sending her away against her will to marry a complete stranger.

Well, Valerie would rather starve to death!

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You can read part 2 here

[adventuresloane]

The Wanted (Revised Hurloane Fic) - Chapter 11

“They had nearly as many names as they had stories told about them. Ram. Raven. Red. Devil. Deputy. Outlaw. Short ‘n Long. Ghosts of the Rapids.”

Hurley’s a bounty hunter, the Raven is an outlaw, and the desert is a lonely place.

(The 50k+ Old West Hurloane AU Where Hurley Becomes A Thief Too that no one asked for. Edited and reposted from an old version of the story. T for non-graphic violence and discussions of death/injury/trauma.)

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Admittedly, it didn't take Hurley too long to fuck up.

They might have started to let their guard down, in hindsight. After awhile, the circumstances of this life with Sloane became, if not exactly routine, then at least rhythmic. There was a consistency to the spiking highs of their thefts followed by long periods of running and hiding and quiet. They came to know, for example, how long it would take after one of their big hits for the victimized town to send its bounty hunters coursing into the desert after them. The naps they took at midday when they were really on the run, so they could travel through the whole following night, and the paths through rocky land that they could take to slow down their pursuers--these things were never boring, but they did become familiar.

That may have been why, one day in the canyonlands, they got comfortable when they shouldn't have. Sloane, after all, seemed to know every possible path through the labyrinth of crevices. She, with her sharper ears, picked up the sound of distant hoofbeats before they did, too.

"Do you hear someone?" Hurley asked.

"Yeah. We need to pack up and get the horse ready. It'll take them awhile to find the right path to us, at least, if they ever do."

But whatever group was after them had knowledge of the land too, it seemed. It didn't take them long to navigate through. By the time the two of them were mounted and ready to run, Hurley could hear the pound of the horses too. The echoes confounded them, as they always had, but the sounds were undoubtedly getting closer.

And Hurley had to wonder.

"We have to go," Sloane said quickly. "We've got a couple minutes, maybe."

"Okay," they said, but they didn't get the horse moving just then. They felt how a frozen deer must feel, primed to spring at any moment but waiting, still, waiting wide-eyed until the last moment, because they needed to see their oncoming doom up close.

"Hurley?" Her voice was a warning as much as it was a question. Still they did nothing. They just needed a moment longer.

As the first flashes of paint horse came careening around the corner, as the hunters raised their voices and their pistols, as the thunder came rumbling toward them, all they could do was scan the angry faces. They looked for a familiar one, the visage of an older man with deep lines around his lips.

"Ram, move!"

They snapped back to themself just as bullets began to blow bits of rock off the canyon walls near them. The showers of dust hit them in the face as they began, desperately, to dodge and weave.

It took them longer than it would have otherwise to lose the bounty hunters, but they managed it. Once they got into the open, they didn't stop until the poor horse heaved and shook with exhaustion. White spit flew backward from its mouth.

Even this wasn't far enough, not even close. Just because they could no longer see their pursuers didn't mean those hunters weren't somewhere behind them. They would have to stop only for a short time before going on. There was a lot to do yet to shake the posse, now that they'd gotten within a hair of the two of them.

Hurley got off and tried to catch the breath that they hadn't been able to get back throughout the whole ride. Their heart beat so hard that it seemed to quiver.

"Hey," Sloane snapped at them before she even dismounted. Hurley braced themself. "Do you mind talking about what the fuck just happened back there?"

"Look, I'm sorry."

"No you're not," she muttered as she slid off the saddle. "You're never sorry for any of the fucking stunts you pull."

Hurley stopped mid-pace, then turned on her. "Excuse me, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. You're always trying to be some kind of damn hero. It's like you're playing a game."

This, they hadn't expected. She could be mad, sure, but to hit them with this out of the blue? "That's not true," they snapped back.

"Sure, Hurley."

"Well, if it's really what you think of me then why are you telling me now, huh? You've had months and months to let me know, if it's been such a worry for you!"

"Do you, like, get what we're doing here?" Hurley was starting to hate it when she got this way, when the spite and venom found its way back into her voice. It was the same voice they had heard what seemed like a lifetime ago, when they had come to her in the back of a barred wagon, trussed like a prize or like a dangerous thing. It was a voice that made an enemy of whomever she spoke to. "Don't know if you've noticed, but the bounty on our heads is only going up, and people are desperate for cash. They're going to look for any slip-up like that."

"You are not gonna talk to me like I'm a child," they growled.

"Then figure your shit out! Get it through your head that you only need to fuck up once for them to ruin both of our lives."

"Why are you being like this? You're acting like I tried to get us caught!"

"You damn well could have."

"I wasn't!" She said nothing to that. Her jaw was locked and her lips in a line. Hurley hated how closed she looked. "Besides, you've had more than once chance."

"What are you talking about?" She sounded weary of them now.

"You've been caught more than once and managed to get out of it, right? Whatever you did to fuck up, it didn't ruin your whole life, did it?"

"Well, no shit. You were there for it."

"I meant before that. You got away from the first bounty hunters that caught you all on your own. Everyone knows that."

Sloane paused, for more than a beat. Then, seeming to recover the attitude that she had momentarily dropped, she turned to Hurley, hand on her hip, and talked to them like they were simple. "I'm not about to count," she started, "on every group of bounty hunters being as dumb and wet behind the ears as that pack of drunks."

It was too late, though. She probably thought that Hurley hadn't noticed the moment of hesitation, but they had. Any irritation that they may have felt up until that moment began to congeal into something colder inside them. It wasn't a thoughtful pause from her, nor was it mere surprise. It was a freeze. Her shoulders had hitched up with tension. It happened so quickly, they might not have been able to catch such a thing before, but they knew enough now to do so. They had seen her spooked enough times.

They tried not to let on that knew. "So," they started slowly, "that part of the story is true? That you got away on your own?"

"Yeah."

"That sounds like it was hard."

"It wasn't. They were idiots. And drunk for most of the time, like I said." She was busy taking off the horse's sweaty tack. When they didn't respond, she looked over at them, and they must have looked expectant, because she promptly groaned. "Look, it's not even one of my good stories. I was a kid, I was dumb, I didn't do what I would do now."

She was still fiddling with the saddle straps. She spoke like her words were meant to just skim past like a stone skipped on water. They sunk into Hurley anyway, slowly. "A kid?"

"Yeah."

"How...how old?"

"Gods above, why do you need to know?"

"I don't," they said hastily, although a part of them felt that it was, in fact, a need. "I was just asking."

"Ugh. I mean, I wasn't a kid, like, a little kid or anything. Like seventeen."

That was the first time they began to feel sick to their stomach.

She shrugged before she went on. "Walked into an ambush that I would've been able to see from a mile away these days." She shook her head and scoffed a little, seemingly at herself. "And I kept trying to fight the ropes after they tied me up, like I thought I could get out of them if I just pulled hard enough. I don't know. Think I thought it would make me seem tougher. Bad idea." She said no more about it, then.

And because she didn't specify further, they were free to fill in the gaps for themself. They imagined what it was like, when she fought because she could no longer take flight. Someone who, to begin with, was not a fighter, not that way at least. Behind their eyes, they saw, unbidden, a younger version of herself struggling like a mustang at the end of unyielding ropes, her skin chafing against them. Hurley had gotten glimpses of an almost animal fear in her before, the kind that widened her eyes; they imagined that kind of fear fully realized, that desperation that they had seen. Her straining

to get back to the open world that she knew, and being ripped from it still. Dragged forward through the heat, made to trudge with aching muscles behind her captors' horses once she had finally, inevitably worn herself out. Seventeen.

They could picture the hands of the hunters, so many hands on her at once to pull and push and pin her to the ground, hands heedless of whether they bruised her arms when they grabbed them to keep her still. Maybe hands that struck, if her trying to get away bothered them enough, or if their drunkenness inclined them. Maybe worse. Hurley wanted them off her, those ungentle hands. They would have beaten them all off if they could.

Sloane snorted to herself, then. The sound nearly startled them, it was so casual, so deeply at odds with how they felt. "Look, I'm embarrassed to even talk about it now, okay? All that fighting when I got caught. Big waste of sweat and energy. You know I'd never try that shit now. Stupid."

"It wasn't stupid." Hurley realized a moment later how forcefully they'd said it, enough to make Sloane's ears snap up. More quietly, they went on, "You were...you must have been so scared."

At that, they saw her practically jolt. Her first reaction, they could tell, was defensive. "I was just..." But then she trailed off, and whatever fire had flared up in her just then died off in an instant. She seemed to think a moment, then shook her head again. "But it was still stupid regardless, you know? I mean, no matter how you look at it, I should've saved my energy. Could've just saved it all until nightfall. They weren't too hard to get away from, in the end, like I said. A couple nights in, I undid the ropes with my teeth while they were sleeping. That's why my front teeth are still a little bit bent, see?" And she opened her mouth to show them off.

Hurley turned away. "And then?"

"Ran into the mountains and ended up practically passed out in the hills. Think the only reason they stopped coming after me is because they figured I must've been dead up there already."

And Hurley imagined a child, run halfway into the hard, hot ground from exhaustion and thirst. Imagined Sloane's brown cheek pressed into rocks as she lay panting. Would she have thought, at that time, about having no one around to bury her? Being so alone, it's something they would have thought about, they're sure.

"Hey," she said, grousing, "don't give me that look. Do I look like I'm out here feeling bad for myself?"

"No, you weren't even going to talk about it," they murmured.

"Right. So don't you start feeling bad for me."

"Did they do this?" they asked, and they touched her upper back, where they knew that, under her coat, there were long white marks set into her flesh.

Instantly, they wished they hadn't. No one could have missed the sharp flinch that she gave this time, and they drew their hand away at once as though it had burned her. Too late. She breathed a little more quickly than before. Then, she seemed to realize that she had given up something without meaning to, and she cast her eyes to the ground and said nothing. Hurley felt no victory in what they had found out.

"I'm sorry," they said in a hush.

"Don't be." She sounded farther from them than before. For awhile, there was quiet.

"How'd you do it?" they murmured.

"What?"

"How'd you ever get up again?"

She furrowed her brow at the ground in a puzzling way. She looked like she was trying to reach back into some memory. "It rained," she said at last, and her voice was softer than it had been all day.

Hurley just looked at her and waited. They would have waited as long as it took her.

"I remember...I woke up in a cave up there, and it was thundering. I don't really know how I managed to stand, but I stumbled out there and sat on the ground, and it came pouring down. First water I'd had in days. And then I just kind of stayed there and stared up at the sky for awhile." She let out a humph suddenly and smiled slightly, in a fond sort of way. "You see why I've always liked it out here, right? This place has always been on my side."

She said it like it was a good thing. But Hurley, in spite of everything, had never been in a place in their life where the only things they had to rely on were the rough earth and the fickle, fragile clouds.

In almost a whisper, they said, "I'm on your side, you know."

She huffed, and they didn't miss the way she rolled her eyes a little. "I know." After another moment, she said, "Me too. About, you know, the being on your side thing."

"I know that. I do."

"Good."

"Did you..." They almost swallowed the question back down, unsure if they really wanted an answer. They decided that they needed one regardless. "Did you think about that when we...when my posse caught you?"

She raised an eyebrow at them. "Think about it?" Her hand went up to scratch the side of her scalp. "I mean, yeah, I guess I did. Kind of hard not to, right? Thought about not repeating the same mistakes as the first time, anyway," she finished with a forced laugh.

She had to have thought, too, that it could all happen again. Their posse had put that fear anew in her. Hurley had put that fear anew in her.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

They knew that they only had so much time before she stopped being receptive to this conversation entirely, so they took a deep breath. "Can I just say one thing?"

Her lip started to quirk up into a smirk as she looked their way. "I don't think I could stop you."

After a moment's hesitation, they put a hand lightly over hers. That was enough to pique, it seemed, as she faced them for the first time since they had started talking. They held her gaze as best they could. "I'm glad you got out of there alone. I'm so grateful you did. But you're not going to have to do that again, alright? I'm not going to let you, in fact." For her sake, then, they tried for a laugh themself. "And the next person who lays a hand on you is gonna get it broken, alright?"

She appreciated that, given the way that she giggled with them. Then, though, something that they hadn't seemed before touched her face and gave a new shape to her smile. It looked something like sadness, and it reached her eyes.

Stranger still, after a bit, she simply breathed out her nose in a small hum and said, "You're good to me, Red."

They would never have thought to be anything else to her.

----------------------------------------------------

Changes in the winds brought moisture from an ocean that was hundreds of miles and many worlds away from the solid, sunbaked earth underfoot. The two of them spent the violent summer near the Shickshaw Hills. Sometimes they came across towns tucked in crouching amongst the mountains and stayed for days, keeping a low profile, before moving on. Sometimes they wandered in the hills themselves, so that when the black clouds snuck up on them, they could duck into one of many caves and simply watch dirt roads far below them turning to muddy rivers, as the hardened ground spat back the water instead of absorbing it and let it run off in flash floods. A couple of times, they were not quite quick enough--the sky often went from blue to dark in minutes, and the first drop would scarcely hit the sand before all of the rain came down at once. It fell hard enough to sting. When that happened, Hurley would hear the slap of their waterlogged clothes as they ran for shelter and shivered in front of the lightning and thrilled at being at once so hot and so cold.

By the time they had caught their breath inside the cave and stripped their shirt off for it to dry beside the fire Sloane had built, often the storm would have already moved on and left the air outside sweet and cool. Hurley began to get used to the sight of her bare back. When she sat up straight, they saw the long, narrow dip between the muscles where her spine lay. They saw the few long scars on her shoulder blade but did not bring them up again.

Instead, they let their hair frizz as it air-dried and then slipped under the blanket that was already around Sloane's shoulders. The pair of them checked each other's recent scabs and sunburns to ensure that none of them were worsening. She ribbed them for how long it must've been since they had gotten some, with how long they'd been out in this lonely place, and they ribbed her back. They listened to her stories and heard her voice get slower and more sighing as she became sleepy, and again they thrilled at being at once so hot and so cold.

In the days after a big storm, seeds that had been waiting months or years for their chance erupted from the ground so quickly that you could nearly hear them growing. The two of them picked the desert wildflowers sometimes, to slip them into each other's hair or into their own; sometimes, they just let them be. Pink and red and orange, they burned with the colors of a sunset, were just as beautiful and just as quick to go. The leaves crisped under the sun, and the pollinating wasps and butterflies went elsewhere.

Nowadays, Hurley liked the night best. Sloane gathered them up against her, pressed their warmth into her as she always did. Her chin lowered down to rest on their shoulder, near the crook of their neck. They did their best to keep still and not to seem stiff. This was what always happened after she believed that Hurley had already fallen asleep, whether it was to keep them both warmer or simply because it was the same thing she always did, instinctually, when nestling into pillows. She buried herself away from the world.

These days, they seldom slept while she was still awake. They were simply too aware of each small movement she made. Their heart only ever began to slow when hers did. (Sometimes, in the night, they woke to her shifting and whimpering in her sleep. Sometimes, when they put a hand over her chest, she would slowly still without waking herself. They were developing an awareness of these signs in her, too.)

With practice, they had learned to keep their breathing steady when she gave them an accidental kick in the side as she tried to get comfortable. They were also pretty good at keeping up the ruse when wisps of hair tickled their forehead, when her nose brushed up and down their cheek in what, frankly, could only be described as nuzzling. This, too, was typical whenever she was snuggling in to sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary.

For their part, if they ever found themself restless, they would count their blessings, the way their mother had always said to do on sleepless nights. The cover provided by the hollows between the canyon walls, the wide desert sky heavy with stars. Both of them were alive and breathed the free air—every expansion of Sloane’s chest pressed against theirs was a reassurance of this.

What they did not expect was the way that, now, she slowed and then finally stopped nuzzling into them. When she came to a halt, her lips were on Hurley’s cheek. Closed. They felt more of a tingling than pressure, as though one of the night moths that fed on the cactus flowers had landed there, the touch was so light.

Sloane was not asleep. The breaths that left her nose and ghosted across Hurley’s skin were too quick and too irregular. She simply stayed still there.

Any second now, they were sure, she was going to realize that they were awake. They didn’t see how she could not have known, with the way their face, their everything, had begun to burn. They quashed the sudden urge to immediately kick off all the blankets, and her. They must have positively radiated heat. It was enough to prick them from the inside, and maybe to prick her, the paper-thin skin of the lips that they could not stop feeling no matter how much they tried to tune it out like a white noise. They were not sure whether they wanted to stop feeling anyway. Her mouth was still closed.

But she didn’t notice that they were awake, or at the very least didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, as she began to slowly pull away—for the briefest of moments, her lips seemed to stick to their skin just a little, from the saliva—she opened her mouth, only to let out a sigh that Hurley felt shudder through her whole body. Then there was a shift and her back was to them.

They lay there as she slipped into sleep and then for ages afterward, wide-eyed in the dark. They were too aware of themself to rest, too conscious of the sensations all around them, the scratch of the cotton blanket and the pebbles digging into their thighs and the other warm body fitted against the curve of theirs. All of it kept them up, all of it was all too much. It was like their skin itself called out for a touch, another touch. Probably, it was a bit like going mad, if to go mad was to experience the world too much and to see in it what no one else could.

That was not, in fact, a kiss. Not really, anyway. It was something nameless that had come at them out of the shadows, terrifying and full of possibility.

[sleidog]

2, 4, 9, 12, 14 for Slei!

Did you design them with any other characters/OCs from their universe in mind?  Nope! slei was the first within his little group that i designed, I just knew i wanted a handsome rougeish himbo [originally he looked a bit different, given he has the makeover kit hair/face but the general idea was still the same] previously me and stu had been playing with my charr Cal and his human, Des, who was originally commander in our shared canon, but stu hates playing mesmer, especially after the slog that was HoT at release, so we ended up writing it into the story that slei took over as commander since i had no problem getting through story instances with a ranger! that didn't influence his physical appearance at all though, he developed independently :> his personality was originally a bit more mean and aloof [to uh, keep people at arms length because outlaw stuff is dangerous and he doesn't want them hurt] but he turned into more of a traditional 'loves his friends' robin-hood type In developing their backstory, what elements of the world they live in played the most influential parts?  probably his general upbringing! growing up in the grove for the first 2-3 years of his life led him to resent it a bit, but his mentors kept him back because of his head-in-the-clouds behavior possibly making him a liability outside of the grove- instead he worked in starbower as a waiter for his first few years, eventually leaving to see the world when his mentors thought he had enough life experience for it. buuut when slei did leave the grove, he saw everything happening, refugees due to all of the problems going on with the risen being displaced with no homes and not much help either. so- he ends up drifting around trying to figure out how to assist and falls in with a small gang based in lions arch. originally, this gang wasn't as... moral, as slei ends up running it when he fights the original leader to take charge and make things run better. being in that position and seeing people with nothing struggle along with no help made him eventually decide that he's done fine with nothing, so he can help them. he steals from the better off and never disadvantages anyone through theft, and more importantly! never kills anyone. Are they based off of you, in some way?  in a small way, slei is much more passive than i am, i think! we're similar in that we'd go out of our way to make someone else happy, even at our own expense [i don't do this as much anymore, i have a bit more self love now 😂] BUT i do still get great joy out of doing things for other people, just not to the point where i'm hurting myself because of it, which slei absolutely still does, he's the commander after all, his life doesn't matter if he can save the majority What have you found to be most difficult about creating art for your OC (any form of art: writing, drawing, edits, etc.)?  2 things! his hair is very complex and sometimes drawing it with the right weight and flow is hard, and writing him, i often forget to include his 'accent' and how he drops his 'g's and shortens some words, he sounds very casual If you had to narrow it down to 2 things that you MUST keep in mind while working with your OC, what would those things be?  in a sense of things to keep in mind when interacting with/drawing slei, it's that he's an absolute behemoth of a sylvari by normal standards, he's huge, not unnaturally huge [no shade to anyone with very big sylvari, but putting this within the game's general bounds] but he's definitely a head turner and towers over most by more than a few inches. second, he's surprisingly careful and delicate in his actions, he's not a big cumbersome guy, his actions and moves are very precise and deliberate, and that comes from working with animals and being a ranger in general and needing to sit and wait for the perfect shot