#i've grown to want control and authority because i lack it and it would do me WONDERS you can't imagine

[oogaboogaspookyman]

So this turned into a vent somehow!

[lifeonthemurdersim]

All Roads Lead To Here - Chapter 1: Left in the Dark Fandom/Universe: Siren From Hell (Sadistic By Nature Universe) Characters/Pairing: Trance x OC(?), Seiren x OC(?) AO3 Link(full tags, warnings etc here) Word count: 2,364 words Synopsis: Hope has been through a lot of murder loops, and they're used to seeing a lot of blood, torture and death in the process. But right now? She just really wants to sleep. Author's Note: This is a multi-chapter fic that will be completed by the end of Gorekinktober, forming the last (chronologically) part of Sadistic By Nature, a series of fics I've written for a shared universe between mine and @cptsadist's characters. Trance, Seiren(mentioned) and Egon(mentioned) belong to them! More about Gorekinktober on my pinned post here! Kinktober prompt(s) used: Blood Play Goretober prompt used: Possessed

Hope was in dire need of some help.

She was pretty sure it was evening now, approaching a full day since Trance had kidnapped her. The lack of sleep was actually rendering them vaguely delirious at this point. Shadows in the basement became shifting, abstract shapes. Everything had blurred edges. It wasn't just the tiredness, either. They were starving, dehydrated, they needed the bathroom, they honestly felt disgusting going over a day without a shower. Trance and, axiomatically, Seiren had left again, so conversation certainly wasn't an option. They couldn't even use their fucking phone to read or write or draw something; they were used to being overstimulated but rarely this horrifically understimulated. They felt like a Sim on 6 bars of fucking red.

She started singing quietly to herself just so she didn't lose her mind completely. "If I keep myself at home, I won't make the same mistake..."  They were a good singer, but the way it echoed around the dark basement was honestly kind of creepy. "That I made for fifteen years, I could be a new girl..." She sighed, already feeling weird just singing all alone in the dark, drawing slowly to a close after the single verse. "I will be... a new girl..."

You'd think if she was this tired, she'd be able to just... sleep, no matter what. But Hope had always been an insomniac. Sandy used to say they were "just a picky sleeper", like they were being purposefully difficult. But then Sandy used to say a lot of things. They'd had it more under control since college. They'd even made up a silly little acronym for it, an oddly fitting one considering they'd lived in Canada at the time. "I can only sleep when it's SNOWED." They'd only ever said it in their head, of course. Everyone else would find it stupid.

The first one, Silence, they had that. Truth was it wasn't really even silence they needed as such, just calmer sounds than those they'd grown up with; annoying sirens, fights breaking out, freight trains rattling over the nearby railway bridge. Right now it was too quiet, eerily quiet. Dark, that was fulfilled too, they couldn't really complain about that. It was the four criteria in the middle that were severely lacking for them, and that didn't look likely to change any time soon.

She heard what sounded like footsteps upstairs, right beside the basement door, and raised her head up slightly, waiting for it to open, a mix of scared they'd alerted someone and desperate for someone to come and talk to them. But when no trace of that came they slumped their head back down defeatedly. They shouldn't be hoping for Trance to get back anyway, it made no sense. Although... it did seem like he was only doing this to them because he had to. It wasn't like they hadn't killed out of necessity themself before.

God, they really shouldn't think like that. They couldn't risk getting attached to a captor again. Not after last time. But they saw so many similarities between themself and Trance that it was kind of difficult not to at times. The lines were admittedly kind of blurred by the fact that they'd already found him kind of hot as a celebrity. They still couldn't stop thinking about last night.

The way he'd teased his knife over her chest, tracing thin red lines over it. It was only when they'd made reference to the fact they, like he, had learnt to enjoy the sight of blood, did he begin to really cut. They looked down at the tear down the middle of their shirt and their heart beat faster again recalling it. The cuts that littered her pale skin there still stung a little, especially since he'd attempted to clean them with fucking whiskey this morning. It had hurt. But they enjoyed a little pain.

It was when he'd began to lick the blood from them, though, that their arousal really peaked. They'd have let him do almost anything to them at that point. They remembered the smarting sting from each lick, recalled the rough warmth of Trance's tongue against their skin, and their legs tingled a little, and at the time they'd moaned, god they'd flat-out moaned, he must have thought they were such a weirdo. But then maybe they were, because the memory of her blood and his saliva running together into wet, clear reddish smears against their chest was unbearably arousing. They wanted to beg him to cut more, lick more, cut more, lick more... lick more... lick more...

Imagining Trance running his tongue all over them again was making them shift their legs uncomfortably on the floor, already starting to blush deeply as their body tingled all over. Was it Trance, though, or Seiren? She recalled that little hint of fangs, the way his eyes had glowed... he may very well have been fully possessed by the demon as he did it. Was the imp just enjoying the taste of the blood... or was he actually in control at the time?

Either way... what if they hadn't stayed silent when he drew back, worried he was getting carried away? Those words felt like a warning, considering they'd already seen themself die at his hand the first time he'd uttered them. Hope's strange ability to die and come back, to experience kidnaps as some sort of endless loop until they found a safe route out, sometimes led them to overcautiousness, and now they were left with fear of missing out on what would have happened if things continued the previous night.

"Get carried away, please..." they begged in a quiet, delirious murmur. "Trance... Seiren..." She sighed quietly, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the pole. She wasn't averse to either of them being the one doing it, hell they'd probably be accepting of anyone's hands on them at this point, but they had to admit, they had a slight preference. They didn't fully like the way Seiren had spoken to them that morning. A little patronising, in their opinion, and that hurt their pride more than any taunts or abuse. She guessed she shouldn't really expect to like a demon. But she was going to have to live with the fact he was the one showing when their blood came into it.

"Seiren..." they repeated, still in that quiet, breathy murmur. "You'll get more blood out of me this way, Seiren..." the more confident version of them in their mind bargained flirtily. "Taste me again...?"  They imagined more cuts, more small sharp stings, more blood to sustain him. He needed them. He might not want them but he needed them to feed on at the moment. Almost like a vampire. Hmm. Maybe there was an appeal to Seiren there that they'd overlooked.

As they began to imagine, they tried moving their arms but they remained restrained, the rope chafing against their wrists. That was making the fantasy they had in their head more difficult, but certainly not impossible. They were somewhat of a writer after all. Seiren probably wouldn't agree to help, not wanting to give his iminent prey any kind of wiggle room no matter how much blood she offered. Maybe Trance would, though?

"I can't let you go." they imagined him saying, but then his face would soften a little. "But... maybe I can... bend the rules a little?"  They pictured him loosening their restraints slightly, their wrists still held tight against the pole, running his hands down their body and then taking their waist to slide them onto the floor, straddling them.

Yes, that preference was returning in full force. It wasn't even just because they were a fan of the singer, though there was probably some hint of parasocial fascination. It was actually because his personality when speaking with them here had captured their heart with sympathy far more than his more confident public persona. She knew it wasn't smart, but she couldn't help it. "Trance..." she shifted to whispering decisively in real life. Pleading with their imagined version of their captor. "Trance, Trance..."

"I think these are going to be in the way, aren't they sweetheart?"  he'd tease as he picked up on their desperation for him, running a hand over the fabric of her shorts, gliding across her thighs with only the thin layer of her tights between them."Whatever can we do about that...?" He'd make it difficult, like everything else, putting up obstacles, only this time she'd relish the challenge. In their head, they'd have to toy with him a little in return.

"What, you're that out of touch with regular people you can't undo a button, Trance?"  they'd reply with a playful wink. In reality they'd stopped saying anything at all, instead biting down on their lip, their eyes still shut tight. They hoped Trance would bite too, at their neck, at their lip as he kissed them, maybe even their thighs. In this idealistic little world they were carving maybe that could be their punishment for being a smartass. They'd bite him back hard though given half the chance. He deserved it for being an asshole. He also deserved it for being so sexy.

They were squirming against the pole as they imagined him spreading their legs and sliding in between them. Touching, teasing, slow as they lay there, bound helplessly. Their breath grew faster and deeper, their chest rising and falling as they wondered if they could get their legs around his neck. He wasn't that much taller than them. They bet they could. In their fantasy they certainly could. "Fuck me, Trance. Fuck me." He'd look at her like she was everything then. Like he adored her.

Because the truth was, last night had left her in a state because as always, it wasn't really about the blood, or the masochism, or being tied up. Yeah she got horny easily, but the fact she chose to share that wasn't because sex with another was necessarily better than on their own. It was the desperate want to be touched, to be intimate with someone, most of all to be loved. To be valued and adored and worth something instead of hurt and traumatised and killed over and over again. With the people she ended up with, be that through her own shitty choices or plain bad luck, the only way to really have that was to let themself be used.

Unfortunately with no ability to act upon her desires, all their active imagination was leading to was frustration. She squeezed her thighs together, shifting them back and forth to try to generate some friction, but to no avail. Finally opening their eyes, they let out an exasperated grunt, kicking their heel hard against the floor in frustration. It fucking hurt. But then what didn't anymore?

"...Everything alright?" Trance asked. The real Trance. They jumped hard. When the hell had he even come down here? They must have been so out of touch with reality that they didn't even register him coming down the stairs.

"Trance!" they replied with a mix of excitement he was actually there and a weird sense of guilt. "I-I was... just..." What exactly are they trying to cover up here? He had no idea they were just fantasising about him. He didn't exactly catch them red-handed when they were literally unable to use their hands. They tried to keep their breathing as quiet as possible so it wouldn't be obvious. "It's... good to... see you?" they ventured. What the fuck were they even saying at this point?

"Look, if you're going to try and persuade me to let you go, don't bother." he muttered. "Seiren made it pretty clear you're going to be the next one to feed him."

"I... I know..." they murmured distantly. They didn't know what to do about it with their brain too exhausted to function properly. "I just... I can't fucking sleep like this, Trance." they urged. Their dual needs and thier- ironically- vaguely trancelike state combined to induce them to mumble out an unusually bold request. "Maybe if I could... could share your bed..."

Trance raised a brow at them. "You gotta be fucking kidding..." he replied. There was some intrigue in his expression, his tongue running briefly across his lips, before he put up his walls again. "I'm not running a fucking hotel here, hun."

"I just, I really need something, I... I need..." they pleaded disjointedly, then gave him a desperate look. "I know you're only going to kill me but... but I just really need to sleep before I lose my fucking mind."

Trance scoffed slightly, rolling his eyes. "If I could wave a wand and give someone a good night's sleep, I wouldn't use it on you, sweetheart." he replied defensively, but then paused, looking her over with just a hint of empathy, and he seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts before relenting slightly. "Is there... anything else I can do for you though?"

"Fuck me...?" She obviously didn't say that thought aloud. If he wanted that he would have taken it from them already, just like almost everyone who'd had her in this position. Even a brief reprieve from all of this would help. Instead her eyes flicked to the side. "I really need a piss." they admitted, aware their involuntarily shifting legs would give credence to the claim. "A-and a shower, actually." they added quickly, eyes flicking upwards towards their now somewhat greasy hair. "Could I please just use your bathroom for like..." They didn't take long to get clean, of course. But what they needed right now might require a little more work, especially if they were standing. "...fifteen minutes?"

Trance looked at them suspiciously, stared at them for an uncomfortably long time. Eventually though, he seemed to take pity and relent, kneeling down beside them, untieing the rope Egon had bound their hands with and grabbing them by the arm to help them to their feet, his knife pointed in her direction. "Ten minutes." he replied. "Don't do anything stupid."

Since I'm guessing songs are usually credited, Hope's singing "Love Me More" by Mitski.

[cherryblossomtease]

Chapter 14

18 + only

warnings and summary - Masterlist

Warnings: 18+only for explicit sexual content: depictions of sub/dom lifestyle and m/m sexual relationship. If it’s not your thing please keep scrolling. Thank you!

Authors notes: Have I mentioned how confused I was when I first discovered WinterBaron, not because of some boring silly ideas that these men aren't in love, because of course they are. But because everyone apparently thought felt Bucky would be the dominant one? I mean of course to each their own, if that's what gets you there, no shame! But have you ever looked into Helmut Zemo's eyes? Half way through episode three of FATWS (strut to the helicopter anyone?) and I was all "yes daddy" That man is not to be taken lightly. Bucky however is soft and sweet and wants to be held; after you teach him a lesson of course... All that aside I promise I'm working on the conclusion to this story with --shocker-- yet another chapter already brewing. I swear I thought this was over but it looks like I've gotten a taste of their love and I'm not letting go any time soon. I've grown very attached to this trio and I won't be saying goodbye quite yet, segue into saying hi to my new followers! Love you and thanks for taking the time to read! I really do appreciate it. Now, like I said, don't read this trash in public, it ain't proper *wink*

Sorry that I had to edit so much for tumblr reasons lol

~

At first you hadn’t been sure it was going to be this way again. Zemo seemed so gentle and different which you didn’t mind, but the second he looked at you from the water, you knew and you were so glad for it. You would be his no matter what, but you did so love it when he made you beg.

After drying off and tossing on his cream button down, not bothering with said buttons thank the stars, Zemo started to lead the way through the lounge towards the dinner table but stopped and turned to look at you both with a little smile hinting at his dark intentions.

“What is it?” Bucky asked. He’d taken his wet things off and was in nothing but a towel waiting on Oeznik to bring up dry clothes. Both you and Zemo kept looking him over.

“I was gone for a year James. I’m well aware of how it was between you two.” Zemo says with a dismissive snicker.

Bucky steps back squaring his shoulders ready to defend himself. No one is hiding anything, but of course there is always the worry that feelings have changed now that Zemo is out.

The Baron holds up a hand laughing a little as he shakes his head. “No, I’m not mad, I’m happy you had one another, it is— exactly what I wanted.” Zemo assures you both and Bucky exhales. Zemo looks at you. “I would assume it was different from what we had?”

“Yes, sometimes similar but never the exact same” You answer honestly.

He nods glancing at Bucky sizing him up.

He knows this man could never stand dominating you the way he does, he’s not the sort. Bucky is a physical force of nature, but that’s just it. He's the sort who takes commands not gives them. Still it seems Zemo wants to be sure so he looks at you again. “If this is more to your liking, or if your wants have changed, please. You know I will never force you to do anything. People’s taste change and maybe yours have as well. This life can lose its appeal over time.”

You stop him by stepping forward and take his hand while looking into his eyes and smile sweetly. Slowly, so that he may see just how much you want this, you go down onto your knees, lift his hand, part your lips and suck his thumb into your mouth. The familiar way his fingers cradle your chin make you moan a little as you think about having another part of him. You look up knowing how you must look from this position and Zemo’s jaw muscles flex as he comes closer gazing down on you. His fingers press into your face and when you swirl your tongue around his thumb he shuts his eyes for just a few seconds with a deep sigh at the feel of being reunited with you in this way.

The weight of his other hand on your head tells you to stop and he pulls his thumb free, the wet finger stroking your cheek as he stares down at you, so pleased and relieved to know that you’re still committed to be being his so completely.

“You will need new rules” He says faintly. His voice is tight and you know he wants you here and now, though you can’t see his face anymore because your head is bowed to the man you belong to. The man you obey.

“Yes Baron.” You say, your wide smile hidden from both of them.

“James?” He says stepping away from you, his fingers lingering just a second longer. “I know you enjoyed our times together with her, but…”

“I have to say yes or else it can’t happen.” Bucky finishes for him.

“Exactly.”

“Do I have to get on my knees right now?”

Zemo laughs. “No, not right now. But you will have to learn to listen if this is what you want.”

You want to look so badly. Bucky is going to struggle with it at first. “Yeah well, it’s not like you have’t told me what to do before.” His snark is playful but you know Zemo won’t like it.

“James.”

“I’m kidding.”

“And I’m serious.”

“I know,” He says letting the jokes fade. “And I actually appreciate it. I’m just. Well, it’s new. Maybe I’m a little nervous.” He admits quietly and its so cute you smile wanting to hug him, but Zemo has it covered.

You hear his smile as he speaks and imagine the way he must be standing close, brown eyes gazing into blue. “That's perfectly natural. But you don’t need to fear me, just obey me and everything will be fine.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’ll find out.”

“What if it’s too much.”

“You already know, I will never go beyond what you can handle. That’s why I need to know now James. Yes— or no.”

Their voices are so low, they are just above a whisper. When you glance up you feel your heart flutter at the sight of Bucky in his arms just as you’d imagined, Zemo waiting patiently, Bucky already looking so soft under his gaze.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes” He says with confidence. You look back down and hear the muffled sound of their colliding kiss.

*

Now what is it they always say? Rules are meant to be broken? You certainly had fun testing the limits at the start of your relationship with Zemo. Well, the Baron must really love a challenge because it seems you and Bucky are cut from the same cloth. Two little shit starters who like to push the limits.

No sooner had Zemo laid out the rules and quite clearly over a lovely plate of hors d’oeuvres and a newly opened bottle of vintage red at the dinner table did Bucky get himself in trouble.

Maybe it's because you only have two rules aboard the ship, but you thought they were fairly simple to follow to be honest.

Never say no to the Baron —safe word, colors and song being the only exception and, don’t fuck James without Helmut’s permission. Simple, somewhat annoying, but that was part of the fun.

And for Bucky;

Rule one; Never question what I do to her.

Rule two; Never say no to me— safe words, colors and song being the only exception

Rule three; Do not fuck her unless I say that you may.

Rule four: Do not come without my permission

He’d said them while pacing calmly behind Bucky who was sitting at the table acting a little too nonchalant about it all.

Zemo could sense his nervous bravado and leaned over Bucky sliding his hand into that thick head of hair, slowly pulling the soldier’s head back. “Shall we see how good you are at following the rules?” He’d hissed in his ear.

You’d watched feeling your own body tense. Please dear god Bucky break at least one you thought hiding your grin.

Of course he broken a rule. How could he not, it was all too tempting. The sad thing is you’re not sure if he really meant to.

It was over dinner— desert actually.

Chocolate mousse, your favorite which the Baron knew. He loves to toy with you, and always has, making you do little things before you’re allowed to indulge. Not out of any need to deny you food, it wasn’t the food, it was the control and your lack of it. He’ll probably do the same with the tv or books whatever it is you want you’ll have to earn it playing his little games.

Tonight to ease back into the life you’d both been forced to set aside, he’d made you sit on your hands like a shamed school girl until he and Bucky had finished their desert first.

Bucky however thought this was a little unnecessarily sexist and cruel and said as much which broke rule number one. Never question what I do to her.

“Oh come on, don’t be an ass” He’d grumbled spooning another bite into his mouth while you sat peeking up though your head stayed down. He will pay for that, you thought feeling the warm breeze stir as the yacht pressed on towards the setting sun.

Helmut said nothing. In fact, he sat in silence just waiting, letting Bucky finish. When he was all done, Zemo smiled. “Good?” He asks.

Finally you think. Let it start.

“The mousse?”

He nods.

“Yeah, great actually.”

“Good. Why don’t you go and feed it to her.” He says “Since you're so concerned.”

Bucky glances at you sitting there waiting patiently, trying to ignore the throbbing between your legs. “All right?”

He gets up, rounds the table and grabs a chair.

“No. On your knees.” Comes the voice of authority.

Bucky pauses, but he does in fact let go of the chair, turns yours around with you in it and gets down in front of you. You glance up at him and he gives you a quick smile.

Opening your mouth you let him spoon the first bite in and it tastes even better than you’d expected.

“Open your legs.” Helmut tells you. Of course you do. “Pull the suit away and look at her.” He says to Bucky.

You see Bucky hesitate, but he does and the air brushes your exposed skin. You take a deep breath in knowing they both see the way you pulse under their lustful gaze. “Do you see how wet this makes her?” Helmut asks, his voice is low.

Bucky’s pupils dilate, his fingers grip your thigh. “Yes.”

“Look at her and remember that this is what she likes, what she wants, what she has been waiting to have. Stop trying to save a woman who doesn’t want to be saved James.”

You watch his eyes and see him wrestling with the truth of that lovely slick and sticky sweetness that you know he wants to touch. This had been exclusively his for a year. He knows exactly what it feels like to dip his fingers in; what it tastes like, what it smells like and how it feels when he bottoms out inside of you and you say his name, not his silly nickname. His real name. Now he knows that he will have to wait until another man tells him when he can have that again-- and that you like it.

When he exhales slowly, daring to run his thumb across your now throbbing clit, you know that he likes it too.

“Finish.”

Bucky glances up at you one last time and sees how you’re trying not to make a sound. He lets go and the bathing suit covers you again. You relax and slowly open your mouth, hoping he does truly understand. You still love him. You’re still his as much as you are Zemo’s but you were Zemo’s first. You will always be Zemo's and you will always play by his rules.

Bucky tips the cool spoon into your mouth and you pull the chocolate from the silver.

“Did you like it?” Helmut asks.

You open your eyes and nod.

“Answer me.”

“Yes Barron.” You say around the bite.

He comes up behind Bucky and smooths his hand over the mans head, and down along the back of his neck gripping. He holds him as leans down to speak in his ear. “I know it’s your first time, so I will make allowances tonight, and tonight only. But I can not have you pushing back, thinking you can break rules when we’ve not even started, yes?”

You’re practically on the edge of your seat wondering what he’ll say. He’s still looking at you and for a second you think it might be too much for him.

“Yes.” He says quietly.

“Yes, what?” Helmut asks moving around to his side.

Bucky looks up, and you see it, the moment he looks into Helmut’s soft brown eyes which are no more than a lure to draw his willing victims in and says, “Yes Baron.”

“Good.” He knows now and so do you. Bucky is truly his. Helmut savors this as much as you did that spoon fed chocolate. You can see the hairs on his arms rise with a chill and his eyelids lower as he stares at this man you’re sure he’s spent as much time thinking of as he has you, possibly more. “Go downstairs to our bedroom.” He tells Bucky who seems surprisingly meek when Helmut hold his face this way; clutched tight in his grasp like an angry headmaster “Strip down to your underwear, place your hands behind your back, and wait in the center of the room.”

Zemo’s eyes scan the striking face of the soldier he once controlled against his will, so happy to know that this time he’s given himself to the Baron of his own volition.

*

You don’t look at him when you are led into the room, you keep your head down and let Zemo guide you straight to the bed where he sits you down and turns his attention to the man waiting.

Only then do you dare to peek over at Bucky still standing like a silent guard. He’s got his hands behind his back and has undressed, just as he was told to do. You can see that his cock is as hard as stone beneath his black boxer briefs; and with him unable to do anything about it.

All you can do is smile. After Zemo is done with him you’re sure he’ll learn his lesson, or exactly how to break the rules again and again.

Looking from one pet to the other, Zemo gives a little sigh. It’s the sound of man spoiled by too many toys. “Come here.” He says.

Obediently, Bucky walks over, the look on his face somewhat serious but it’s clear his defenses are all but forgotten.

“Have you decided how this will play out yet?” Zemo asks once he’s standing in front of you both. Bucky looks Zemo over and for a split second you remember that he could easily overpower the Baron and you worry, but when he lowers his head and drops his shoulders, nodding just a little you smile remembering that he did not come here for that. You saw the way his heart broke when they took Zemo off to prison. You saw the way he smiled when he didn’t know you where looking as he held his phone and stared down at that text, it was the same way he looked at Zemo when he first showed his face this morning and you saw that beautiful kiss between them. He’s all in. He wants to belong to the Baron just as you do.

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly and Zemo smiles.

“Thank you for the apology. But you broke a rule James. That can not go unpunished.”

Bucky glances up looking slightly worried.

“There is a way to go about this so that you will learn.” Zemo says smiling down at the high peak of Bucky’s underwear. “Your impatient cock will have to wait. Blame your eager mouth,” He shrugs causally “You see, if you insist on opening it, you will learn to do so for a good reason instead of breaking my rules,” He says and quickly grabs Bucky's throat surpassing him as he leans in just an inch. “Tonight James, you will learn your lesson on your knees, beneath me where you belong. Kneel.”

*

“What is your safe word?” Zemo asks looking down into Bucky’s wide blue eyes.

“Streusel.”

Zemo nods and takes Bucky’s face in hand holding his chin, their eyes fixed on one another. “And what are the colors?”

“Green is go, yellow is slow down and red is stop.”

“And if you can’t speak?”

“I— hum Penny’s from heaven.” He says it feeling silly but knows he might need it tonight.

Stroking his face with the side of his index finger while loosening his shorts with the other, the Baron sighs. “You know that I care for you very much?” He asks slipping his hand beneath the waistband.

“I do.” Bucky says and the way he looks at the Baron shows that he feels the same.

“You know that I care for you both. That is why this works. That is the only way that any of this works. Without it and without the trust this ends.”

“I understand.” Bucky answers softly and turns his face just a little to let his lips brush Zemo’s palm with a kiss.

Helmut’s eyes flit shut with the delicate display of intimacy. His fingers massage Bucky’s temple inching up into his hair and for a moment he just lets the affection between them be enough.

“Good.” He finally answers, his voice low and bends to kiss Bucky’s forehead. When he stands again, the warmth has drained from his touch and his eyes. “Now, open your mouth."

*

Bucky’s shoulder is hot beneath your ear as you lean against him. You can’t reach wide enough to hold him in your arms but you try. The sound of him choking makes you shut you eyes focusing on the shared experience of knowing what it’s like to try and swallow the relentless thrusting of that damned cock and you moan softly in harmony with him. You lift your gaze, thrilled by the sight of his shining black hand veined in gold, braced against Zemo’s flexed thigh.

The pumping into his mouth slows letting him breathe some and you watch wanting to see the way his cheeks hollow when he slides his mouth back and forth.

His closed eyes open, looking up, wanting approval. Helmut gives it by closing his own hands to fists in Bucky’s hair. He shoves in slowly, going as deep as Bucky will take him in, fucking his throat until you hear the faint sound of gagging and a strangled attempt to hum his song. The notes are ragged and you worry Zemo won’t hear. You lay your hand on the Baron’s stomach tapping.

Ever the trustful dominant, Zemo stops and pulls his shining, solid member free, breathing hard, a little sad that he has to, but never one to cross that line.

Bucky drops his head gasping for air, his hands on his thighs as he shakes his head like he thought he knew what he was in for and is realizing how mistaken he was. You look up rubbing the small of his back.

Zemo is assessing as he always does with you. Checking to make sure he hasn’t gone too far because he longs to go farther. But he knows this is the first time his soldier has ever been used so relentlessly. And then you see a smile twitch at the corner of Zemo’s lips and the look of concern melts away.

Bucky has recovered and seems more than willing to take the rest of his “punishment.” He drags the back of his hand across his mouth tilts his head and opens up letting his tongue hang out to make way for the large occupant; the sight is so pretty you think if you had a cock you’d probably shove it in there too which makes you giggle quietly.

Zemo sighs and grabs him, guiding himself into the waiting mouth of the man so eager and ready to satisfy that you think it will not be long now. You know the Baron well and while he’s a master of restraint, this is too much for anyone.

You go up onto your knees kissing Bucky’s face as he sucks, stroking his hair, moaning softly into his ear, biting, licking, teasing him to give him some pleasure too. But you don’t dare touch his stone hard erection though for fear he’ll come and you will be in a world of trouble for breaking Zemo’s rules; so instead you rub your hand up the solid muscle of his thigh smiling when he makes the sweet sounds of someone overwhelmed and loving every second of it.

Zemo’s pace quickens and you back away a little watching, awed and damn near dripping wet. You wince for Bucky and wonder how you’ve ever managed to do this. It looks so intense when you’re on the outside looking in. Still, your hand slips down between your legs. Watching Helmut have his way with a man as strong as this one has you unable to resist, and you aren't the one unable to come when you want.

Zemo notices how you've got your hand under your suit and his moan is loud enough to get your attention. He suddenly grabs Bucky’s head holding him steady, making him give a muffled shout and you go back up onto your knees forgetting about your own pleasure, laying your hand on his chest, feeling his heart pound under your palm, your lips grazing the warmth of his skin as he tries to pull way from the Baron just once in some reflexive attempt to escape this inevitable moment, but it’s too late and he digs the fingers of his natural hand into Helmut’s thigh with a sound, something like a shout of surprise but he can not move.

The absent stroking of Bucky’s hair is some half hearted attempt to quiet him but it actually helps and he relaxes, moaning long and low as Zemo draws in a ragged breath between his teeth and holds it in as every muscle in his body flexes.

Bucky starts to swallow and you watch the way he accepts every warm shot so willingly now, all fight in him gone, even the way he holds onto the Baron has changed. He seems to be urging him to —go on —give me more.

You feel the fluttering in your stomach in this quiet moment even though your heart is pounding and your hand quickly slips back down. You won’t be able to finish but it still feels incredible.

They both tense with the last of it, Bucky grabbing Zemo’s ass holding him close now that it’s over and the Baron relaxes with a light laugh as he slowly pulls himself free.“Well done James,” He exhales closing his eyes. “That was— perfect.” He smiles opening them and steps back catching his breath “On your feet” He finally says.

Bucky pushes up to standing.

“You too,” He tells you.

Bucky holds out his hand which you take and he pulls you up easily. You stand in silence together.

“Continue like this, and perhaps I’ll let you come tomorrow.” Zemo says to Bucky.

He kisses your cheek, smiles at you both, knowing that he’s left his new sub confused and sexually frustrated, turns and finds his drink on the table and his robe hanging on the master bath door before going off to take a shower.

*

“Did you think I’d forgotten about you?” He asks, his breath warm in your ear.

You shake your head no even though it’s hard with his hand so tight around your neck.

“No, never, I will always satisfy you.” He says and kisses you deeply.

“Are you going to come?” Helmut asks looking down to see his hand at work rubbing your pussy. Your knees part and your hips raise in response to the light smacks he gives your hot divide.

Bucky sighs, lost in his own agony of only being allowed to watch.

You’re a moaning, whimpering mess gasping and crying out the second Helmut thumbs your clit again. He smacks and your legs close reflexively “Open” He says and you do. He gives two more and your thighs are shaking as the pressure mounts.

“That’s it, come, come for me, and for him. Come for him because he can’t” Helmut says smiling cruelly at Bucky.

You’re too close to feel sympathy, you feel only your Baron’s skilled hand and the way he circles your hard clit with his middle finger with the perfect amount of pressure until the dam gives way and you come with a scream and deep pulsing burst wetting his fingers and the sheet, your entire body flexing in rhythm with the orgasm until you shiver and sink down still gasping.

Helmut kisses you lightly smiling. “I have missed doing that to you.”

You give a breathy smile with your eyes closed feeling your breast shake as you do with the residual quakes of pleasure. You can not remember the last time you've come that hard.

“A reminder of what satisfaction tastes like” Helmut says and you open your eyes to find him reaching towards Bucky.

You don’t think he’ll do it, but he is learning submission from you. He opens his mouth and sucks Zemo’s middle finger, his moan soft but slightly pained.

“Soon James.” Helmut says, his expression alternating between arousal and empathy. “Soon.”

*

Late in the night well after the three of you have cleaned up and gone to bed, you wake up between them feeling so thirsty you have to go up for a bottle of water from the small fridge and come back to find the bed you share empty.

Confused at first, you hear their voices out on the balcony and quietly make your way over.

“I won’t ever hurt you more than you want me to.” You hear Zemo say with the sleepy smile in his voice.

“I know.” Bucky says sounding relaxed. It’s the same way he sounds with you, and you are relieved that there seem to be no true hard feelings after his first taste of submission tonight.

“I am happy you decided to come, you know that, right? There were times I didn’t think you would.” Zemo says.

“There were times that I didn’t know what I would do if you got out. I think it came down to those last few seconds.”

“Are you sure about that?” Zemo asks, clearly not believing him.

There is a long pause and you smile at the door. He knew he was going to come the second he turned you over, You think standing in the shadows.

Helmut is laying back on the low, wide sofa, one arm resting on the back, the other across Bucky’s chest, one leg bent at the knee, the other over the edge. You like the way he sort of absently strokes the vibranium shoulder. You do the same thing, You both know Bucky can’t feel it but you both like the way the cool metal calms you, and Bucky… he’s so relaxed. His back to Zemo’s chest, that powerful limb wrapped around the Barons leg, the other resting across his own stomach. They look so peaceful that you hate they’ve spotted you before you can sneak back into bed.

Bucky calls for you to join them which you do now that they both insist so you come out. You hop onto the sofa with all the enthusiasm of a joining a sleepover.

Bucky’s chest offers a solid, familiar warmth and you sigh happily as he strokes your hair while you watch the stars slowly floating by.

They shift the conversation now and start talking about the mechanics of ships of all things and you think how lovely it is that they have one another to be boring with, and how lucky you are to have two men with such beautifully relaxing voices.

Sleep takes you easily, and when you wake again you’re being carried into the room by one metal arm and one flesh and laid down in the bed— the comfort of their bodies surrounding you with safety and love.

To be continued...

[lillupon]

So, I've got a very long rant/opinion here and Idk really know how to say this without coming off kinda bad but I'm gonna say it anyways. I agree with the fact that the seventeen tag has been kinda dry lately on most fanfic places, but it's really only in the smut area. It's the sane way with other groups too I feel like. All of the nice little innocent tags are boomin to this day and thats completely fine. I think the smut tag is dry tho bc lately I feel like a few social issues (like sexualizing people and disrespecting them and their identity) have crossed over into kpop and have been ?blown out of proportion? Lately there's been a rampage of people who like to say that writing smut about someone is disgusting and is dehumanizing because people want to assume that it would make the idols uncomfortable which could equate to some morality issues on how you are reducing someone only to their body without their consent and a bunch of stuff like that. It kind of pisses me off bc this is fiction. About grown adults. Clamping down on horny people who simp over hot asian men isn't going to solve the issues we face in real life. I think a shit ton is wrong with the world we currently live in, and deciding to come after something that isn't even real bothers me. Like what does that actually accomplish. But yeah, I think thats a reason why smut has been dying down. I mean, on youtube almost every video about unpopular opinions, or things they dont like about kpop will include something about shipping idols in fanfics. And then everyone in the comment section will talk about how its all fine and dandy in moderation, but once people start writing smut it's crossing the idols personal boundaries. It's something I've been seeing a lot more often and I think people who are interested in writing smut are being turned away from it bc we've gotten to a point where people are being called disgusting for having fantasies.

Hi Anon, thank you for sending in this Ask. 

I want to preface this by saying: when I write or talk about Mingyu and Wonwoo fucking on my blog, it is a fantasy. I am not speculating about what the real Mingyu and Wonwoo might be like in bed. I am imagining the versions of Mingyu and Wonwoo that I have created in my head, that exist only in my stories. None of it is real. I understand that this can be a blurry boundary for some people. But for me, the separation between fantasy and reality is well-defined. Now, on to your Ask!

You’ve hit the nail on the head with this one. You’ve also touched on many of the issues I have been struggling with myself as of late. It’s difficult to argue about morals since everyone has a different set of values, as well as different comfort levels. Some people think real person fiction (RPF) is a gross invasion of privacy. Others are fine with it. And others don’t care one way or another. There is no single answer; I can only offer my answer. Which means, of course, people are welcome to disagree with it, or parts of it. 

In this essay (LOL But forreal: this is an essay), I will be sharing my experience in the k-pop fanfic community from 2014 to present, the etiquette I personally abide by as a reader and writer of RPF, as well as my stance on RPF in general.

I started reading and posting fanfics back in 2014/2015 on a website called AsianFanfics (AFF). Obviously, no one on that site had a problem with RPF, since AFF is a platform made specifically for sharing stories about Asian celebrities. For many years, I read and enjoyed RPF with zero guilt. I scribbled away by myself in my own corner of fandom and curated my own content. I didn’t interact much with other fans, readers, or writers. I didn’t have a Twitter, and I only used tumblr to reblog memes. As a result, I’ve been able to avoid a lot of anti-shipping discourse, as well as purity and cancel culture. I had no idea there were so many negative opinions about RPF. It wasn’t until I became active on the subreddit r/Fanfiction last year that I learned about all the discourse surrounding RPF. 

This newfound ‘awareness’ does make me feel guilty at times—but only because after mulling this over, I still don’t think this is something to feel guilty about.

Here’s what I remember, first and foremost, when I create and consume RPF: fanfics and my favourite ships are fictional, and fiction is fantasy. This is basic etiquette when it comes to RPF, and most people in the k-pop fandom understand this. Delusional fans exist, of course, but they are not representative of the entire k-pop community. 

Another point of etiquette is to keep fanfics within fandom spaces. I would never push my fics into celebrities’ faces, or go around claiming that my fanfics are accurate representations of a k-idol’s life or personality, in any way, shape, or form. I would also discourage directing ship-related questions to official accounts, or bringing them up during fansigns or other face-to-face interactions; I believe that in these instances, shipping does have the potential to strain real-life relationships.

So with basic etiquette out of the way, let me share my approach to RPF in general.

As much as we like to think we know our favourite celebrities, we really don’t. All we see is their public persona. And this public persona is intentionally controlled, managed, and curated by a team of people: directors, tabloids, editors, makeup artists, publicists, etc. How “real” are these celebrities? We are so distanced from them that they may as well be fictional.

I draw from the public persona that idols project, and I work them into my own writing. But at the end of the day, these personalities are my own interpretation. My interpretation is probably nothing like an idol’s actual personality. I just use the “public persona/character” that idols portray as inspiration for my own stories, which are set in wildly different universes.

More than anything, I think of k-pop idols as “actors” in my fic. You know how when you write an original novel, you scroll through Google images, looking for the perfect person to portray your original character? RPF is literally that, except you might build upon pre-existing dynamics and personalities.

When it comes to explicit fanfiction, two main concerns are prevalent: one of consent, and one of sexualisation.

If we argue against explicit RPF due to lack of consent, we should be willing to apply the same lens to all explicit works. How do we know that the creator of a movie, book, series, etc., is okay with us using their characters in our stories, explicit or not? We don’t. Perhaps some creators encourage fanfiction, but don’t want their lovingly crafted characters engaging in sexual acts or experiencing trauma. We just don’t know. I feel this line is even more blurred when we talk about characters from movies or TV series.

Let’s take Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, as portrayed by Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan, from the Captain America movies as an example. I am willing to bet that when people consume and create explicit fanfiction about Steve and Bucky, they are imagining Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan in their heads. I doubt many people are imagining the 2D cartoon versions of Steve and Bucky, even though they’re technically the exact same characters. Why? Well, it could be because movies are more readily and easily consumed than comics, and so people are unfamiliar with comic book Steve and Bucky. But it might also be because fans find Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan attractive. Is this really any different from RPF, where fic authors make up everything about a celebrity’s life?  

When readers and writers of fanfic talk about how hot Steve Rogers or Bucky Barnes is, those comments are about Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan’s bodies. When reading explicit stories, fans are going to picture Chris and Sebastian’s bodies in their head, doing sexual things. Can we say, “Well, it’s not really you, Chris/Sebastian”, when in a way, it is?

The reality is, people are going to thirst over celebrities, regardless of whether or not explicit fanfiction exists. They’re going to post thirst tweets on Twitter. They’re going to talk to friends and strangers online about how hot [insert celebrity name here] is. They’re going to fantasize about dating and having sex with their favourite celebrity. Or, as it is in my case, they’re going to make up stories in their heads about their favourite idols dating and banging each other. People are going to do all of this without ‘getting consent’ from the celebrity. Cracking down upon and shaming writers of RPF isn’t going to change any of that.

To be honest, I’m not sure why people think it is disgusting to imagine sexual scenarios about real people. It is okay and normal to have these kinds of fantasies. I suppose the alternative is to fantasise about having sex with cartoon characters instead? It’s a very binary way of thinking to say that if you imagine/write real people in explicit scenarios, you are immediately sexualising, dehumanising, or objectifying them. There is more to dehumanisation than writing smut about our favourite celebrities. For one thing, you can love someone and appreciate all parts of them, and still want to fuck their brains out. And generally, fanfics come from a place of love—love that is not only sexual in nature.

Is it the sharing aspect inherent to fanfiction? The possibility that a celebrity might stumble upon explicit works about them? The chances are very low, I think, of the k-pop idols I enjoy writing about coming across my English fics. But I also believe in curating your own content, and that applies to celebrities too. Perhaps a celebrity should not go searching for fanfics about themselves. And of course, people should not show celebrities their fanfics, unless invited.

Another argument I hear against (explicit) RPF is, “How would you feel if someone wrote fanfiction about you?” First off, I don’t like this argument because there’s a difference between someone who decides to be a public figure versus someone who decides to remain a regular private citizen. Celebrities should and do know what they’re getting into when they choose their occupation. (This is not to say, “They are celebrities; sexualise them all you want because that’s what they signed up for.” Here, I am only acknowledging that people might have sexual fantasies about celebrities they are attracted to. Presumably, celebrities are cognizant of this.)  

If someone (whose existence I am not even aware of, mind you) decides they want to write explicit fanfiction of me in some tiny corner of the Internet, I wouldn’t care so long as: (1) they don’t shove it into my face, and (2) they don’t harass me and ask invasive questions about my personal life and relationships. It’s not hurting me or negatively affecting my life, so it wouldn’t even register as a blip on my radar. When fanfiction remains within its appropriate spaces, it is largely harmless. 

Now, if a k-pop idol were to ask their fans to stop writing fanfiction about them, would I? Yes, I would. However, I can’t imagine that happening. Judging by the number of ���sexy’ concepts, fanservice moments, and variety shows such as ‘We Got Married’, I am certain that k-pop idols realise they are the stars of many fantasies—some of which are explicit in nature. Considering the prevalence of shipping in the k-pop industry, I would argue that shipping is subtly encouraged.

It’s sad that so many talented writers are shamed out of fandom, or feel that k-pop cannot be the medium through which they tell their stories, or explore their sexuality, or cope with trauma, or simply have fun. Professional works and Hollywood love their RPF—readers and writers of fanfics should be able to, as well. 

As you said Anon, “clamping down on horny people who simp over hot asian men isn't going to solve the issues we face in real life” (this is a lovely sentence, by the way). The kind of person who dehumanises another and reduces them to a sexual object will do so some other way, if not via fanfiction. I don’t think the issue of fetishisation can be fixed simply by telling people not to write explicit RPF. In my experience, people who read and write RPF are more respectful and thoughtful about these things than the general public. We’ve all seen the general public say highly sexual things about celebrities in the media and to their faces, or tag celebrities in their thirst tweets. Are these things less invasive than fanfiction? Personally, I don’t think so. And in my opinion, there are more pressing and damaging issues in stan culture than fanfic.

In conclusion, I don’t think there is anything wrong with creating and consuming RPF, both explicit and non-explicit so long as we:

Remember we are writing fiction

Keep RPF within its appropriate space, and

Do not harass celebrities about their personal lives and relationships

RPF is not for everyone. There may be people who enjoy RPF, but draw the line at explicit stories. This is fine. Everyone has their own personal preferences. What is not fine, however, is attacking people for creating things you don’t like. I’m not sure what kind of moral crusade people are on and what they hope to achieve by shaming writers of RPF, explicit or otherwise. Ultimately, fic authors are writing a fantasy. It’s not real; no one is being hurt. I think it’s important for people to curate their own content, and AO3 makes it very easy to filter out explicit works and unwanted tags. 

Maybe this is me trying to justify my own participation in explicit RPF—I don’t know. What I do know is that I love k-pop, and fandom is an important part of my media and entertainment experience. I adore the k-pop idols I write about, and I just want to imagine them being happy and getting lots of love and orgasms. Let a bitch be horny, goddamn… 

Some bonus fun facts!

At the time I am writing this, on AO3:

26.2% of Stray Kids fanfics are rated M or E

26.3% of Seventeen fanfics are rated M or E

29.0% of Merlin fanfics are rated M or E

34.9% of Captain America (Movies) fanfics are rated M or E

40.1% of BTS fanfics are rated M or E ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Coincidentally, I saw this post on Reddit this morning: Can we have a RPF positivity post?

[pb-dot]

I'm not going to say no to an invitation to ramble a bit!

So, my current WIP is called Thereafter, and it's a serialized novel that I'm releasing in its own newsletter (Link here.) The pitch? How much therapy would you need after going to Narnia, and what if you didn't get it and 20 years later you gotta do it all over again except everything is worse now?

This is the potentially unenviable situation of one Michael Sørstrand. Together with three other people in his situation, he has been yanked out of his comfortably miserable life as an under-achieving thirtysomething to save a realm in grave danger. This time it isn't the placid caves of the Molekin that needs saving, in fact, the placid caves of the Molekin doesn't exist any more. Something too big, too powerful and entirely too chaotic to fully grasp smashed the entire world to bits, flinging the debris and detritus of it into the void between worlds.

It is to a small island in this infinite sea of nothingness and destruction that Michael is summoned. The few who survived the destruction of their worlds have banded together on the largest rock they could make and built upon it the city of Thereafter.

Thereafter is not a proud city, nor a particularly well-functioning one, but its status as the Only Place Currently Maintaining an Atmosphere sees refugees fleeing the destruction coming in droves. The nominal leaders of the city, a hastily assembled council of mages, wise men and shamans, have all the magical knowledge one could ask for, but lack the experience to govern, and find their authority threatened on multiple fronts.

To cement their control over the city and stem the rising tide of panick and hopelessness, the Council summoned the Heroes Of Legend, our four protagonists whose exploits have grown into legends in the milennia that has passed in the time of the magical worlds. Needless to say, Michael and his new colleauges are ill prepared for the task. Norwegian Michael is depressed and listless, Polish Lex is arrogant and dangerously eccentric, American Alicia is intense in a way that betrays either undiagnosed ADHD or massive anger issues (or possibly both), and Mexican Felipe is cocky and short-sighted (that is to say in his perspective, his eyes are 20/20.) Still, when their presence seems to set off a local crime lord, the four Heroes Of Legend find that it's sink or swim for them, and that they have to learn to be heroes once more if they're going to survive, let alone find a brighter future for the embattled town.

It's a fun project to work with, in part because my main WIPs so far have been really focused on a pair of protagonists or a protagonist/antagonist pair, and working with some group dynamics seem like a nice evolution of that to try out. I'm not going for a found family as much as a messy but ultimately loving polycule here, kind of tying into the "we're doing the best with what we're given to work with" tone that I'm aiming for.

And of course it wouldn't be a Peebs Novel if things didn't get a little political, so I'm going to be looking into a bit what authority is in this series. The Council of Thereafter is a convenient plot element to get our heroes into the world and working to save it, but I'm not married to the concept as such, in fact, I would argue I've designed it to Become A Problem at some point. Now, I'm not saying this whole city is turning into an anarchist-syndicalist commune neccesarily, but it isn't exactly off the table either if you catch my drift. As you may notice, I'm working out a lot of this stuff as I go, and I am trying to rouse my inner pantser to life with this project. I know how I want the books to end, at least more or less. The exact path of how we're getting there will be an exciting discovery for reader and writer alike, though, so fingers crossed for it working out OK in the end.

HELLO! CALLING ALL WRITERS

Please PLEASE ramble to me about your WIP. Getting ready for a dance concert and I'm stressed AF and am craving writblulr knowledge. Mutuals, anyone, if you have a story you're wanting to talk about. I'm here and willing to listen. Though I might not see all of them today as I'm tired and want to sleep when I get home I will read and respond to them eventually 👌🏻 speak.

[the-awkward-outlaw]

Bonjour ! How are you doing ? I've read you're depressed, I've been through it too, feel free to talk to me whenever you want ! Since you're my favourite writer, I've got an imagine request for you ! Imagine Leviticus Cornwall's young wife has been kidnapped by the gang. She's a classy british girl and she is very pretty, but she is not arrogant and is friendly with the gang. Arthur and her fall in love but Dutch want a ransom and doesn't want her to stay. You can choose the ending.Thank you :D

Awe thanks friend! My depression is luckily on the down low and I am in therapy to learn how to control it, but it’s awesome to hear that we support each other. If you need to talk, I’m here as well!

Sorry it took so long to do this one. Honestly this request could have turned into a multi-chapter fic! That being the case, it’s really long (only 20 pages lol). Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

(Author’s note: Arthur doesn’t have TB in this scenario) 

Word count: ~10,500

You look over at your husband across the breakfast table with disgust. Although it’s a rather rare occurrence for him to join you for your morning meal because his schedule is so full, you’d rather he never did. Of course, you’ve no say in any of this. You’re just his wife, his property. He’s made it clear more than once that he’s no interest in your feelings, your hopes and dreams. 

You’d grown up in London. Your father was and still is the owner of a prominent bank. When you were in your late teens, your father and mother decided to move to New York and start a new bank there. Your father saw the ocean of opportunity there. New York was a fast-growing city, and although it didn’t have the wealthy history of London, it had new sources of money that had yet to be tapped. Your father raved about the correctness people used when they called the area New England, for it was like it in many ways but so many of the people were “new money” and your father loved it. Within only a few years, your father’s new bank in New York took off so well he even built another one in Boston, which was where he decided to permanently locate you, your mother and younger brother. 

When you first arrived in America, you knew very little about the country and certainly nothing about the American West. The little you had learned about the country was mostly in regards to the Revolutionary War a little over a hundred years ago. How the Americans had basically won against the British with little more than varmint rifles and their unique strategies of outsmarting their rivals. You learned in school that thirty years ago America suffered a Civil War, something to do with slavery. You had no idea though that many of the states had wanted to become their own separate country. 

Your mother was aware that your knowledge of America was flimsy at best. Hers was the same way, so she encouraged you and your brother to go and learn about the history of America in order to appear knowledgeable about it despite being a foreigner. However, she wouldn’t let you study at Boston’s library. She insisted that, coming from a wealthy family, you should read from the University’s library and study with their tutors. Only common folk went to the public library, although you thought it would be a wonderful source to observe American culture firsthand. Per her wishes, you went to the University’s library with your brother, but you didn’t like it much. You felt that its books would have been no better than the library’s and the tutors were so stuck up and over-educated, it made you miserable. 

In London, you were constantly surrounded by the wealthier folk since they were the only ones your parents would let you be around as a child. When you moved to Boston though, you were old enough to disobey them and mix in with a different crowd. You found yourself enjoying the company of the middle class. They were not concerned with manners and etiquette. Many of them had a sense of humor you enjoyed and because they were not so caught up in their wealth, they had a sense of community the wealthier folk lacked. They cared about each other. That was something so unique to you that you absolutely loved. It made you openly disobey your mother and you went to learn about America in Boston’s library. They offered tutors as well, and they were friendlier and had a richer knowledge in basic history, not just the history in politics and the prestigious like the University’s tutors had. Some of the tutors had even been involved in some of the events you studied up on. One was a former doctor during the Civil War and he told you some awful yet intriguing stories about it. 

As you learned about America, you found yourself divulging into the American West. Of course you’d heard and learned a little about it as a child, the hot deserts with their cacti and the cowboys. However, as you learned about it now, you realized your previous knowledge had been minimal. You knew nothing of the true wildness of it. The outlaws, the sheriffs that were just as tainted as the criminals they sought. The tough ranchers who fought wars against wolves. The heartbreaking histories of the Natives that had lived and been treated like less than vermin by the settlers. The Mexicans who came and brought pieces of their own rich culture. It fascinated you. You’ve known nothing but civility and the West sounded like the opposite of it. Of course, you read a little about the wild gangs that flourished there and had no interest in experiencing them firsthand or even from a distance. 

Your husband wipes his mustache and beard with a napkin and stands up without looking at you. His servant Bradley comes forward, holding a book open for him to read. You know this book very well. It contains your husband’s daily schedules. You have one as well. You’re used to living by a tight schedule, having done it most of your life. Your husband studies it for a moment and then says something to Bradley. You don’t hear it, not that you care. Without a glance in your direction, your husband turns to leave when the butler, Mr. Blomsbury comes in. 

“Mr. Cornwall, the mayor of Saint Denis is on the phone for you.” 

“About time that wretch finally returns my calls,” Leviticus says. “I’ve been needing to discuss matters with him for far too long. He’s an idiot and I’m a fool for ever getting into business with him.” 

He leaves the room, followed by Blomsbury and Bradley. You sigh and finish your meal, your servant Marie comes forward to clean your plate. “Mrs. Cornwall, you have an appointment with your tailor in an hour. He is expecting you in the…” 

“Yes, Marie, I am aware of this,” you say kindly. “Please make sure the room is ready to receive him.” 

She curtsies and heads off. You dismiss the rest of the staff to do their other chores and head off to your own personal library to read a bit before the tailor arrives. You don’t want to go to this pointless party you’re being dressed for, but you’ve little choice in the matter. 

On your way to the library, you bump into Leviticus Cornwall. Your miserable husband. You apologize for bumping into him as you know it’s the last thing he will do. 

“Y/N, make sure you actually choose a flattering color to wear this time. That purple you wore to the last event washed you out. I had many people ask me if you were ill.” 

“You were the one who told me to wear purple, Leviticus. You wanted us to match, remember?” 

He ignores your remark. “Just pick something that actually looks good on you, Y/N.” He continues on down the hall to his study. 

You sigh. How you hate him. Being born with a silver spoon in hand, you thought your entire childhood you’d be able to afford the luxury of finding someone you loved to marry. In your early twenties, your father and mother took that opportunity completely out of your hands. All the other women your age they knew were already married and some were even mothers. Your father was at least generous enough to want to find you a husband who was wealthy enough to let you live comfortably the rest of your life. Soon after, Leviticus Cornwall became a client of your father’s. They talked much and your father found out that Leviticus was a widower. His wife had passed away some years ago from complications during her first childbirth. The baby hadn’t survived either. It was arranged shortly after your father met him that you two should at least become engaged. 

You were not happy when you found out. You’d recently met a young man at the library you were rather fond of. You knew your father would never accept him, he came from a middle class family. But he was your age, funny, attractive and very sweet. Just before you’d gotten the nerve to ask him out on a date, your father told you about your arrangements with Leviticus Cornwall. The man himself had been present when your father told you this, for Leviticus wanted to make sure you were at least pretty enough to be his fiance. When he saw you, he didn’t smile but he nodded approvingly. 

“She will do,” he said after circling you and assessing your body. “You didn’t tell me she was so young.”

“I have no control of her age, Mr. Cornwall,” your father replied. 

“No I suppose not,” Leviticus answered. “Still. You are lucky that I am a busy man and have no time nor patience to care for the opinions of others when it comes to my lifestyle. I hope she does not either, for some will think it inappropriate a man my age have a wife so young. A mistress, sure, but not a wife.” 

“Of course, Mr. Cornwall. But she will make a wonderful wife,” your mother assured him. “She’s smart, she went to the best girls’ school in London. She also has many skills, she learned to paint and sing from a young age. She’s also finely accustomed to riding a horse. Properly of course, not that uncivilized way some women choose to ride with a leg on either side.” 

Your mother was really selling you to him. Of course, you had learned how to do these things, but it didn’t mean you liked them. As far as riding side-saddle went, you detested it. There was little that was more painful than doing it that way, but of course you’d never ridden the way men did. 

After much discussion, mostly on the matters of your dowry, it was settled. You were to be married to this man whom you barely knew. Three months later, you became his wife, despite him still being mostly a stranger to you. He’d had so little availability during your engagement he rarely visited and when he did, all he talked of was the things he had to do, his businesses and the problems that came with them. How he was interested in buying stakes in certain companies or outright buying them altogether. 

When Leviticus became your husband, you moved with him down to Pennsylvania. He had the largest estate of any person you’d ever known. His mansion sat on over a hundred acres, some of them finely manicured but most used for livestock or farming. His stables themselves were huge and he even had an indoor riding arena, a rare thing to see. Leviticus bred horses on the side, although he did little of the business himself. 

You head off now to the parlor where you are meeting the tailor. After over an hour of measuring and discussing styles, you finally give the tailor the final order on your dress and head out of the room. Marie meets you in the hall and holds open your schedule. 

“Mrs. Cornwall, Mr. Cornwall has just received urgent news from New Hanover. His train traveling through Ambarino has just been robbed.” 

“Well, good for him,” you say, growing tired of hearing about nothing but your husband’s affairs. “I have other things to attend to.” 

“Actually, that’s just it, ma’am. Mr. Cornwall will be travelling later this evening to New Hanover in order to speak with the investigators. As he will be travelling, you are to accompany him.” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Of course he wants you to go with him. It’s not because he loves you, hell you’re just another possession of his. You’ll be there strictly for appearances. Marie does not wait for you to respond.

“Your things are already being packed, Mrs. Cornwall. Be ready to leave by this afternoon.” Without another word, she leaves.

You’ve had enough of this. Over the past few weeks, you’ve caught yourself fantasizing about a simpler life, one without schedules and a loveless marriage. One that doesn’t mean you’re surrounded by money but by opportunity. People won’t tell you where to go, how to dress, walk or talk. One where you’d be allowed to just be you. All your life, you’ve been told how to act, how to be. But before you got married and were still studying in the public library, you had all those friends who your father called “common folk”. Although they had undeniably less money, they were happy. Happier than your parents, happier than your husband surely. They were free to go where they wanted and be who they were. You’ve never had that luxury. 

Not only that, you don’t want to go with Leviticus on another boring trip to investigate nonsense with his business. What does it matter if his train got robbed? The criminals likely only took a few thousand dollars and Leviticus had enough to buy a small country if he wanted. Still, you know that if he lets this slide, he’ll feel he’s made himself a target and a fool. As you know, he is all about appearances. You come to the decision to talk to him about you staying here.

You find Leviticus in his study, going over some papers. Bradley stands attentive before him as Leviticus murmurs things about his train being robbed. 

“Mr. Cornwall,” you say as you rarely address him by his first name. 

“Not now, Y/N, I have something more important to see to.” 

“Mr. Cornwall, I want to talk to you about tonight,” you say, sounding more bold than you feel. 

He throws down the papers and glares at you. “What? What could you possibly want? Did you not hear that I have just been robbed?”

You stare right back at him. “I heard, but I don’t know why you’re making such a big ordeal of it. They couldn’t have taken more than a few thousand dollars. Do you not take more than that on a daily basis from the people who work for you?” 

His eyes darken. “I will not be told how to run my business by my own damn wife. Bradley, get out.” 

Bradley bows and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Leviticus stomps up towards you, his teeth bared. You stand your ground. He simply puts his face inches from yours and breathes hard, clearly trying to intimidate you. After a moment, he takes a step back. 

“Now go get ready. I want to leave in an hour or two.”

“I am not coming with you, Leviticus. You can deal with things on your own. Hell, I’ll just be shut up in some damp and poor excuse for a manor anyways. It’s not like you need me there to impress a governor. You’re simply overseeing an investigation of your own affairs.” 

Without warning, Leviticus turns and slaps you hard. You flinch and cup your cheek. Of course, this wasn’t unexpected. He’s hit you several times before, but most of the time he’s been decent enough to put your bruises in places others won’t see. 

“I said you’re coming with me and that isn’t changing just because you don’t feel like it,” he hisses. 

You lower your hand and glare at him again. “No I’m not, Leviticus. It’s completely pointless for me to go with you. You can’t make me-” 

He slaps you again and this time you feel your lip burn. Pulling your hand away, you see a spot of blood on your finger. 

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he snarls. 

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” you say, your eyes watering from the stinging of your face. He raises his hand again but does not swing. 

“If you think what you feel now is pain, you’re in for a surprise, Y/N. Now go get ready. I won’t tell  you again. I’ll drag you out to the carriage by your ears if you don’t come willingly.” 

You take his threat seriously. His servants will not hesitate to force you into his carriage, they’re just as frightened of him as you are. Everything in his life he rules over with an iron fist. His eyes flash as you stand there and you quickly dart out of the room, knowing that to stay means further abuse. 

When you arrive in your dressing room, Marie applies a powder to your face to hide the red welt rising on your face. She says nothing to comfort you though and then she helps you into a dress suitable for travelling in. When you’re done, you dismiss her, claiming you need some time alone. She curtsies and leaves, closing the door. 

You’re done with this. This life, this marriage. You want no part of it. Of course, your parents aren’t a help. They’re the ones who arranged this marriage for you in the first place. You’re going to escape though, and this trip is the perfect opportunity. You know there will be ample opportunities to escape, after all your staff aren’t that tough. They simply take care of you, not act as a guard. 

Quickly, you grab a bag and stuff several items of jewelry into it, knowing you can trade them for money. You won’t go east or north towards Boston or New York. When Leviticus discovers you’ve gone, he will search for you and those directions will be the first place he looks since they’re the only places you’ve been. You’ll head west. Maybe you’ll act as a house maid or something of the likes, except you’ve no workable skills. You’ll work out those details later. Right now you focus on your escape and how you’ll be able to afford living on your own. 

You head into your large closet and grab a small black box behind a rack of overcoats. In it is stored a few thousand dollars Leviticus always keeps in case of emergency. You swiftly empty it, stuffing the bills into your bag. Then you tuck the bag under the skirt of your dress. With a belt, you secure it around your waist where no one will notice its presence. 

A few moments later, Marie enters the room again. “Mrs. Cornwall, the coach is ready. Mr. Cornwall reminds you that you are obligated to accompany him.” 

You nod and grab your gloves, slipping them onto your arms and following her out. Once outside, you hold your head high and Stanley, your coachman, offers his hand to help you inside it. Once you’re settled, you wait a few minutes before Leviticus joins you. You ignore each other as the coach moves.

You’re taken to the train station where you ride inside Leviticus’s personal car and head down to Annesburg. There, Leviticus puts you on another coach but does not accompany you as he wants to discuss buying a stake in the Annesburg mine. You don’t care, of course. Soon his business won’t be any concern of yours. 

The coach leaves Annesburg and heads west in New Hanover. Stanley explains  you’re to stay in a small manor near the border of West Elizabeth. The coach travels further away from Annesburg.

The sun is setting and the coach travels along long grassy plains. Deer dash away from the trail at the sight of your coach. The coach travels over some tracks and then comes to a halt. The driver explains the horses need to rest and feed. Stanley gets out of the coach in order to stretch his legs. You wait for a moment, knowing he’s going several yards away in order to smoke. The driver of the coach is not paying you any attention either as he fiddles with the feed sacks, attaching them over the horses noses. 

Now is your chance. You swiftly look around for anyone who might be watching, but no one’s around. Two men are playing dominoes on the train platform but they don’t even glance your way. A train rumbles up and then stops, preparing to take on passengers. As quickly as you can manage with your heavy gown, you dash out of the carriage and onto the train, not bothering to buy a ticket. Just as quickly, you settle into a seat on one of the finer cars, knowing that you look the part of someone who belongs there. You fidget with your hands, afraid someone spotted you. You keep a close eye on the driver of the coach and Stanley, who’s still smoking. Before either of them even start looking towards the carriage, the train’s whistle blows and begins to move. 

You breathe a sigh of relief as the station disappears behind you and you check again that your bag of stolen money and jewels is still attached to you. You’ll get off at the first station, knowing that a ticketmaster is likely to come around and see everyone aboard has paid. Almost on queue, he comes into your car and starts making his way around. When he gets to you, you slip a ring with a large ruby on it in order to bribe him. He nods and goes on his way. You realize you should have asked him that he’d never seen you on this train, but he’s gone at this point. Oh well, he likely won’t remember your face anyways. 

The train chugs north. You know by this point Stanley knows you’re gone. How could he not know? The coach had only stopped for a few moments. You’re sure at this point they must know you’re on the train. There was nothing else around that could whisk you away so quickly. Now you’re beginning to see the flaws of your plan. At least you have it in your favor that a train is much faster than a coach. 

A little over an hour goes by and the train begins to slow after coming out of a long, dark tunnel. It stops at an old military station, the name “Bacchus” written above a rickety door. Some men, dressed in army uniforms, stand on the platform. When the train stops, you see men begin moving some boxes and barrels off a flatcar towards the rear of the train. Now is the time to leave.

You head outside, glad that none of the other passengers questioned your movements. Once off the train, you travel south, following the road but staying off it in case the coach happens to come along this way. 

You’ve never been this far west before, but the country is beautiful. Tall, wispy aspens flutter their leaves in the gentle evening breeze. An elk lifts his proud head from a berry bush and stares at you, almost as though he knows he’s far more of a threat to you than you are to him. He goes back to browsing as the sun dips beyond the mountains. 

Now you’re faced with another predicament. You’ve never slept outside and you don’t know the first thing about how to start a fire or find shelter. However, in a cluster of trees just south of the road, you see flickering firelight. Approaching it, you see a wagon and near it, surrounding the fire, is a blond man, his wife and two children, a boy and a girl. You approach slowly and the man looks up. 

“Ah, hallo, gnädige Frau!” he says. You swallow. Of course, you took German when you were younger, but it’s been many years. 

“Guten Abend,” you respond. His smile is warm and his family looks at you kindly, though they have already noticed how out of place you look in your heavy dress, feathered hat and high heels. You ask them if you could use their fire for the evening and they agree brightly. 

You sit down, thanking them and the boy hands you a plate of Bratwursts and the girl offers you some German bread. You thank them again and eat, feeling quite hungry. As the sky grows darker, the family talks in their native tongue. You’ve forgotten most your German lessons, but still manage to pick up a few words. 

“Ich haben ein Fragen,” the woman says to you. You recognize the word Fragen: question. You nod in recognition. “Was machst du hier?” 

“What?” you ask, not understanding that line. 

She gestures your clothes and then the fire. She wants to know why you’re here. You’ve no idea how to translate your predicament into their language. The young girl tugs on your sleeve. 

“Ich kann etwas Englisch sprechen.” You nod.

“I am running away from my husband,” you say slowly enough that the girl can translate to her parents. “He is very rich but I am not happy with him.” 

“Bist du schon lange gelaufen? Bist du mit dem Boot hierher gekommen?” The girl looks at you.

“Have you been running long? Did you come here by boat?” 

You realize they must be confused by your accent. Although you’ve lived in America many years now, you still retain a decent amount of your British accent. 

“No, no I only just ran away. I came here on a train, but my stagecoach driver and servant will be looking for me and they know I took the train.” 

The parents nod, understanding now how you came to be at their fire. 

“You are welcome to stay with us tonight,” the girl translates for her mother. “We are headed for Valentine tomorrow and can drop you off there.” 

You thank them again and finish your meal. Not longer after, they show you a place under a canopy they’ve stretched over a spot of grass next to their wagon you can use. They’ve nothing to offer you except an old blanket. You take off only your shoes and hat and fall into an uncomfortable sleep. 

 **********************

In the morning, the family takes you to the small town of Valentine. There, you say your goodbyes and head into the general store where you trade in some jewels for money and buy some shirts and pairs of jeans. You’ve never worn pants before, but you figure the less you look like yourself, the easier you can hide. By this time surely, Stanley will have found a way to reach your husband and tell him of your disappearance. Leviticus may see you as nothing but property, but he will want you back, so you know he will begin a raging hunt. You desperately hope he never finds you as you hate to think what he’ll do to you if he does.

After buying clothes, provisions and a satchel to store things in, you head over to the stables and buy a tall cherry bay Thoroughbred named Willow. Only when the stablemaster comes out holding a heavy saddle do you realize another problem: you’ve never ridden with one leg on each side of the horse, only side saddle. Still, when you lead Willow out of the stables, you climb awkwardly into the stable and try your best to secure yourself in it, though it feels very foreign to you. You almost decide to buy a pistol from the gunsmith but realize that’s a foolish decision. You don’t know the first thing about guns and could very well end up shooting yourself. You decide it’s best to try and keep heading west, further from your home. 

As you head south and away from Valentine, only going at a walk since you’re unaccustomed to riding this way, Willow snorts and stomps her foot, coming to a stop. You try urging her to walk on, but she just snorts again. Looking on the ground, you see a rattlesnake on the path, coiled and rattling its tail at her. Willow suddenly rears up and throws you to the ground before darting off into the trees. The snake slithers off, but your shoulder hurts terribly from where it slammed into the ground. 

“You a’right, ma’am?” a voice asks. 

Looking behind you, you find the picture-perfect example of a cowboy sitting astride his horse. His dark gambler’s hat shades his eyes from the sun and his blue shirt is worn and dirt. He looks at you, his face tanned and dirty from days of being in the sun and the wild, his jaw stubbled with a short beard. You notice his blue eyes. 

“Yes, I’m alright,” you say, standing up and clutching your shoulder. “My horse was spooked by a snake.” 

“I saw,” he says, dismounting his horse. “You need help catchin’ her?” 

“Could you help?” you say, grateful he’s offering. “That would be lovely, sir.” 

He tips his hat and then runs off into the trees where Willow went. You hear him talking to her in a gentle voice. A moment later, he leads her out. You thank him and then try mounting up, but what was a difficult task before is even harder now that your shoulder’s hurt. 

“You need help, ma’am?” he asks again. 

You nod and with a wavering voice explain that you’re new to this. He huffs a small laugh. “New to ridin’ a horse, sounds like ya just came here from London or someplace. You sure you’re doin’ a’right?”

You realize he’s not asking about your physical being, but more about your situation. 

“To be honest, no sir. I’m… well, I come from a wealthy family but my husband died in a… a bad way and I had to run. Only I don’t know the first thing about being on my own.” You hope  he doesn’t hear the lie. 

“That much is clear,” he says, his hands on his hips. He looks rather attractive as he does and you blush and look away. He sighs heavily. “Well, sounds like you need help. Now I ain’t exactly clean in my own history, but I’m willin’ to offer you help until you get settled. Come on.” 

He helps you into your saddle and then leads you further down the road and into a large cluster of trees where a large camp is nestled. Over the next few hours, you’re forced to sit by the horses as the man who helped you discusses with two other men whether you should be allowed to stay. In the end, they agree you can with the warning that if you mention them to anyone, particularly lawmen or Pinkertons, they will not be forgiving. 

“Trust me,” you say to a tall man with a large black mustache and dark eyes. “I’ve no interest in speaking with lawmen. My husband will likely have them in his pockets, so they are just as much my enemy as they are yours.” 

The man nods and walks away, asking a middle-aged woman with a thick bun on her head to help you set yourself up.

*******************************

Over the next few weeks, you learn that the camp you’re living with is a gang of outlaws, led by Dutch Van der Linde. His second in command is Hosea Matthews and the man who brought you here, named Arthur Morgan, is his right hand man. 

Your introduction to the rest of the gang was not the smoothest as the matriarch, a woman named Susan Grimshaw, went into a right fit when she learned you have no domestic skills. “I never heard somethin’ so ridiculous in all my life!” she said. “Can’t even wash clothes!” 

The other girls were kind enough to teach you how to do the chores around camp. You knew how to sew at least, not because you ever had to repair your own clothing but because you’d learned as a child how to embroider and knit. Luckily, sewing up the gang’s clothing is similar work, though with little art. 

You like learning how to cook with a man named Simon Pearson. He’s quick to tell jokes, although he tells a lot of stories about his days with the navy and he only knows how to make a few things. You do somewhat miss having three-course meals three times a day, but you know you won’t starve here. 

Most of the people in camp are kind and curious about you, although you tell them nothing of your husband’s real identity. You’ve told them all he died and never mentioned his name. For some reason, you get the feeling that to let slip the fact that your husband is Leviticus would be a bad thing. Cornwall’s got a lot of business out this way and he’s made a lot of enemies. You simply tell the others that your husband and you moved down here from London a few years back but he’s always been an abusive, hateful bastard and because you’re in America, the land of opportunity, you finally had a chance to get away from your life after his death. The others scoff at you calling this place the land of opportunity, saying there’s little of that to go around for people like them. 

*******************************

You’ve become quite close to this gang that has quickly become your family over the last few weeks. Although most of them have their own sordid pasts, they’re good people. They have a sense of family you’ve never seen before, considering they come from a background your father would call “degenerate”. You’ve never seen people work so quickly and with such a sense of duty. Of course, that doesn’t mean they don’t have their problems with each other. Arguments do break out, but most of them seem to be for show and rarely end in physicality. 

Only a week after you’d shown up, Arthur and some of the others came back with a red-haired man named Sean. You instantly knew he was Irish the moment he spoke. Since you both came from across the pond, you became close friends. You would have liked to get to know a woman named Molly O’Shea better as she was also Irish and she clearly came from a privileged background, but she didn’t seem interested. 

The person who was most interested in you though was Arthur, the man who’d brought you here. Of course, you were extremely interested in him too and it didn’t take long for you to get feelings for him. He works the hardest out of all of them and he cares about everyone. You saw him bring Mary-Beth a fancy fountain pen one day after she’d mentioned she wanted one. During his rare breaks when he was in camp, he’d often come find you. He claimed he just wanted to make sure you were settling in fine, but you noticed he stuck around you more than the others. He asked a lot of questions about your past, what your childhood and marriage was like, why you left. You told him everything except who your husband was and the fact that he wasn’t really dead. 

When you mentioned you lived your entire life being waited upon, he told you it sounded awful. “How did you not feel like a prisoner?” he asked. You were caught off guard by the question. Before you’d run away, you never felt that way. Now that you’re out here though, completely responsible for yourself, you realize you might as well have been a prisoner. You feel slightly envious about the others, realizing that even though none of them (except perhaps Molly) grew from well-off families, they’re wealthier in something you missed out on in life. All of them have tradable skills that you’re just now learning. Not only that, none of them have to put on a mask, hide who they are. Karen’s not shy about her drinking habits. Tilly used to run with a vicious gang and sometimes she talks about what that was like. No one in camp has ever had to pretend to be someone else. Something you were never allowed to do. 

You sit now with the girls, reading aloud from a book Mary-Beth gave you. Although you often worked with them, they liked you to read aloud. Something about your accent, you suspected. Just as you’re reading a rather romantic scene from the almost sickeningly passionate story, Arthur walks over to your group, clearly wanting to see what’s going on. He has a habit of doing that, which you find endearing. You hide your smile and continue reading as he stops, his hand on his gunbelt. He smiles as he listens, his eyes soft. 

Just as he’s about to say something, John Marston walks over and punches his arm. “Come on, Arthur. Got a job for ya. We’re gonna steal some sheep but need to go to Valentine for something.” 

“Fine,” Arthur says gruffly. Not long after they leave, Dutch and Strauss head off too. 

An hour or so later, the four men come back looking sweaty and angry, Strauss’s leg is bleeding. You’re washing some plates by Pearson’s wagon and Hosea marches over to them. 

“Dutch, Dutch what happened?” 

Dutch dismounts his white horse. “Turns out old Leviticus Cornwall don’t take too kindly to being robbed.” You freeze when you hear the name, but Dutch doesn’t notice. “He came up and tried to kill us, wants us to stop robbing him. We’ll have to leave this place, we had to shoot half the town in order to escape.” 

You follow Dutch into his tent, staying a few steps behind as you listen to him and Hosea. They talk a little more about what led to them being shot at, but neither of them mention knowing Leviticus has a runaway wife. You breathe a sigh of relief. They don’t know, and if they do, they don’t know it’s you. 

******************************

After fleeing Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur and Dutch both agreed you needed to learn how to rob, ride a horse properly and shoot a gun. Arthur took it on himself to teach you those things and he was an incredible instructor: patient, knowledgeable but not arrogant. The more time you spent with him, the deeper your feelings got. A nagging suspicion settled in your gut that he liked you too. It was just the soft way he spoke to you, how his hands lingered on yours when he taught you how to shoot a shotgun. One time you slid right off Willow’s back and he came over to help you up, but his hands stayed on your arms too long. 

It didn’t take long for rumors to get out that you and Arthur were sweet on each other. Of course, you tried denying them, more to protect Arthur than yourself. No way could he want to be with you: a spoiled rich girl who didn’t even know how to sew a button on a shirt when he met you. He never treated you like a spoiled brat and he mentioned to you time and time again how sweet and honest you’ve been with everyone. 

One night after Arthur, Karen, Bill and Lenny robbed the bank in Valentine, Dutch demanded a party for their success as they brought back a lot of cash. Everyone drank and sang together, but it wasn’t long before Sean, Uncle and Lenny started needling Arthur for having a crush on you. He denied it again and again until John came up and joined the fun, stating how obvious it was with a list of examples of his behavior that proved he liked you. 

“I bet you ten dollars, Morgan,” John said, “that if you went over there and kissed her on the mouth right now, that girl would be blushing like crazy and wouldn’t even be mad. I know she likes  you.” 

“Shut your damn mouth, Marston,” Arthur retorted. That was until the other boys joined in on the bet, which climbed up to fifty dollars. All he had to do was kiss you in front of everyone right now. He’d had a lot of whiskey and his face was bright red, but when he looked at you sitting at the round table singing with Grimshaw, he couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter. You looked so beautiful in the light of the lantern, your cheeks pink from your own drunken state. 

“Go get her, son,” Hosea said. Arthur looked at him and then got up, walking slowly over to you. He fidgeted with his hands, terrified but fueled by drink. When he got to your table, he stopped. 

“Y/N, I got somethin’ to say to ya,” he said. 

You smiled and stood up so he could address you. “Alright, Mr. Morgan. What is it?” 

He stammered for a bit, his face growing redder. He hid his eyes beneath his hat and his hands were shaking. God, he was cute when he was nervous. 

Without warning, he suddenly grabbed you and bent you slightly backwards, his lips planting on yours. Out of all the things Arthur could have done that night, that was certainly the last thing you expected. You almost pulled away, but his lips were warm and rough against your smooth skin. He smelled nice too, like pine and leather although you could taste the alcohol on his lips. Forgetting that you had an audience, your hand wove up behind his neck, pulling him closer. Your chest grew warm and a light feeling overcame you, making you kiss him back. 

Someone whistled at you and Arthur, followed by several people laughing. That brought you back down to the present and Arthur pulled away from you and then straightened you up. His face was horribly red, but he was smiling. “Sorry, Y/N,” he said. “I hope I didn’t frighten ya.” 

“Maybe a little, but I liked it,” you said, your hand still on his chest. You glanced at the onlookers as they continued to laugh and tease you. You bit your lip and looked up at Arthur. “What say you we go somewhere more private and try that kiss again?” 

He quickly grabbed your hand and led you off into the trees and then onto a moon-bathed beach by the lake. There, you two ended up doing much more than kissing, although that’s how it started. Encouraged by your drunken states, you were the one who got carried away and stripped out of your clothes in order to swim in the lake to relieve the heat of the air and your body. Arthur followed soon after, but you remember the way he watched you swim. Not long after, you ended up lying with him on the beach, his body glowing silver under the moon. You climbed onto him just to kiss him, but as you were naked and alone, it didn’t take much to end up going further. 

Although the only man you’d slept with before had been Leviticus, it was never on your terms and he only did things with you for a moment before he reached his satisfaction and was done with you. However, Arthur was so different. He touched you in just the right places, his rough hands gliding along your naked back and hips. He felt amazing inside of you as well, almost as though your bodies were molded for the other’s. He’d gotten you to release first then followed shortly after. You never knew sex could be so passionate and emotional, but Arthur made you feel and think things you’d never experienced before. 

The morning after had been a bit awkward when the two of you woke up naked on the beach, still wrapped around one another. You had a pounding headache and knew Arthur did too. When you remembered what you’d done together, you both panicked a moment. Had you really slept with Arthur the same night you found out he loved you back? The two of you dressed but stayed on the beach and talked things out. You came to the decision that what had happened had felt right and you wanted to stay together. After that, you were very open with your relationship to Arthur with the rest of the gang. 

That all happened weeks ago, and you’ve grown to love him more than you thought possible. You’d dreamed of finding a man to love as a child, but had no idea it felt like this. Even as a child, the men you’d imagined you’d love couldn’t hold a candle to Arthur. He’s thoughtful and secretly sensitive, but protective and strong. You remember the way he held you when Sean died, almost crushing you as you sobbed into his chest. Another time in Saint Denis, a man on the street had said something rather rude about you and Arthur punched him in the jaw. “You don’t get to say shit about my girl, ya hear?” he roared as the man fled. You couldn’t dream of a more perfect man to love than Arthur Morgan. 

You were crushed when Hosea and Lenny died and most of the gangs’ men, including Arthur, ended up on a boat and stranded on Guarma. You never thought you’d miss anyone so much, but during the couple of weeks that he was gone, you felt physical pain in his absence. You spent many nights lying on his cot clutching one of his shirts, willing his scent to stay and offer you some level of comfort. When he returned, it was like you could breathe again. Shortly afterwards though, the Pinkertons forced you and the gang to flee Lakay and into Beaver Hollow, an old Murphree hideout. 

That’s where you are now. While things with the gang have always had rough patches, now they’re worse than ever. People fight constantly and Dutch seems to be losing his mind. He’s changed from the intelligent, cunning but caring man into someone who’s still intelligent and cunning but enjoys killing. It doesn’t help that Micah constantly hisses into his ear. 

Over the past few months of travelling with the gang, you’ve heard relatively little from and about your husband. Somehow you’ve managed to avoid the patrols he’s likely sent out to look for you and you only saw your name show up once in an article in the Saint Denis paper about your disappearance. However, with tensions in the camp running higher than ever and Dutch acting so mad, you’re beginning to fear things are about to come to a head with you at the center. 

Micah strolls into camp, holding a newspaper under his arm and followed by Bill. They’ve just come from Annesburg, having scouted there for possible leads on scores. You’re standing at Pearson’s wagon, preparing tonight’s stew. Micah gives you a knowing and dark smile that you don’t like as he heads to Dutch’s wagon. A bad feeling comes into your stomach and you follow behind him a few steps. 

“Dutch, I just found somethin’ out. Somethin’ that could be real useful. Somethin’ with ol’ Cornwall,” Micah simpers at him. 

Dutch lowers his cigar and looks at Micah expectantly. Micah rubs his hands together. 

“Did you know ol’ Cornwall’s married and his little wife ran away right after we robbed his train up in Ambarino?” 

“How is this any use to us?” Arthur demands, having been attracted by the name Cornwall. “Not like we’re gonna find her.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, cowpoke. Turns out we already found her and she’s right there.” Micah spins and points right at you. Everyone in camp stops and stares at you as your blood runs cold. 

“Shut up, Micah,” Arthur growls, walking up to your side to protect you. “Y/N’s husband’s dead.” 

“Or is he?” Micah retorts. He flings the newspaper at Arthur. “Read it and weep, Morgan.” 

Arthur furrows his brow but opens the newspaper. “N-no, don’t!” you plead, but too late. There’s a black and white photograph of you standing arm in arm with Leviticus Cornwall, your unsmiling faces staring up at Arthur. He reads the first bit of the article aloud. 

“Leviticus Cornwall, executive of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, Cornwall Rails blah blah blah has released a new statement regarding the disappearance of his wife. Back in May, Mr. Cornwall’s train was robbed in Ambarino by the notorious Van der Linde gang. In order to investigate the robbery, Mr. Cornwall and his wife Y/N came down from their home in Pennsylvania. Mr. Cornwall last saw his wife in Annesburg when she left to stay in his residence in New Hanover. It was reported that she did not arrive at the home but her stage driver and chauffeur, Mr. Stanley Wilcox, claimed she was missing shortly after arriving at Emerald Ranch. It was unknown then if they had been involved in her disappearance or if she’d been kidnapped by other means.”

“Earlier this month, a citizen of Saint Denis stated he’d seen Mrs. Cornwall in the city. ‘I’d just visited the Cornwall manor a week previously on business with my brother,’ Mr. Henry Larson reports. ‘I saw a painting in a hallway of Mr. Cornwall and his wife Y/N. I recognized her immediately. She was dressed like a farm girl but it was definitely her.’”

“A few days after this incident was reported, authorities had reached Mr. Cornwall about his wife’s appearance, but before he could arrive, the Saint Denis Massacre occurred in which the previously mentioned Van der Linde gang attempted to rob the city’s bank and a shootout between them, the city’s law enforcement and the Pinkerton Detective Agency occurred. The gang of outlaws has since fled the area, but rumors speculate that Mrs. Cornwall is among them. If anyone holds any information towards her whereabouts, they are greatly urged to come forward. Mr. Cornwall has offered a considerable $20,000 to anyone who can find his wife and return her safely.” 

Arthur lowers the paper, his eyes dark. Your hands are trembling. The cat’s out of the bag now and you’re in big trouble. Micah sniggers as Arthur looks at you, his eyes tell you the betrayal and pain he feels. 

“You’re Y/N Cornwall,” he says as a tear slides down your cheek. 

“Only on paper,” you say. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

“Oh because it was so hard to say ‘hello, I’m Y/N Cornwall, you just robbed my husband but do you mind if I run with you fellas a while’ when you first arrived?” Micah taunts. Dutch’s eyes are narrowed slightly, the way they do when he’s got a plan coming together. 

You look around at everyone staring at you in shock. Some look like they have a hard time believing it, Mary-Beth and John for example, while others look angry and hurt. Arthur is among them. He drops the newspaper and takes a step back from you.

“All this time,” he says quietly. “All this time and you never mentioned once you’re his goddamn wife!” 

Another tear falls. “I’m sorry, Arthur. Everyone, I’m sorry. But how was I supposed to tell you the truth? You robbed my husband, he tried to kill you. Not only that, I was never married to him by choice. My parents basically sold me to him and he’s never made me happy. Maybe… maybe I was just happy to finally be around people who didn’t associate me with him for once.” 

You clasp your hands in front of you, willing any of them to understand. Dutch walks slowly towards you, his jaw set. Micah follows behind, looking excited.

“You’re Y/N Cornwall. The man who has been hunting us for months. The man who holds the ticket to our freedom from this cesspit of a country. I think I have a new plan.” 

His eyes narrow, glittering. You suddenly realize what he’s thinking. 

“Dutch, please don’t take me to him. I’m begging you. If he finds me again, he’ll kill me. I don’t even know if he’ll pay you for me. Dutch, he hates you and your boys more than anything, you were the only ones stupid enough to rob him. I know for a fact he’s paying the Pinkertons to hunt you down.” 

“How do you know this?” John asks, standing next to Arthur.

“Because I know Leviticus better than any of you,” you say. “He obviously figured out pretty quickly that the gang from Blackwater were the same ones to rob him. He also must have found out the Pinkertons were looking for you, so I’ve no doubt he contacted them and started putting money into their pockets.” 

“Or you’re the rat we’ve been looking for,” Micah sneers. “Maybe you’re the one telling the Pinkertons our every move. Think about it, Dutch. All our problems with them started right after we took her in. She’s been lying to us from the start.” 

You don’t know what to say in your defense. Since you have lied to them from the start about your true past, there’s nothing you can do to say you aren’t lying to them now.

“Dutch, please,” you whisper, your lower lip trembling. 

He sighs and stares hard at you. “Tie her up.” 

Before you can move, two pairs of hands grip you tight and throw you down, your hands and feet being tied up. People are yelling, you hear Sadie screech and Arthur roar. You start trying to look around to ask someone for help, but a black cloth is tied around your head, covering your eyes. Someone shoves another cloth into your mouth, preventing you from speaking. You can still hear though. 

“Dutch!” Arthur roars. “Let’s talk about this! We can’t take her to Cornwall! Like she said, ain’t no guarantee he’d pay us after all the problems we given him.” 

You feel yourself thrown over a horse’s back as Dutch says, “This is the right move, Arthur. I don’t like it, but she’s used us and this is our best shot at getting out of here. Heyaw!” 

The horse beneath you suddenly begins to run and you can hear the pounding of other horses. Arthur still yells at Dutch, trying to make him think logically, but Dutch ignores him. 

After a while of heavy riding in which you feel like all your ribs and your stomach have been heavily bruised from the horse’s movements, they stop. You can smell the thick coal dust and the smell of polluted water. Someone’s hands grab you and you’re set on your feet, the ropes cut. The bandana and gag are removed and you see you’re standing on the pier of Annesburg, a boat docked. The name of it is The Soaring Emily. Leviticus named it that after his first wife. 

“Cornwall!” Dutch hollers, keeping a painfully tight hold on your arm. “Cornwall! Get out here! My friends and I have a proposal for you!” 

Looking behind you and Dutch, you spot Bill, Micah, John and Arthur. Arthur looks at you, pain in his eyes. He doesn’t want to do this, but nothing can stop Dutch in his roll. 

A door on the ship’s deck opens and Leviticus Cornwall steps out, flanked by a group of men, all holding rifles. His eyes glare at you and then to Dutch.

“My friend,” Dutch says. “I heard tell that your lovely wife got away from your clutches. Well, just so happens, she’s been stowing away with me and my boys for the last few weeks. Rumor says you’re wanting her back, so we’re here to make a deal. You give me and my boys that $20,000 and a boat. You get your wife back and we’ll stop robbing from you. In fact, you’ll never hear from us again.” 

Leviticus just laughs. “Mr. Van der Linde, I admire your determination and your daring, but if you think I will give you a single penny, then you’re sorely mistaken.” 

“How about now?” Dutch responds, pulling out his pistol and aiming it at your temple. He pulls the back the hammer, your heart pounding in your ears as more tears fall down your cheeks. Dutch wouldn’t kill you, would he? After all the time you spent in his camp, helping feed the others and bring in money, he’s just going to kill you. Something tells you he will if he doesn’t get his way. 

“Dutch,” Arthur hisses a warning behind him. He’s ignored.

“Now Mr. Cornwall, I know what it’s like to see the woman you love die by the hands of your greatest enemy. Now while I doubt poor Y/N here is the love of your life, you obviously value her in some way. Which would you rather keep? Her life or your money?” 

Cornwall glares back at him, his teeth bared. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Van der Linde. Business doesn’t care for feelings or love. Shoot her if you must, but I will not give you anything!” 

Your stomach drops as you realize that this is it. Dutch is just crazy enough that he won’t care about shooting a member of his own gang. You’re not surprised at all that Leviticus is willing to let you die. To him, you’re replaceable, a mere object. Still you thought you mattered to the others, to Arthur. 

Before anyone can do anything to save you from Dutch’s grip, Dutch nods. “You sure? Fine, I prefer it this way.” He suddenly swings the gun forward and shoots Cornwall, the bullet piercing his chest. He pushes you down as Cornwall’s men begin firing, the others shooting back. The gang begins to run as more men come out from the boat, leaving you where you’ve fallen. You start to scream, begging for help, but it seems no one can hear you amidst the gunfire. 

Suddenly a pair of hands grabs your arms and cuts the length of rope binding them, then they lift you up. “Come on, sweetheart,” Arthur’s rough voice says as you stand. 

You’re shaking hard and you want nothing more than to throw your arms around him, but now isn’t the time. Sharp gunshots litter the air, echoing off the buildings. Arthur grabs your hand and runs north on the train tracks. When you reach a bridge going over a sharp dip in the land, a path running through it, he stops. 

“You go, darlin’,” he says, breathing hard. “Go, don’t come back to Beaver Hollow. It ain’t safe for you there.” 

“Arthur, I’m sorry,” you say, thinking he’s pushing you away because he’s mad. 

“Just go, darlin’. I’ll come find you when I can. But you can’t come back, ya hear? You do and you’re dead.” Before you can say anything else, he’s running back down the bridge towards Annesburg to rejoin the gang. You know he can’t leave of course. Not now anyways. Dutch and the others still depend on him too much. 

You flee from Annesburg, having no idea where you’ll go or what you’ll do. Your horse is back at Beaver Hollow, but luckily all your money and the few pieces of jewelry you stole from Leviticus are in your satchel. You run north towards Willard’s Rest and then stop by the wide river where you finally break down. The past few weeks come rushing through you, the good and the bad. You know since Guarma, Dutch has gone crazy but you never thought he’d turn on you like that. Not when he’s spouted for weeks about having loyalty and faith to anyone who would listen. Your life has come crashing down around you so swiftly, you aren’t sure how to process it. 

You stay here for a few hours, going between sobbing, missing the gang (especially Arthur) and feeling numb. As the sun begins to set, you look down the path and see Arthur riding up, your horse in tow. When you see him, you begin to cry again. You don’t run to him though, knowing how hurt he must be. 

He dismounts and walks over to you, pulling you into a tight hug which surprises you. “Arthur, I’m so sorry,” you wail into his shirt. “I never meant to hurt you.” 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says into your hair. “I know why ya lied. Hell, I probably would’ve too. But everything else you said, was it true?” 

“Everything is. The way I grew up, how I was sold to him. I promise his name and the fact that he wasn’t dead at the time was the only parts I hid.” 

He sighs and pulls away. “Well, I guess one of your lies came true today though. Darlin’, I’m so sorry.” 

Over the next few hours, you and he discuss what will happen now. He comes to the decision he won’t leave the gang, he can’t. He knows now that there’s no saving Dutch, but maybe he can help the others get out. You, on the other hand, would be handed a death sentence if you stepped foot into the camp. He asks what you want to do and you admit that you just want to live somewhere alone with him and have a quiet life, begin a family with him. He blushes but agrees that’s what he wants to. 

The next day, he takes you to a small cottage he’s seen on the borders of New Hanover and Ambarino, not far from the river. It’s secluded and well hidden in the trees. You have plenty of money to set your things in order, so you’ll be well off here. It’s also far enough from the gang that they won’t find you but it’s not far enough for him to not come visit you. 

Over the next couple of weeks, he visits every couple of days. You manage to take care of yourself quite well having learned through him how to hunt and skin animals. You bought some materials and seeds from the store in Valentine and are determined to start a garden, although you’ve never taken care of plants before. It’s a lot harder than you thought, but you manage to get a few plants sprouting. 

When Arthur visits, he tells you of the things he and the gang has done, how much crazier Dutch gets. Arthur himself is growing angry and mistrustful of him, but he’s determined to help the others escape with their lives. Sometimes you read about the gang’s activities in the paper in Valentine, like Bacchus Bridge being blown up, Colm O’Driscoll’s hanging in Saint Denis followed by a deadly shootout, tensions growing between the Wapiti and the army. 

One night Arthur shows up at your little cabin late into the night. He’s exhausted and there’s blood on his hands. “I’m done, darlin’,” he says when you open the door. “I ain’t ever goin’ back there. I’ve wasted my life livin’ the preachings of a crazy man.”

“What happened?” 

Arthur explains how the son of the Wapiti chief went and did a raid on Cornwall’s oilfield in order to retaliate for them forcing his people off their land. You know Arthur has had many dealings with them, trying to help them in their struggles against the army. Arthur then describes how, after getting bonds from the foreman’s office, he got knocked down by a burst pipe. An officer pinned him to the floor and nearly overpowered him. Dutch had seen it all and even had the chance to kill the man, but Arthur watched him walk away, sealing his fate.  

“If Eagle Flies hadn’t come, I’d be dead. Then that asshole Colonel Favors shot him. He’s dead now, and all because Dutch didn’t care if I died. When I accused him of such, he lied in front of everyone and said he’d done no such thing. I’m done, darlin’. I’m done fightin’ his battles for him just so he can leave me to die. I wanna start a new life with you properly now.” 

“Arthur,” you say, cupping his cheek. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

[wandaluvstacos]

So weird thing, I read your stories years and years ago on fictionpress. I think you were actually still writing Reflections when I started reading it. And I did read Reflections first, and I've realised that it completely shaped my opinion about Essie. I'm sad about the rewrite thing, but honestly I had a weird thing about Essie since I read Reflections first, so it's probably a good thing.

Hey there! Man, that was a long time ago, lol. 2010, I think?

As I’m re-writing Reflections, I’m sad to say it’s probably worse in regards to the Essie thing. I find it really fascinating to explore Essie through the eyes of someone who is a little determined to hate her, how all of the things I myself as an author ADORE could be seen as annoying or fake to someone with reason to dislike her. And because I love jabbering on about my characters, I’m gonna get into it.

So if I re-write Confessions to go the way I want, Essie will help put Peaches up in Oliver’s place, and Peaches lacks pretty much all adulthood knowledge, such as how to do laundry, how to cook, how to open a bank account, etc. Because he had totally absent foster parents in a house full of shitty teenage boys, and then he ended up homeless when he couldn’t hold a job, which made it worse. So Essie finds Peaches just buying new clothes whenever he needs them because he doesn’t understand how to wash them and then, like, eating PB&Js constantly because he has no idea how to cook and he’s far too anxious to ask and risk looking stupid. The twins aren’t bright, so they just chalk it up to him being weird. Only after a few months does Essie realize what’s going on, flips out, and takes Peaches on the ULTIMATE ADULTHOOD TOUR: helping him cook, open a bank account, pay bills, get a credit card, etc.

This, as seen through Essie’s (and Peaches’s, honestly) POV is a compassionate, loving act that brings them closer together. Peaches doesn’t mind that Essie does stuff for him and tells him what to do, because he likes having direction and structure in his life after the free-for-all that was his foster care experience and homelessness.

But some people see Essie’s actions a bit differently. So here’s an excerpt from my newest draft of Reflections, showing how Oliver and Justin feel about Essie/Eddie after Essie and Peaches break up, which shows that people could possibly come out really disliking Eddie/Essie without his POV.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“How long had he and Peaches beentogether?”            Oliver shrugged as he startedto cut the pie into four pieces. “Fuck if I know. Feels like forever. Eddiereally helped Peaches out, got him off the streets and taught him stuff. I lethim stay in my apartment, but Eddie got all pissed when he realized I wasn’tteaching him things.”

           “Likewhat?”

           “Likehow to do laundry and shit. How was I supposed to know he didn’t know how towash his own damn clothes? Apparently being homeless and living in a fosterhome with fake parents who barely remember your name doesn’t do much for yourself-sufficiency. He couldn’t do anythingand he’s so damn quiet that he won’t ask. So then Eddie chewed out my ass fornot babysitting him appropriately.” Oliver used his fingers to pry apart hispie piece and then tried to hold it together when he took a bite. “That’sEddie’s thing, you know. He’s gotta mothereveryone. Sometimes it’s great.” Oliver gestures to the pie in his hand. “But,like, I’m a grown ass man. I don’t need a mom. Peaches, though… Peaches has the patience for that. I’m an independent person who likesdoing what I want, and no one is going to tell me otherwise. But Peaches likeshaving direction and being told what to do. He tells me it makes him lessanxious.” Oliver shrugged. “Whatever works, I guess.”

           Itried to remember my brief interaction with Eddie from before. That glimpseinto his personality had shown someone who was accustomed to issuing orders andhaving them followed, and I hated to think that Peaches just bowed his head andsaid “yes, sir” to that shit. He seemed plenty capable of independence with me,even though he always deferred to my preference on where or when we hung out.

           “Don’tget me wrong, I love Eddie. He’s like that annoying sibling who you can onlyspend about twenty minutes around but who you’d risk your fucking life for.He’s a super good person. Just… reallyintense. And I think Peaches got so used to someone riding his ass all the timethat now he’s got some kind of withdrawal. Like he doesn’t know what to do withhimself now that Eddie’s not there telling him what to do.”

           “Howwould I compare?” I couldn’t help but ask.

           “Ican spend more than twenty minutes with you,” Oliver replied.

           “Oh.Great.”

           “Pie?”Oliver asked.

           “Nothanks.” I didn’t want to eat the pie, enjoy it, and hate Eddie even more. Hesounded a bit like a nightmare to me, especially when compared beside my memoryof him snapping at Peaches for something as dumb as putting away an amp byhimself.  I imagined someone controllingand heavy-handed, someone who flew off the handle whenever he was defied. Ibegan to construct Eddie’s personality from these gathered bits so that I couldbetter understand what Oliver called Peaches’s “withdrawal”. Perhaps if I couldfill in some of that void. Oliver described Eddie as intense, and I’d beencalled the same, albeit for different reasons.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Thanks for the ask! Can you tell I love these kinds of things, lol.