#it is not the air itself but the wind is damn strong and that makes it feel so cold

[kaddyssammlung]

[ephemii]

𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐞! 🦇☁️🌙

⭑genre: fluff, romantic or platonic

⭑pairing: lilia/yuu

⭑cw: none!

✶notes: haven't posted in a hot second! got very busy with college, but i decided to write this as a treat! enjoy~

A long day had passed once again, leaving a relieving calm to wash over the campus. Golden afternoon glow gave way to lavender haze, a watercolor meld of dwindling daylight and the bleeding eve of night. It was on the last dredges of days like these that Yuu would be shedding their stress and aiming to unwind by themselves, weary after dealing with the troubles of their ever considerate headmage and two loveably idiotic best friends.

.... Well, that's what they would have loved to be doing, anyways. Intead, they were several dozen feet off the ground.

Their hands grip onto those of their fae friend like a lifeline, muscles pulled taut and straining as they fight to maintain a secure hold while they dangle precariously, reeling from the contrast of their fear for their life and Lilia's boisterous laughter ringing across the quiet horizon. If it were any other situation, Yuu could have mustered the praises that compiled at the tip of their tongue, admiring the way the deep magenta of his irises glinted like precious stones and the demure sunlight reflecting from beneath his flowing onyx locks of hair— alas, they were left to reserve their strength for the periodic yelps and shouts they emitted any moment they looked beneath them and the impressive height Lilia had managed to guide them through. They had never once thought that they would have such an epiphany— to realize that they had taken gravity itself for granted, they had to truly commend Lilia for making that a possibility to begin with.

"A youthful smile does you more justice, my little bat," Lilia giggled cheekily, his fangs glinting brilliantly, "why, you're on top of the world!"

"Set me DOWN, Lilia!!" Yuu ignored his spirited jargon, pleading vehemently.

Lilia’s laughter echoed like music in the crisp air, each note teasing and light. “But why would I do that when the view is simply exquisite?” He gestured expansively, as if presenting his life's work in an art gallery. Yuu screamed, scrambling to latch their now empty hand onto his sleeve, feeling like their heart had caught in their throat. Below them, the sprawling campus looked like a patchwork quilt stitched together with fading hues of the day, and once again they inwardly cursed the fae for not giving them an opportunity to admire it peacefully.

"Lilia, for Sevens' sake!!" Yuu clenched their teeth, the world swirling beneath them. “This isn’t exactly my idea of a good time!” they protested, their heart racing as they nearly whined in fear.

“Oh, come now! A little thrill never hurt anyone.” Lilia’s hair fluttered against a pleasant gust of wind, a flurry of iridescent colors that glinted in the twilight. He reveled in the sensation of weightlessness, the sheer excitement invigorating him. “You’ve been cooped up for far too long. A bit of adventure is good for the soul!”

Yuu squinted at the horizon, trying to focus on anything other than the dizzying height. “I thought you were supposed to be helping me relax, not give me a heart attack!”

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Lilia leaned in closer. Yuu looked up at him, eyes boring into his pleadingly— yet all their hopes were quickly shattered the moment his smile widened.

“How about this for a little fun?” Before Yuu could process what he meant, Lilia tossed them upward with a swift, strong heave.

Stars damn it all, they forgot he was that strong.

Yuu’s scream cut through the air as they soared for a split second, staring down at Lilia with wide, bewildered eyes. They didn't know whether to feel warmth or sheer anger at the way he laughed so exuberantly, looking like the very inspiration of joy, painted onto the backdrop of a calm autumn. Just as panic set in, and they were ready to pray to whatever gods safeguarded Twisted Wonderland, Lilia caught them with readily open arms, wrapping them up securely with his legs around them. Yuu grunted at the impact, gasping at the immediate relief rushing through them in dizzying waves.

“Surprise!” he giggled, clearly delighted by their shocked expression. “What did I tell you about living a little? How was that for a ride?”

Heart pounding, Yuu buried their face in his shoulder as they clung to him like a lifeline, mortified but unable to suppress a small, breathless laugh.

“You’re insane!” they lamented.

“Oh, but what is life without a healthy dose of heedlessness?” Lilia grinned onto their cheek, holding them tightly as they swayed gently in the air, “Look at you, all flustered. Isn’t it just the most exhilarating feeling?” he said with a reverence that made them wonder if he truly worshiped the thrill of the chase. The contrast of his deft fingers brushing through their hair caused a small shudder to wrack their limbs.

Yuu could feel their cheeks heat up as they took a deep breath, their initial fear giving way to a strange titillation. “I mean, maybe...." they admitted, peering out from their hiding spot. “...as long as you always catch me.”

Lilia processed their words for one quiet moment... Then he grinned, something more warm and tender as he looked down at them. Yuu averted their gaze, to which he chuckled quietly, that deep, melodious and quick staccato, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“Then what say you to another round? I promise to catch you again, but you have to let go of that fear!”

With a mix of trepidation and enthralment, Yuu nodded, their heart racing in anticipation. Even then, they smiled delicately— No matter how hard they tried, they could never say no to him.

while i'm not inexperienced in writing, it's still a bit exciting finally writing for twst! i have a lot more in store, and hopefully i can finish them up and post them soon if time allows :] thank you for reading! 🤍🩷🤍

[phantomsies]

no thots, just going on a camping trip with ace :)

wc: 1.8K

fresh air on a warm summer night, the ripple of small insects and discarded rocks across the muggy lake waters, intermittent gusts of wind passing through the thick trees, the crackle of debris underneath rubber soled shoes…it was all of these little things that made Ace love the outdoors. Being one with nature and exploring the beautiful unknown, one hike, fishing expedition or camping trip at a time!

it wasn’t uncommon for the spontaneous traveler to just up and decide on a whim that he was going to pack up his supplies, load up his old beater of a Silverado with enough food and water to feed an army for the weekend and head out to his next destination. Albeit a spring with glistening water or a forest some sixty miles away from home. His cell phone was only left on so that worried loved ones were aware of his location…

“..don’t worry about me, I’ll be back in a few days!” Otherwise, his only connection was to the furry animals that made his acquaintance and the earth itself. It was something about the whole experience that awakened his primal instincts…

but perhaps nothing awoken said urges more than when he decided to invite his beloved (y/n) (l/n) along for a weekend excursion to the infamous Twin Flames Peak. A recreational park that was known for its incredible hiking areas, breathtaking waterfalls and the stunning view of the stars at night over the campsites. Yes, he was thrilled to have the company of another fellow outdoorsman and one with such a pretty face to boot!

Watching intently as you tie your box braids up in a neat bun in the passenger seat of his truck. Clear gloss smearing your luscious lips and not another speck of makeup on that perfect canvas..a feeling of warmth and sheer happiness encompassing him as he watches you glide your nimble hands up and down those smooth, brown legs with coats of lotion; just in awe of how the sunlight captures the essence of your gorgeous dark skin underneath its rays. “Careful, babe. You get out smelling all sweet and looking this good, you might attract some unwanted guests.” “Well that’s what I have my big strong man for. You’ll protect me, right?” Joking as you thought he’d probably be insane enough to try and go toe to toe with a damn bear!

Despite it all, he knows he’s got nothing to worry about. Ace has watched you handle your own throughout the rough and tumble. Yes, this gorgeous woman who can pitch a tent and lug firewood just as well as she can put on a designer dress and shake ass at the club…would be spending three whole days out here in the wilderness with him. Those once primal instincts that activated when he sensed nearby danger or felt hunger and rations were low..

had now shifted towards you. Like a predator lying in wait on its prey to slip up, he glared hungrily as you strutted in front of him in those biker shorts and tank top. That plump, toned ass swaying with each step as the two of you trekked to the campsite. His mouth practically watering for a taste of what lies between those somehow thick thighs…

the ratio of your proportions would be enough to turn anyone into a rabid beast. “You better keep up back there, I might leave you behind.” “Is that right? Maybe I like it back here.” Tossing him a wink as you wave to him with a beckoning finger. It’s in this moment that Ace realizes he can no longer sate his carnal desires..discreetly cupping at the tent in his shorts before instructing you to stop at a nearby tree with some made up lie about needing to fix something on your gear. It’s then that he makes his move..

launching the first attack with his lips practically melded to yours in a haze of passion. His tongue descends deeper between your jaws with deep grunts and whimpers to follow…sweaty palms ravenously groping at your tits as the bottom half is sent upwards to be pinched between your teeth for comfort. Ace knows you’ll need it for his lecherous plans to defile your body right here in the forest! Nightfall is soon to come so others are scarce, meaning that he didn’t need to hold back.

instead, he’d instruct you to wrap your arms around the back of the tree and hold still..with a gentle suck of his teeth and muttered expletives under his breath, he’d run those fingers down the curvature your torso before not so subtly shoving his hand in the seat of your panties. He can feel your warmth..the arousal already forming only seconds in. ”You’re wet, babe. That’s a lil’ surprising..” Chuckling as the sounds of your stirred up slick met the crackle of the leaves.

two digits slowly make place on that budding clit and your reaction is priceless! An adorable yelp before tossing your hand over your mouth to shield those whimpers. However, you don’t resist..you don’t even tell him to stop. You just continue working the pads of his index and middle fingers..rolling those hips as you peer down over your stomach. Meanwhile, those exposed tits gently bounce each time he jolts a finger in and out of you.

Hell, he knew the thought of lewd acts in a public place was a bit shameful but it was called the wild for a reason. You were merely mammals, acting in the way you were intended to..no need to be bashful of that!

he’d smugly reach for that hand and peel it back from your mouth whilst those pumps grew faster.

“Instead of trying to hide those moans, pretty girl..squeeze those nipples f’r me. You’ll feel a lot better.”

“Ace, we’ve gotta stop this. I’m gonna fucking come—“

in that moment, your breath hitched in your throat and you realized those pleas were futile because that was his plan. To make you reach climatic bliss right under the night sky. “Then do it..why hold back? Because you’re embarrassed?..afraid we’ll get caught?” His words seeped into your brain as his teeth and lips met your neck once more. Like a carnivorous beast, he’d scrape along your skin before gently grazing you with bites. “Because I’m not. Hell, I hope they see us..see me fucking you like a little slut.”

The entire prospect had him so aroused, he couldn't help but to shuffle those pants to his waistline and tease the head of his throbbing cock against your slick folds. Which prompted him to suck his teeth. “Listen at that..it’s like your little pussy is just begging to be stuffed.” Without haste, he’d snatch your head towards him and force you to focus on that thick member rubbing on your clit. “So beg me, babe. Beg me to fuck you.” It was such a different side of him than before. The jovial, wide eyed camper turned deviant animal had you in his claws with no plans to release…and you had no complaints! So you’d fulfill his wish and plead to feel him inside of you. To be pinned against this tree and fucked until your eyes trailed to the back of your skull.

“Please..fuck me. I don’t care if anyone hears us. I need you..”

it was all he needed to feel affirmed. For you to be equally as carefree as he was. Your shorts had been residing at your knees so he’d finish removing them before hoisting a leg to his shoulder and keeping his eyes focused on your own. “Good girl. That’s all you had to say.” In a moment's notice, you’d find yourself impaled on him; split open by that tip and a few more inches. Releasing loud wails, the two of you moved like a well oiled machine. His hips snapping without so much as slowing down and you meeting those thrusts. The sounds of your skin smacking colliding with the ruffle of the leaves underneath your shoes and of course, the foul words escaping those lips.

“You’re so fucking tight, sweetheart..I hope you’ve been taking your pill because I can’t wait to breed all these pretty holes. Make you walk back to camp with all my cum in you…that’ll be so fucking sexy. Maybe we should’ve brought your plug too.”

meanwhile, you were honing in on massaging your clit, even lobbing a trail of saliva down your tummy to aid in those strokes. Giggling at how calculated his plan whilst gasping and moaning.

“How long have you been waiting to get me out here like this?”

“Only since forever.”

and he had no plans to squander this opportunity. Only to make it worth both of your time. Cradling a hand to the back of your neck, Ace keeps your faces glued to one another..eventually drawing you closer for some deep, sloppy pecks. Those lips smacking as loud as the wet skin below; hips bucking..snapping with each movement and the next thrust growing harder than the last. Praising you for the way you took him so easily. His pace quickens and he can’t seem to slow down…hell, he’s insatiable and the only cure is to feel that tight hole squeezing him and squirting all over his shaft. The sensation of that warmth continuously wrapping around him..pulling him back in each time he felt as if he was going to slip out.

it was evident by the tears welling in your eyes that you were close and who was he to deny you the sweet surrender of an orgasm?

“Oh my gosh! Fuck..right there, right there—“

“Come f’r me, pretty girl. Let it out…come all over this dick.”

each stroke from then on brought forth spurts of wetness, until that little bladder emptied all over his shoes and the ground beneath. But that wasn’t the end..no, he couldn’t let up until he saw his earlier promise through. So he’d force himself through that overly sensitive flesh..getting only half of those eight or so inches before it’d begin to snap. Even so, he persists..because the only thing he wants is to feel that seed pouring into your womb. And it’s not long before his wish is granted. You’d pull him in close, pleading with him to fill you to the brim. Marking his back previously and now with those deep scratch marks, signifying that he was your territory and now he’d done the same..all but growling as he empties his balls into you and leaves a stream of that hot white load embedded inside of you. Chest heaving and curse words are still spewing from his mouth, along with a laugh.

“Fuck..I swear you bring out the worst in me.”

“Says the one whose idea it was in the first goddamn place.”

but there aren’t any complaints. It was no secret you enjoyed this as much as he did. And those primal urges were only just beginning to be quelled…

“Well I have a better idea..why don’t we go for round two when we get back to the tent?”

after all, you had a long weekend ahead of you!

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 26: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Summary: You get caught up in town with Micah when running for supplies, and Arthur is none too pleased about it. 

*This image is not mine but comes from Pintrest, posted by Duknan

Word Count - 14, 290 (Sorry this is a long one!)

A/N: This one took me awhile and I was about to post it, and then decided to rewrite and reorganize some passages. I know there are strong opinions of Micah Bell out there, but don't hate on me. This will have some sympathies towards our favorite antagonist. Just trying to delve into his character a bit.

Special thank you, as always, to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my cheerleader and beta-reader.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter - still in progress but there are a handful of future chapters that were posted ahead of time

The convoy of wagons and horses carefully snakes its way down the narrow mountain path from Colter. The crisp, frigid air is filled with the sounds of creaking wood and squelching mud as the horses plow through melting snow and sludge underfoot. The last remnants of delicate snowflakes dance in the wind, skipping about like crystalline winter fairies before landing on riders and wagons alike. 

Dutch has decided that you all have been hiding up in the wicked winds and snow of the Grizzly Mountains for long enough and it is now time to leave due to several factors. The robbery of the train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall was a success, there is a new addition to the group with Mrs. Adler (who is still recovering from the loss of her husband and home), John is slowly on the mend from the wolf attack, but most importantly, there are O’Driscoll’s afoot in the area. While Dutch is not intimidated by Colm O’Driscoll, he is certainly well aware that his own gang is wounded and not up to snuff as they usually are. It’s best to move the group while he can, getting you all to a more temperate area, and regroup with a new plan for the gang’s future. 

While Arthur is still a little cantankerous about what happened in Blackwater and, of course, the events after, you and he have at least reconnected to some extent, which has calmed your nerves a bit from the calamity that led to the gang’s abrupt escape to the mountains. It is hard enough to deal with what has happened without having to fret over your still fairly new relationship with a man who has spent years barricading himself off from anyone else. 

Sometimes, you can steal Arthur away and get him to relax with you, finding comfort in warm embraces and delicious kisses, to feel warm, strong hands holding each other when it seems like the world around you is about to fall apart. But it doesn’t take much once Arthur is away from you to ignite his vexation once more. 

Dutch currently leads the gang through a shallow end of the frigid river and across the rocky riverbed, which wreaks havoc on the wheels of the old wagons. This is probably not the most pleasant path, but it is a more direct route to your destination and the sooner you are off this damn mountainside, the better. 

But of course, as luck would have it, the wagon that Arthur and Hosea are driving barely makes it to the other side of the bank before one of the wheels breaks. The vehicle groans and wobbles before the wheel pops off entirely, causing it to lurch, the axle stubbornly planting itself into the gloopy, frigid mud. 

“Ah, shit!” Arthur hollers, tossing the reins down in a heap at his feet in frustration. 

Upon hearing the loud snapping of wood, and Arthur’s even louder cursing, the convoy stops. “Everything alright back there?” hollers Bill from up ahead, twisting in his saddle to try to get a better view. 

“Does everything look alright to you?” Arthur shouts sarcastically, losing his patience by the second.

“Well, what’s going on?” Javier peevishly asks, curious as to how long this will delay them as he’s eager to get out of the cold and on to the new camp.

“I broke the goddamn wheel!” Arthur’s breath huffs sharply out of his nose like a bull as his burly frame jumps down from the wagontop and he lumbers around the side to assess the damage.

A grunt of aged exhaustion bubbles from Hosea’s weathered lips as he too climbs down from the driver seat where he’s been sitting next to Arthur for the last several hours. The old man works the stiffness out of his joints as he moves to stand next to Arthur, blowing warm air into his hands and flexing as he adjusts his gloves. “Well, no sense grumbling about. Let’s get it fixed, then.” 

At this point, Charles Smith has sauntered over to see if he can lend a hand. While Arthur, Hosea and Charles toss playful banter at one another while fighting with the unwelcomed repair, you eagerly capitalize on the moment of reprieve to climb out of the back of the wagon to stretch your legs and back. Taking advantage of being in his close proximity, you opted to ride with Arthur rather than riding your own horse or up with the girls in their wagon, but your butt is not thanking you for that decision at the moment. 

Rolling your neck as you rub the tired muscles nestled there, you catch sight of the O’Driscoll that Arthur had caught up by Mrs. Adler’s place. Curious about the new arrival, you take a moment to study him as he stands tethered to the chuck wagon. He seems skittish and frail like a baby duckling trying to stay close to its nest. He doesn’t seem to be all that impressive and even though Dutch thinks this young man may have some valuable information, you are more inclined to think he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arthur is convinced that this little man is trouble, but you are not so sure. To Arthur, the only good O’Driscoll is dead O’Driscoll. But something in the man’s terrified and untrusting eyes tells you that he hates Colm O’Driscoll more than anything. 

While the torture has not ensued just yet, the gang has not exactly been hospitable to this hostage. With the others distracted, you take the opportunity to approach the O’Driscoll yourself. You observe him with a piqued interest as you get closer to him. He doesn’t seem to be that dangerous as he shutters and shakes, nervous of every move around him. The hazel eyes nest in deep sockets, ringed with dark circles, and continually dart all around him. And it dawns on you that he is not looking at the convoy of people who hold him captive, but at the treeline and distant hills. It’s as if he’s more worried about the outside threat from someone else than he is about being left with the Van Der Linde gang. 

“Hello,” you say softly, your voice low so as to not startle him. The man doesn’t reply when you catch his attention, but just stares at you with wide, distrustful eyes.

But you meet his uneasiness with your usual gentle smile. “I brought you some bread and water.” He watches your hands float to the canteen around your shoulder and then to the linen napkin in your palm. His eyes widen even more with a spellbound awe, the gurgling sound of his painfully hungry stomach filling the awkward silence as you push the items into his cold hands. “It’s okay. Here.”

His hands are still bound, but at least Bill tied them in front of him and thankfully, he is able to hold the food and canteen on his own without you feeding him. You hand him the items, but quickly step back, mindful that this is still an O’Driscoll in front of you. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, his voice feeble as he swallows the bread down. His eyes are sunken and dark from lack of food and his clothing is tattered and ripped. He is a sad sight, indeed. “This is m-mighty kind of you, ma’am. I know you all don’t have reason to trust me. But I-I appreciate the kindness just the same.”

A chuckle crosses your lips as you watch as the O’Driscoll quickly shoves the bread through his chapped lips. “Well, we may be a group of outlaws, but we’re not heartless. But if you do know something, it would be wise of you to tell them.” His chewing slows as he takes in your warning, nodding slightly in acceptance of his fate. “You’re Kieran, right? That’s your name? I’m Y/N.”

“That’s right. Kieran.” A small smile begins to bloom across his dirty face, a shred of relief fluttering in his chest like a butterfly at the act of mercy. But he is soon distracted from your kind face to the commotion going on behind you. 

“That man.” Keiran nods past you, eyebrows raised in apprehension at the individual who is still ranting and cursing while fixing the broken wagon. “That’s Arthur Morgan, isn’t it?” 

Your demeanor instantly drops at the idea that this potential enemy knows Arthur’s name, alarmed at the mere thought of Arthur being endangered. Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why do you ask?” 

“Nothing! I-I don’t mean nothing by it,” Keiran quickly yammers. “It’s just-”

“Just what?” You take a slow, deliberate step closer to him. He cringes when he sees your fiery eyes darken and your shoulders set defensively. 

Kieran casts his fearful eyes downward, afraid he may have offended the one person who has shown him any kindness in this situation. “It’s just…I’ve heard talk of him, is all.” 

“What kind of talk?” Your once pleasant and sympathetic tone has turned hard and untrusting now that Arthur is threatened. 

“He’s just…an enigma of sorts.” Kieran risks a cautious look up at you again, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he wobbles in the cold air. “I heard talk of how he’s bested men when he was way outnumbered, against the odds. H-how he has what’s been told a “dead eye”. You know, where you can aim your gun and…and kill a man with such accuracy that it’s unreal. I heard he can beat a man to death with his bare hands within five minutes! That he once wrestled a wolverine-”

“It wasn’t a wolverine,” you interrupt Kieran’s nervous rambling with a sigh. ”It was a bobcat.”

“Oh.”

“And yes, he is all of those things.”

Kieran nods at your confirmation of his fears. “It’s just funny to see somethin’ you’ve been warned about in the flesh. Like seein’ the devil in person, you know?”

“Well, let that be a lesson to you, then,” you warn, crossing your arms over your chest, tucking your jacket closer to you. “I wouldn’t piss him off.”

“He seems real kind to you, though.” A shred of hope glimmers in Kieran’s eyes that maybe this demon he’s heard so much of is not so bad. Or, that this angel of mercy standing in front of him may be the key to calm that demon. 

“Yeah, well, he likes me. There aren’t too many that can say that.”

“Y/N!” Suddenly, you hear Arthur’s gravelly voice calling out your name. Turning your head in his direction, you see Arthur standing with a look of concern plastered across his weathered features. “Get away from that piece of shit and get back over here. C’mom, time to move!” He sharply waves his arm at you, impatient to have you back at his side. Arthur still doesn’t trust this O’Driscoll, which means he wants you nowhere near him. 

“Well, Kieran, it was nice chatting with you.” You give him one last tired smile before collecting the canteen and turn to head back to the wagon. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Kieran calls to you, his fitful eyes following you as you retreat back to where Arthur looms in the not-so-far-off distance as he eyes the prisoner with a cold and hateful gaze. Arthur’s countenance doesn’t waver when you smile up at him, placing a loving hand on his forearm. The only crack in his angry, rugged wall is when he gently places a large gloved hand to the small of your back, ushering you into the back of the wagon once more. 

Hosea wants to stay in an area called Horseshoe Overlook and with no other idea readily in mind, Dutch agreed. It’s still a bit of a journey from the base of the mountainside so it is suggested that the gang takes a brief stop while someone heads over to the nearest town on the way to the Overlook. Supplies were low before you even left Blackwater all those weeks ago, and you’ve been scrounging ever since for the duration of your stay in Colter. Pearson needs his food stock replenished, and you need medical supplies as everything you had stockpiled has gone to caring for John after being attacked by the wolves.  

Safest to travel in small numbers, you offer to go yourself. You know what to look for on both the food and the medical supplies. But Arthur is not about to let you go anywhere on your own in an area he is unfamiliar with, so without question, he will be escorting you. 

“Micah, why don’t you head over there with them?” suggests Dutch, puffing away on a cigar, the smoke encircling his dark curls like a vaporous crown from where he sits perched upon his horse, observing the small group of you that has collected in front of him to discuss what the next move will be. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with around here, best to send backup just in case.”

The mere idea that Micah should ride along with you makes Arthur bristle. “I don’t need any ‘backup’, Dutch. Certainly not from him,” he growls, waving a flippant hand towards Micah.

“Fine with me, I don’t want to be baby-sittin’ you anyway, cowpoke,” sneers Micah in response, his hands instinctively settling upon his gunbelt. The gang hasn’t stopped for more than twenty minutes and the air is already charged with the animosity between the two men. 

“That was not a suggestion,” Dutch muses back at the two pouty overgrown children. “Now, get going and be careful. We don’t need any attention right now.”

“We’ll be fine, Dutch,” you quickly interject before either Arthur or Micah can launch another insult. “Come on, you two. Let’s get this done, shall we?” Shaking your head playfully at the two bickering outlaws, you head over to saddle Blue for the quick detour.

The lemon-yellow sun of the late morning dodges between rolling clouds as the three of you head out, riding in silence, with Arthur along your side and Micah trailing behind you. The nearest town is about an hour’s ride and is more of a trading village for those like yourselves, traveling between the mountain pass and down into the more populated territories. Upon arrival, you are quick to notice that there is no flourish or panache here. It is a series of rows made up of simple buildings, each marked with their specialty. The outlying area is littered with small houses and cabins nestled into the hillside for the full-time residents. But the trading post is meant for in-and-out traffic, a quick stop between destinations. 

“Huh, seems…’quaint’,” you hum, looking over the dusty little village, watching the people lumber about their tasks. 

“That’s one word for it,” mutters Micah, clearly unimpressed with the destination. His mustache twitches as he sucks his teeth in disappointment. 

“Let’s just get what we need and get outta here,” reminds Arthur, his gaze skimming over the open area. He sits rigid atop Buck, his worn gambler’s hat pulled down over his crystal-blue eyes and assesses any possible threats. “We don’t need to be lingering too long out in the open.”

“You’re such an old woman, Morgan. What could possibly happen in a shitty little town like this?” complains Micah, waving his hand impatiently at the small expanse of buildings.

Arthur pitches back an equally bitter glare. “This old woman will put her boot right in your ass if you keep running your mouth, Micah.”

“Boys!” you snap sharply, raising your hands up at each of them to halt their childish bickering. “Let’s play nice just for a bit, hmm?”

A mocking grin rolls across Micah’s face as he urges Baylock forward past the two of you, causing Arthur to roll his eyes in annoyance. 

“Come on, handsome,” you coo sweetly to Arthur. “Forget about that fool and let’s find ourselves some food.”

He turns towards you, tilting his head up just enough for you to catch a lifted eyebrow from under the brim of his hat. “Should I be offended you use the same pet name for me as you do that damn horse of yours?”

A cheeky grin decorates your face, making your eyes glitter mischievously. “Considering how much I love this damn horse of mine, you should be flattered.” You reach down and pat Blue’s neck, drawing a knicker from his wide chest.

Arthur absolutely adores your playfulness, but the mirth slowly drains from his eyes as his gaze returns to Micah who is heading over to the gunsmith. “It’s a good thing you’re here, Y/N. Otherwise, I’d tear that weasel a new ass the minute I get my hands on him.”

“I know, I know,” you muse as you follow his line of sight. “But like you said, let’s get this done and then you don’t have to deal with him for awhile, yeah?” Arthur only nods in agreement as he nudges Buck to follow you down the narrow street to the nearest hitching post outside of what appears to be the closest thing to a general store. 

While you and Arthur go about securing some canned goods and clean bandages, Micah has been busy procuring more ammunition from the smith. Reconvening at the horses, the three of you pack the saddlebags with the new supplies. You casually walk around to the other side of Blue to stuff the last bit of goods into the dusty leather bag and you let your gaze wander, taking in the simplicity of the little town.

As you scan the front of the post office, which sits next to the general store, your eye catches something. You do a double-take as the blood drains from your face, eyes wide as saucers. 

“Oh hell,” you whisper under your breath. Your blood runs cold as ice when you see a sketch of your likeness and your alias scrawled upon a browning piece of paper that is nailed to the bulletin board of the post office. 

Noticing your change in mood, Arthur follows your sight-line and sees the object of your trepidation. He cautiously walks over and yanks the poster down, reading it over as he returns to the horses where you and Micah are standing. And Arthur is none too happy about this, either. You give Arthur a worried and guilt-ridden look as his lips flatten into a hard, angry line as his hands fist around the parchment, crumpling the edges. 

Bounty to be paid of one hundred dollars

By decree of Sheriff Franklin Langston, be on the look out for this woman known as Mrs. Evageline Callahan. Wanted for robbery of the Red Rock Savings and Loan and the assault of a law officer. Wanted alive. 

The bounty notice details the robbery in Red Rock where you had planted yourself as a decoy before helping Arthur crack the locks and safes, and the local Sheriff there has targeted you as an accomplice. But what the notice does not go into detail about is how the sheriff tried to play on your supposed vulnerability. He had escorted you to a hotel room under the pretense of “protection”. But it quickly became obvious to you that his protection was the furthest from his mind.

While locked in a room with the scoundrel, you secretly drugged him before he could take advantage of you and you slipped out from under his unconscious nose, walking right out the front door with no one the wiser. No doubt the respected lawman’s pride is hurt that not only was he fooled by a woman, but a woman who got the best of him in the end. 

Anger and worry swirl violently within Arthur’s chest, making his heart beating rapidly. He has tried to keep you out of harm's way, but it seems he’s failed. He stupidly thought that he could be an outlaw and still keep you innocently protected from the life that comes with it. You are the one thing that he holds most precious, like a delicate flower in the cold morning frost, to be safeguarded at all costs. 

He had asked you not to do that job. Begged you, in fact. But how could you tell Dutch Van Der Linde ‘no’? And with you there to pick the locks of the vault at the bank, Arthur and the others were able to come away with a hell of a lot more cash than they would have without you. And, with no casualties, too. But that has also opened the door for you to be implicated as an accomplice and now on the law’s wanted list. 

Micah looks over Arthur’s shoulder at the offending paper being fisted in his gloved hands. “Well, what do ya know, she’s an ’outlaw’ now,” he chuckles. “Shit, this day just keeps getting better and better. Don’t look so glum, there, cowpoke.” He lands a teasing swat along Arthur's arm. “Thought you’d be happy knowing you two really are made for each other.”

“Shut up, Micah!” you and Arthur both yell in unison.

“Arthur? Arthur, I’m sorry,” you mutter sheepishly as you place your hands on his bulging forearms. But your plea only makes his teeth grind in anger at himself even harder. 

“What you got to be sorry for?!” His nostrils flare slightly when he turns his flashing eyes to meet your anxious gaze.

“Well…”

“Hey!” 

Before you can finish your thought, someone’s sharp voice cuts through the crowd. Whipping your collective heads in that direction, the three of you see an older man standing outside the general store, pointing his bony finger at you, his bespectacled eyes wide with shock. 

“That’s her! That woman they’re looking for!”

Your whole body freezes, paralyzed with fear as the man’s voice carries through the dusty street, announcing your presence to everyone. A crowd of curious onlookers descends upon the square at the noise. Arthur quickly places himself in front of you like a shield and you shrink behind him, cowering as your hands come up to grasp at the back of his coat as if you could draw courage from his sheer bulk.

“We don’t want no trouble.” Arthur addresses the crowd, holding one hand up in peace. “But if anyone makes one move towards her, there will be trouble.” Your breath catches in your throat as Arthur draws himself up to his full height, widening his stance and shoulders pushed back to make himself even more massive than already is. His neck tightens as his chiseled jaw clenches painfully. His hand instinctively hovers over his holstered gun, a clear warning to those around him. Likewise, Micah takes a defensive position flanking Arthur’s side to hide you from the crowd, both hands just itching to take hold of the weapons on his hips. 

It’s as if time stands still, not even a bird making a sound, as a breeze flits through the street, rolling dead leaves about like discarded paper. Arthur can feel your fingers trembling through the thick material of his coat. Your terrified eyes dart in all directions, waiting for someone to make the next move. The bitter, coppery taste of blood creeps into your mouth as you bite down on your bottom lip in anticipation. But you don’t have long to wait. 

A single gunshot rings out, planting an ill-aimed bullet a mere yard from your feet. Gasping in panic, you jump backwards into Blue’s side, causing him to whinny loudly as he rears up in fear. Arthur’s arm immediately spins as if of its own accord to find the source, the offending shooter instantly crumbling in a heap with a red weeping hole in his chest. 

A woman’s scream cuts into the tension-charged air as things explode into chaos everywhere. Arthur and Micah pull their weapons, firing in a whirlwind of motion with you placed behind them.

“Move!” Arthur roars, shoving you to your feet as you scramble in frantic movement.

The three of you sprint through the streets, trying to elude the townsfolk. But shots are fired from all around, causing you to constantly change directions. Shots ring out, whizzing past your head, and you let go of Arthur’s jacket to cradle your head, but by doing so, you eventually get separated from him. 

You get a glimpse of Arthur as he throws himself behind a stack of barrels seeking shelter from the onslaught while you and Micah tuck yourselves behind a wagon on the opposite side of the street. But every time Arthur tries to make a break to you, a spray of bullets knocks him back, holding him in place. 

“We gotta get outta here!” hollers Micah over the deafening pandemonium, grabbing your shoulder and trying to pull you towards himself. 

“Not without Arthur!” you scream back, shoving his hand off of you. 

But you watch in horror as a group of men descend on your outlaw. With the townsfolk distracted with Arthur, Micah grabs your arm, pulling you to your feet. “We gotta go! Big man can take care of himself!”

But you dig your heels in like an obstinate horse. Your eyes shoot back to Arthur, his keen scrutiny moving between the mob and your petrified face. He lifts his hands and begins to fire at the men coming down the street, trying to keep their attention away from you and Micah.

“Get the hell out of here! Go!” he yells at you, waiving you to move on. Too numb with the fear of leaving Arthur to move of your own accord, you absentmindedly allow Micah to drag you away from the square. 

Micah leads you down the narrow street amongst the shouting of everyone around you, keeping along the buildings and firing into the crowds to ward off any following. Shards of glass and wooden splinters cascade into your hair as a rain of bullets from all directions ricochet off of the buildings and fills the air with choking clouds of smoke that burns your throat every time a shriek of panic escapes your lungs. Your feet scramble to keep up, desperately trying not to lose your footing and drag Micah down with you. Your head ducks into Micah’s side, blindly following wherever he leads you as your hands maintain a death-grip on his jacket.

You and Micah bolt in various directions, your worn boots zigzagging in the dirt, trying to elude the mob, but it seems there are guns pointed at you at every turn. This may be a tiny town, but they do not tolerate any trouble here, the whole town arming themselves to protect against any threat. Shop owners, the blacksmith, any able body pops out with a gun in hand and aimed at you. Micah skids to a halt more than once to change directions, seeking out an escape route. 

The spray of bullets pushes you down yet another alley between the saloon and the small hotel, dodging between smaller barrels and crates that litter the ground. You lost the mob by ducking down this corridor, but dread freezes your breath when you find yourselves at a dead-end. You pause gasping for air with your hands on your knees as your head swivels, scouring the alley for a way out. Off in the distance, you can hear the shouts of your pursuers all around you. And they are getting closer by the minute. 

Micah’s back rounds like a cat getting ready to pounce, his shoulders hunched and coiled tight like a spring. His eyes narrow and dart, assessing his surroundings.

And then the damnedest thing happens. Surprisingly, Micah pushes you behind him, holding his arm protectively over you and places himself between you and the oncoming crowd. 

“Get ready.” His voice is low and serious, not carrying the usual arrogance and tasteless jokes that spill from his filthy mouth. “Here.” And he pulls another gun from his belt, shoving it in your direction. You stand there staring at the piece in your hand as if it is a foreign object, its cold metal almost burning your skin, before looking to him once more for more explanation.

Micah holds his two guns, both hands angled upwards and ready to fire at the first person to breach the corner, expecting a full-on shootout to erupt in the narrow alley at any moment. 

“When they come, bullets will fly and you gotta be ready to move,” he says over his shoulder to you. “You shoot the first thing you see comin’ round that corner and don’t stop. We’ll push our way out. We need to cut a path and make a run for the horses.”

But being separated from Arthur, you suddenly become dizzy and short of breath. “Wait, there’s got to be another way!” Your voice elevates in pitch and volume with a vehement shake of your pounding head. “We’ll get gunned down for sure if we go out there!” 

“No time. I gotta get you out of here, princess.” Micah’s sudden concern for your safety confuses the hell out of you, silencing your protests. “Unless you know how to hide in plain sight?” 

In a split second, his comment causes an idea to form in your mind. A crazy idea. How do you hide in plain sight? And before he can even comprehend what is happening, you wrap both hands around Micah’s face, drawing him to you and crash your mouth into his. You pull him along with you as you backpedal towards the side of the building. 

Taken off guard, Micah stumbles a bit as you pull him overtop of yourself when your back hits the hard wood-siding of the saloon. His eyes shoot wide open with shock, but he quickly reciprocates your actions. Micah doesn’t question your plan or motives in the slightest despite the danger you find yourselves in and, taking full advantage of the close proximity to you, he thrusts his tongue into your mouth. You whimper at the sudden intrusion as the stale tobacco scent that carries on his mustache fills your nostrils. You can taste his foul breath as his saliva mixes with your own and you try not to gag. 

Almost immediately, you begin to second guess your little scheme and your trembling hands land on his shoulders about to push him off of you, but the sounds of the encroaching crowd right outside the alley halts your decision. Your eyes split open and look past Micah’s shoulder toward the street and you begin to see the blur of running men, the sunlight glinting off of the guns in hand in their attempt to hunt you down. So instead of pushing him off of you, your fingers quickly fumble as they pull Micah’s jacket and hat off him, tossing them to the ground at your feet, for he’d be recognized for sure if anyone sees that white hat and coat of his. 

The hollering and commotion of your pursuers gets louder and louder. Your heart pounds in your ears, sweat beading at your temples. While you are in a panic about being found and gunned down like dogs in the alley, Micah seems to have completely forgotten about the mob on his heels. Having dropped his own guns at his feet once you were pressed against the building, his rough hands are now free to grasp and pinch at your hips as he pushes his pelvis into yours, grinding into you. 

The crowd of people are at the end of the alley now and in desperation to sell the facade, you lift your leg up over Micah’s hip, pulling him in tighter to you and cover his face with your hands to shield him from the hoard of men that run past the alley entrance. Thankfully, the mob surges past you without so much as an afterthought, thinking that the two of you are just another drunken lot behind the bar who are too impatient to get a room.

The wave of commotion eventually recedes, the shouting and hollering slowly getting more faint as the mob moves down the street. As soon as you feel you are in the clear, you instantly try to push the disgusting outlaw off of you. 

“Stop.” The muffled demand pushes past your lips which are being devoured, Micah’s tongue swirling around your mouth. You shove his shoulders, but he doesn't move, his face still smashed against yours. 

You try to turn your face away from him in an attempt to break the sloppy kissing that Micah is desperately trying to prolong. “Stop it.” You push at him again, but his greedy hands clamp down painfully on your hips, refusing to give you up. 

“Okay, that’s enough!” you holler, using your anger to summon all of your strength and roughly shove him from you. Heat flushes throughout your whole body as you try to draw slow, calming breaths into your lungs. Micah stumbles backwards a bit at the change of direction, with a huge, smug grin plastered on his dirty face. 

Just the mere sight of the greasy man makes your skin bristle with goosebumps. A hateful, contemptuous scowl spreads across your heated cheeks as you spit into the dirt. “You’re a bit of a lunatic, you know that?”

Micah licks his lips as if he’s just tasted a most delectable dinner, his tongue dragging along that repulsive mouth of his as he rocks back on his heels. “I prefer the term ‘eccentric’. Besides, that little performance was all your idea, Y/N”. He waves his finger accusingly at you. 

“Ugh, what the hell is wrong with you?” you groan, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as a choking sound erupts from the back of your throat.

“So many things, sweetheart...so many things.”

“Let’s just get the hell out of here, please. We need to find Arthur.” Micah’s conceited grin instantly drops from his face at the sound of Arthur’s name, his sullen eyes following you as you shove past him and stomp your way back towards the street. 

Sticking close to the shadows and hugging the storefronts, you carefully make your way out of the village, scanning for Arthur or any of your pursuers. 

“There! Over there! There’s two of ‘em!” Your blood runs cold and your heart nearly stops when the shouts of one of the townsfolk alerts anyone within earshot to your and Micah’s location.

“Fuck!” Micah immediately clamps down your hand and sprints, dragging you to your horses which are only a few yards out of your reach now. Upon reaching the hitching posts, Micah hurls you in front of him towards Baylock who is nervously pawing at the ground. The horse tosses his head in agitation, his haunting blue eyes rolled and ears pinned back.

Suddenly Micah lets out a stifled grunt, lurching forward when a bullet bites into the flesh of his shoulder. Like a bear that has been provoked, he angrily spins around, roaring at the top of his lungs and rapidly firing into the oncoming cluster of men, mowing them down in a spray of red to buy you time as you frantically climb into Baylock’s saddle. 

With one last defiant shot into an unlucky local’s skull, Micah swings himself up behind you and you take off, heading for the obscurity of the woods and leaving the dirty little town behind. 

Your heart thunders loudly in your ears as Micah’s horse pushes hard through the woods to head back to camp. The sunlight peppering through the trees is like a kaleidoscope of color, blurring and swirling and making you nauseous as Baylock races through the brush, snorting heavily as he carries his burden. Your hands are white-knuckled as your fingernails dig into the leather of the saddle horn. 

In your adrenaline haze, you vaguely feel Micah pressed against your back. Your body begins to go limp and Micah wraps an arm around your waist to secure you from falling and getting trampled under the horse’s hooves while his other extends in front of you, hand fisted around the reins and urging the horse on. 

You’ve been riding for thirty minutes with no other riders on your heels when you finally pull your mind together. “Stop! Micah, please stop!”

“Can’t stop now, princess!” He shouts from behind you. 

“Please!” You grasp his hand in yours, squeezing desperately. “I have to stop!”

Your touch instantly resonates with Micah, the feeling of your fingers along his skin radiating through his arm like electricity, and he immediately pulls back on the reins. The horse skids to a halt, dancing in agitation at the abrupt cease of motion. “Woa, boy, woa”, Micah snaps sharply. 

You desperately try to catch your breath, your chest heaving for the brisk air as you fold over the saddlehorn. For once in his life, Micah mercifully sits quietly behind you, waiting for you to regain control of your breathing and taking notice of how your body moves pressed against his. 

“We have to go back,” you finally manage to breathe out.

“What?” he snaps. “Have you lost your mind?! Ain’t no way in hell we’re goin’ back there!”

“But we left Arthur back there!” A mixture of fear and pleading infuses your voice, matching your tear-rimmed eyes that shine in the fractured sunlight of the trees as you look over your shoulder at Micah.

“He can take care of himself!”

“But what if-“

“Look, you want to go back there, Y/N, be my guest.” He waves his arms back in the direction that you just escaped from to emphasize his point. “But you’re goin’ on your own! I already got my ass shot getting you out! Or did you forget that?” 

You bite your lip at his statement, guilt flooding your chest.

“Best thing to do is head back to camp and wait for Morgan there.”

You hate to admit it, but Micah is right. Arthur had a crowd on his tail but nothing worse than what he’s had before. With you out of the way, that leaves him free to worry about his own ass. You know Micah won’t help you find Arthur, and you will be of little use to Arthur now, anyway. And to his point, Micah does have a bullet in his shoulder right now because of you. You both need to get back to camp safely so you can assess the damage. That is where you will be the most useful.

“Alright. You’re right,” you brokenly whisper, casting your eyes to the forest floor in defeat. “Let’s head home.”

“Now, you’re making some sense,” he smirks, his dirty blonde locks swaying over his shoulders as he nods in victory. Micah digs his heels into Baylock’s side and the horse spurs forward once more, heading into the thick of the woods. 

The idea of leaving without Arthur is like a knife in your chest and feels so horribly wrong to you, like a betrayal. The trees begin to blur again and seem to be almost suffocating as they surround you, offering you coverage, but also yet another obstacle to your heart's desire. 

You twist your neck to look past Micah and back towards the town. There is no sign of the townsfolk, but no sign of Arthur, either. Your heart sinks as you slowly turn to face forward again, a silent prayer on your lips. 

—--------------------------------------------

*This image is not mine, but was posted on Pintrest by Len

You and Micah ride into the makeshift camp, quickly dismounting and make your way into the circle of wagons. You are met with looks of confusion and a cacophony of questions from your fellow gang members when they note your frazzled state and Micah’s bleeding shoulder, not to mention that Arthur is not with you. But before you can even string coherent thoughts to answer your friends, the sound of hoof-beats fills the air. Your head snaps back to the tree line and you see Arthur barreling through the trees at full speed with your horse in tow. His eyes, bright and shining, dart in every direction, scanning the group of people, hoping to find your face.

Trembling hands cover your mouth as your eyes flutter with the wave of relief to see him safe. Letting out a huge breath, your wobbly legs sprint towards Arthur. Buck hasn’t even come to a full stop yet before Arthur springs from the saddle, his worn boots barely touching the mud-packed earth before he strides in your direction.

As soon as you are close enough, you hurl yourself into his large frame and throw your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in the crevice of his neck with a choked sob, his heady scent of sweat and leather engulfing your senses. His arms immediately wrap tightly around you, lifting you clean off the ground, relishing the feeling of your warm, able body against his once more. 

“Y/N! Are you alright?!” Arthur finally puts you down and leans back, holding you at arm’s length to get a good look at you, his keen eyes skipping around and taking in every inch of you from head to toe. 

“Yes, I’m fine, Arthur,” you laugh incredulously. “Are you alright? What happened? How did you get out of there?”

But Arthur just shakes his head, waving off your question. Because it doesn’t matter to him if he is alright. It is you that is his sole focus. “‘Bout lost my mind leaving you with this idiot.“ He throws a nonchalant wave in Micah’s direction. 

Your lips press together in a slight grimace. “Well, to be honest, Micah saved my life. If it wasn’t for him, I would be in jail or gunned down in an alley right now.”

Arthur’s body freezes, his head tilted slightly to the side as if he didn’t hear you correctly. “Come again?” He turns to look at Micah who just grins, arms crossed over his puffed-out chest. 

“Don’t look so surprised, Arthur,” Micah gloats. “Although, a little gratitude for saving your woman’s life would be nice. But, don’t worry.” He holds his hand up as if to halt any further argument on Arthur’s part. “Y/N thanked me enough already.” He shakes his eyebrows suggestively with a knowing curl of his lip.

Micah's hungry gaze sweeps over you and you feel Arthur's entire body tense. “What the hell is he talkin’ ‘bout?” He spins on you now, eyes flashing and demanding an explanation. 

You can feel your cheeks burn red-hot and your chin drops to your chest to avoid looking at either Arthur or Micah. And with a deep, regretful sigh, you relate the story of your escape to Arthur, including how you had to kiss and paw at Micah in hopes of blending into the background behind the saloon to evade the town’s attention. 

Arthur stands there listening to your story without a word. His whole body radiates like lightning in a bottle, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathes deeply, the muscles in his jaw twitching. You watch him carefully as he processes this unwelcome information, his fists clenching open and closed like a pump. 

You can see Arthur’s thoughts flashing like a roaring wildfire across his face. You're not sure if he’s going to punch Micah in the face, or tear into you for pulling such an outlandish stunt. He can’t be jealous, as that was certainly not the intent of your actions. But then again, Arthur doesn’t want anyone else even looking at you, let alone touching you. Least of all Micah goddamn Bell. 

Seeing Arthur’s clearly visible disdain for the situation, Micah cannot help himself but to twist the imaginary knife in the outlaw’s gut right now. “What’s a-matter, Morgan? Jealous?” His beady eyes twinkle with a sinister mirth that would make the devil himself blush.

Arthur shoots a death-stare back to Micah. “What the hell do I have to be jealous of you for?” 

Micah simply shrugs, the smugness just oozing from his very being. “Maybe ‘cause your woman kissed me? Maybe she liked it more than she’s letting on?” And his vulgar eyes flick to you, causing you to gasp at the audacity of his statement. 

And that is the last straw. 

Finally, the stress of the day causes Arthur to snap like the tension of a high-strung bow and in a second he lunges at Micah with a speed that belies someone of his stature. The other men of the camp are quick to intervene, prying the two outlaws apart as arms and fists grapple at each other in a blur of force. You try to wedge yourself between them once Bill and Javier carve an ample enough gap for you to squeeze into. You plant your wide-open palms on Arthur’s chest, pushing back against him with all your might. But it is like holding back a waterfall, too powerful and too full of chaotic energy to contain. 

“Stop it! Knock it off, both of you!” You come up on your toes, trying to catch Arthur’s burning gaze and distract him from Micah. “Arthur, please!” His chest heaves, but the moment his eyes land on you again, it's like a switch has been pulled. You center him as always, rationality starting to return to his fractured mind. 

With Arthur calmed to an extent, you turn your ire onto Micah. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” But the scheming outlaw can only stare back at you, an argument sitting on his tongue, and yet nothing comes out as if weighing his next words carefully. 

“I ain't dealin’ with this bullshit,” Arthur seethes, staring down Micah as his arm wraps around your shoulder, curling you into himself and turning you towards your shared wagon. 

But Micah Bell just cannot help but throw oil on the fire. 

“You’re not even gonna stitch me up after savin’ your pretty ass, Y/N? Typical. You don’t give a shit about anyone else, but Arthur. Mighty ungrateful.” He waves you off dismissively, shaking his head in disappointment. 

Before you can even stop him, Arthur spins out of your grasp, closing the distance between himself and Micah in a mere few steps and grabs ahold of a fistful of Micah’s shirt. The weasel can say what he wants about him, but Arthur will not abide any derogatory comments towards you. 

“You’re as stupid as you are ugly, you know that?!” hollers Hosea to Micah, his weathered fingers clamped around Arthur’s shoulder, trying to push him back once more. 

Arthur’s arm shoots up, about to land a fist into Micah’s mocking face, but it’s halted in place as both of your arms encircle his bicep to keep the dangerous limb at bay. 

“He’s right, Arthur. It’s the least I could do.”

Your shaky, yet definitive voice stills Arthur as he turns to look at you in confusion. “What?!”

An apprehensive sort of smile floats across your lips as you cup your soft, warm hands around his face. “Why don’t you get something to eat, head over to our wagon and calm down a bit. Your head is out of sorts right now. In the meantime, I’ll deal with Micah, yeah?”

But Arthur isn’t having any of it. He just shakes his head at the very notion of it. “I just need some time alone with you, is all,” he says sharply, starting to pull you away from the others. But you can’t let things end here like this. 

“I know.” You stop your feet from moving to prevent him from dragging you off. “But can you give me a minute, please? Let me get Micah patched up first,” you plead.

“Now, wait a minute,” growls Arthur, his brow drawn in frustration. “I thought you’d be coming with me?”

“I am and I will.” You nervously shift your weight from hip to hip under Arthur’s intense gaze, trying to keep your voice low and calm to mask the rapid beating of your own heart. “Let me take care of Micah first and then I’ll come with you.” 

Arthur’s sapphire eyes dart past your shoulder to see Micah standing there in surprising silence, loving the delicious tension he’s created and anxiously waiting to see the results. 

“No, he can handle things by himself. He's a big boy,” huffs Arthur. “Or let Ms. Grimshaw do it. C’mon now,” he insists, harshly pulling at your arm. 

“Arthur, just wait a second, will you?” you push, starting to get a little annoyed at the possessiveness. “Let me finish what I’m doing then I’m all yours.” 

“You know what, forget it!” he hollers, throwing his hands up in frustration as he steps back from you.

“Arthur, please, just give me a damn second, will you?!” Your hands try to grasp his forearm, but he’s quick to yank himself out of your reach, as if the very idea of you is detestable right now. 

“Nevermind!” And Arthur storms off, throwing his hands in the air in surrender, leaving you standing there staring after him. You watch his broad shoulders lumber quickly towards the wagon, his whole body radiating an angry energy that is dangerous for anyone to be pulled into. 

You should go after him. But then again, he is so angry right now, maybe it’s best to let him cool off, first. He’s probably right, you should just let Ms. Grimshaw handle Micah’s wound. But you do owe Micah a debt. He did save you from that mob. And in a gang, debts need to be paid. 

With a deep, regretful sigh, you tilt your head back and close your eyes, knowing you’ve just made a grave error in judgement. Arthur isn’t the only one who has a hard time navigating matters of the heart. Like your own father, you tend to be more pragmatic than sentimental sometimes. But you are only trying to keep the peace. 

“Well?”

Micah’s voice cuts into your temple like a nail hammered through a board, pulling you back to the matter at hand. You open your now-throbbing eyes to look over at the smug man, who is standing with an expectant look on his face. 

“Come on,” you mutter with an eye roll. “Get yourself over to the table and let’s get this over with, please.”

—-------------------------------------- 

*This is not my image, but posted on Pintrest by Clem

Unfortunately, since the gang has yet to make a permanent camp, your med tent is not fully set up. You pull out a table and a few crates of the meager medical supplies that you have and whatever you were able to shove into Blue’s saddle bag while in town. Digging through what is available, you pull out your needles and thread and a bottle of whisky you keep for sterilization. 

You’ve chosen to set up this makeshift operation far enough away from Arthur, lest he and Micah get into it yet again. But it’s close enough where Arthur can keep an eye on what you’re up to. And simply seeing you in such close proximity to Micah makes Arthur’s skin crawl. 

“Alright, let’s see what the damage is,” you sigh with the weight of resignation heavy in your tone. “Unbutton your shirt, please.” You toss the instruction over your shoulder as you pour fresh water into a bowl and shake out a clean rag. You can hear the shuffling of fabric and Micah’s pained grunting behind you. When you turn around, you freeze, eyebrows shooting to your hairline, to see that instead of just pulling back his shirt, Micah has stripped himself of the garment altogether, sitting there topless in just his trousers and a satisfied grin. 

You simply stand there, knuckles turning white as you grip the cloth in your hand, staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. “Really?”

He innocently shrugs. “Just want to make sure you can get to what you need, Y/N”, he says, motioning to himself, a wicked grin creeping along his mustached lips. 

A measured sigh and eyeroll leave you as you slowly make your way over to him, careful to leave a gap between the two of you as you move behind him. 

You have to give him credit, Micah tries not to flinch when your fingertips dance along the open wound on his left shoulder, assessing the depth of the bullet hole. The cool rag must send lightning through his entire body as you clean the ugly gash embedded into his skin when he shudders under your careful touch. But the fact that you work gingerly is not lost on him. Ever so vigilant to his surroundings, Micah can feel how you delicately touch him, trying not to inflict further damage. His head tilts back slightly, those usually distrustful eyes closing for just a brief moment in silent gratitude. 

You keep your discerning eyes focused on the minute work, and therefore you do not notice Micah watching you, his gaze skipping over your face and down to your fingers, small and unmarred unlike his own. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as you work the thread through the needle, the lips of your perfect mouth pulled taught in concentration.

But soon enough, you push the needle through his flesh, pulling the thread through the pulpy meat of his shoulder and proceed to stitch the wound closed. You work efficiently, but quickly, desperate to get this chore done so you can then deal with Arthur who’s stare you can feel burning a hole into you from where he is vigilantly watching like a hawk from your shared wagon. 

Sensing when the deed is almost complete, Micah clears his throat and begins with awkward chit chat, trying to prolong your attention by asking about your horse, talking about how it must be better to be out of the cold of the Grizzly Mountains, anything that springs to his mind. His fingers drum along his thighs as his knee begins to bounce.

At first, you just dismiss the odd behavior, trying to focus on the final stitching of the wound. Micah winces slightly, biting his lower lip, as the stitches get pulled a little tighter than they probably should in your frustration at his incessant babbling. Micah Bell has rambled more to you in the last fifteen minutes than he has spoken to you in the entire time you’ve known him. 

With your task now complete, you clip the thread with your scissors, tucking the needle into the water bowl to be cleaned properly. You walk around to stand in front of him, wiping your hands with the wet cloth in exasperation.

You narrow your eyes at him, suddenly very suspicious of his good nature. “What do you want, Micah?”

The outlaw looks at you a moment, his head tilts slightly to the side considering your question carefully as he pulls his shirt back over his shoulders. “I’d like you to sit and talk to me.” 

His answer floors you, so simple a request with no foul comments to follow. But there has to be more to it than that. “Sit? That’s it?“ you ask in disbelief.

“MmmHmm, and talk to me. You seem to enjoy everyone else’s company, yet we never talk.” He leans back a bit, hands resting on his knees. 

A humorless chuckle escapes your lips before you can even try to stifle it, accompanied by a skeptical lift of your eyebrow. “There’s a reason for that.”

He just shrugs, frustratingly quiet to your answer. 

“What on earth would we ever talk about?”

“What do you and Morgan talk about?”

“That’s none of your business”, you snap sharply.

That familiar, annoyingly smug grin crosses his face once again as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you talk about me?” he needles, shaking his eyebrows.

“Only about what a pain in the ass you are,” you respond flatly. 

“Ahhh, so you do talk about me.” 

You shake your head, crossing your arms in frustration at the absurdity of this whole conversation, confused as to what he’s getting at. “Arthur and I talk about everything and nothing.” 

“Alright,” he concedes, pointing at you. “Let's do that, then.” 

“What is this, Micah?“

He holds his hands up in surrender, a feigned innocence. “This is me trying to be the better man.”

“Better than who?” you challenge. 

“Don’t worry Y/N,” he chuckles at your defensive reluctance to his parley. “I won’t jump ya. Unless you want me to.”

For the life of you, you can’t figure this man out. One minute, he’s a disgusting pig. The next, he’s trying to be your best friend. Either way, Micah Bell makes your skin crawl as he’s just as creepy when he’s trying to be nice as he is when he’s an ass. 

“Fine. I’ve seen the way you treat your horse. A man who loves up on his horse can’t be 100% bad.” You give him the slightest of grins before you can even stop yourself.

“That's the spirit!” He smiles triumphantly and waves a finger smartly at you. “I can't be 100% bad.” 

Assuredly, what you do not realize is that to Micah, you could’ve just given him the world. A kind word or gesture, even just the smallest inkling that you don't completely hate him, makes his black heart race just a bit more. 

To you, you see the effort of this conversation as a way to get past the ugliness with Micah. To him, he sees this as a window of opportunity, a moment of weakness in your armor where he can sneak his way in. 

But as you stand there motionless, unsure of what to even say next, your hesitancy at Micah’s peace offering is more than enough of an answer for him right now. A defeated chuckle ripples from his tobacco-stained teeth with a slight shake of his blonde head to go with it. 

“You know what, Y/N? Forget it. Forget I even asked.” The furrowed line between his eyebrows relents a bit as his eyes soften just ever so slightly as he concedes to what you suspect that he already knows deep down. He pulls his lips inward as if debating on what to say next, leaving an awkward and pregnant silence between you. Your gaze skips about, looking for any reprieve other than staring into Micah’s cold and unreadable expression that can unnerve you like a mouse caught by a viper. “Go on, then. Scoot on back to your beloved,” he says with sarcasm and just a hint of disappointment. 

After cleaning up the needle and thread, you head back to your shared space with Arthur to find him brooding, leaning against the side of his wagon as he cleans his gun. He says nothing at first, but you can sense his hostility. You smartly don’t say a word, but set about getting yourself ready for the evening.

“You want to tell me what that was all about?” you finally ask. 

But Arthur won’t look at you. Like a silent, stoney mountain, he remains stoic and ominous, his rough fingers still working over the weapon in his hands. Cursing under your breath, you reach over and snatch the gun out of his hand to get his attention. Those steel-blue eyes instantly snap to your own. Brows furrowed with elevated agitation, his hand shoots out to grab for the piece, but you pull your hand back to keep the object of his distraction out of reach. He stares you down, lips pulled tightly with a sharp snort escaping his nose.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” His voice carries low and rumbles deep within his chest. 

“Of course I’m on your side. I’m always on your side, Arthur.”

“That so?”

“Of course it is! How can you even question that?” you ask, shaking your head, taken aback by his doubt.

“You’re mine,” he says darkly, his blue eyes settling with the piercing, glowing quality of a stormy sea. 

Arthur’s possessiveness is not something new, often rearing its ugly head, but his ire is usually directed at others, not you. And while the idea of being wanted by someone is endearing, you also resent his distrust. “I am not some horse that you own, Arthur,” you warn. 

“I should come first with you.” He points at your heart. “I shouldn’t have to share you with anybody.”

“Are you really going to stand there and lecture me about sharing my time with other people? Really, Arthur?” Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, suddenly incensed by his accusation. “Let’s talk about you, then! How many nights am I going to our tent alone and lonely? All because you’re running around for god knows what?”

Arthur’s lips pinch together in an instant, eyes burning at your audacity to throw such a thing in his face. “Hey! That’s different! I am providing!” He shoves his thumb sharply back into his rising chest. 

“And I’m not?” you counter defiantly, with a snapping shake of your head, a flush of heat blossoming across your face. 

Arthur bites his lip before he says something really stupid, the argument right there on his tongue, dangerously close to exploding like a powder keg. His hands plant on his hips as he paces around the small area in front of you, the nervous energy clearly tearing throughout his body and unable to contain it. “What, you two are all friendly now?” Arthur retorts bitterly, waving off in Micah’s direction. 

“Sweet Jesus, Arthur you can’t seriously be jealous?” Your fingers come up to pinch the bridge of your nose before dropping to your side with a deflated slap, your face turned to his in earnest. “No, we are not ’friendly’ but I don’t want to fight with him all the time, nor do I want to endure the disgusting comments anymore.” 

You begin to fidget with the pendant of your mother’s necklace you always wear and Arthur’s anger shifts in a new direction. “Has he been messin’ with you? I told you I’d take care of it if he hassles you.” 

A deep sigh escapes your chest as your gaze raises to meet his once again. “I don’t want to cause a problem around here, Arthur.” 

“You are not the problem,” he hisses. He steps up closer to you now, standing only a foot from you, so close that you can feel his hot breath blow across your chilled cheeks.

“Why are you so riled up about this?” 

“Why? That snake has his mouth all over you and you’re asking me why I’m riled up about it?! Why are you not riled up about this?” Arthur's eyes suddenly narrow at you, his head tilting just a fraction, as he looks you over like you were a mark. “Unless he’s right and you did like it.” The very idea of it causes your eyes to shoot open and your chest tighten as the air gets sucked out of your lungs. 

“Don’t you even start with that!” you hiss sharply at such an insinuation. “Now, you listen to me, Arthur Morgan. There is nothing, NOTHING, between myself and Micah Bell. You got that?” 

Arthur’s silence pulls the escalating argument to a screeching halt. He stops and takes a moment to really look at you, your chest rising and falling with panting breaths, your eyes shimmering with offended, hurt-filled tears. Arthur closes his eyes, hanging his head shamefully, clearly realizing he crossed a line. “I’m sorry.”

“Arthur, why are you so upset about this?” you push softly, setting your hand on his forearm. 

“Because there ain’t much difference between him and me, that’s why!” he hollers, finally reaching his breaking point. The revelation sets you on your heels. Your large, love-filled eyes blink rapidly as you attempt to process this new level of self-doubt in him.

“You can’t honestly think that?“ you breathe in wonderment. “What, you think I’m going to leave you for him?” 

“No,” his tone lowering with a flat and unsettling calm. “I think you’re gonna leave me because you realize I’m just like him.” 

The anger within you from moments ago immediately dissipates like ether as this boulder is dropped. “Arthur, you are nothing like Micah.” 

“Really? What makes you say that? Huh? What is really all that different between us?” He stands in front of you, hands on his hips as he towers over you, demanding an answer.  

You cross your arms, holding Arthur’s hard gaze. “Well, now that you mention it, you’re both a couple of asses.” 

“Ha ha, very funny,” he bites back with sharp sarcasm. “I’m serious, Y/N. What makes us all that different?” 

“Well, for starters I’m not in love with Micah. Arthur, I can’t keep having this same conversation with you.” You press closer to him, placing your hand over his heart. “This. This right here is what I want.” You can feel the rapid fluttering under his ribcage, the heat of his skin through the worn fabric of his shirt as your fingers splay open like a dove’s wingspan. “The way you make me feel when I look at you, Arthur, is why I won’t look at another man.” 

His brows furrow as his eyes fall to your hand, noting how your fingers lay against his chest as if they have always belonged there. Slowly his gaze meets yours, as if searching for the shred of doubt that he is always afraid of finding there.

“You are a good man who does bad things, Arthur. That doesn’t make you a bad person,” you confirm with a calm and enchanting tone. Your hand floats from his chest to cup his face, the curls of his beard prickling the skin as his strong jaw sets upon your palm. 

“Oh, well that’s convenient, isn’t it? You got an answer for everything, don’t you?” Arthur sighs as he shifts his weight. “I guarantee anyone else outside this gang will beg to differ on that one,” he pouts, giving a dismissive flick of his hand in the air. 

“I thought I’ve made it very clear that I don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks. Stop worrying about what could go so wrong and start thinking about what could go so right, Arthur. We need to work on that.”  You reach your arms around his shoulders and hug him tightly to you. His hard body presses to your own pliable one and you can feel the hard line of his chest and torso, his thick thighs. His coat, which is like a second skin, carries notes of forest pine and leather, a comforting aroma that instantly feels like home to you. Your fingers curl through Arthur’s hair as you cradle his head, your nose buried in his honey locks that will forever smell of woodsmoke, bringing your soft lips to his ear. “I would die without you, Arthur.” 

Slowly, Arthur’s body relaxes and melts into yours as you whisper in his ear, your warm breath catching against his skin. His rigid chest softens as he presses you against him, desperate to keep you close as if he’d fold you up into his rib cage to wrap you around his very own heart. Sometimes, for Arthur, the worst place for him to be is inside his own head.

A smile cracks at the corner of Arthur’s mouth at your previous statement. Suddenly, the monster of self loathing within him goes silent once more, retreating back into the dark caverns of his heart, as he dips his head into the crook of your neck and wraps his arms tightly around your waist, squeezing with just enough pressure. Once again, you have calmed and centered him, quieted his swirling storm of self-sabotaging thoughts that continue to plague him. 

You turn your face into him, placing a multitude of gentle kisses along his neck, drawing a faint groan from him. “It was either kiss Micah or die,” you whisper in Arthur’s ear before placing your lips to the cuff.

Arthur huffs out a grunt that rumbles in his chest and tickles your own as you still stand pressed together so tight that not even air could seep between you. “Still not seeing the choice.” 

You giggle at his understated playfulness. “It will haunt my dreams, now. Literally the stuff of nightmares.” You pull back from him to gaze into his troubled blue eyes, your thumbs drawing across his cheekbones before your fingertips roll gently through his beard. 

“I love you, Arthur. Don’t you ever doubt that.” Your smile carries a warmth and love for him in this moment that is larger than the very universe itself, like he can see the stars themselves in your sparkling eyes. Arthur gives you a feeling of being safe. And in turn, you offer him that feeling of being cherished. For all we ever want in this world is to be healed, to find that other half that speaks to your soul. To be with that person who will hold your vulnerabilities in their hands and breathe life back into you when you feel lost.

But a dark cloud dusts his features once more. “I gotta admit, Y/N, I’m scared of the kinda love I feel for you.” Arthur’s voice drops to almost a whisper, as if he’s afraid to admit it outloud, the syllables caught in his throat.

“Why is that?”

“Because I know it will ruin me.” He brushes his large hand over your hair before tenderly holding your face. “And I know I’ll let it.” 

The emotion overtakes you and you drop your gaze before he sees the tears gathering in your lashes. Because it occurs to you that you’re not sure if he wants this relationship or not. You can clearly see the turmoil in his eyes from it. His new life with you could cost him his old one with his gang. 

Arthur is a soul torn between two worlds. He wants you, but he also wants “the outlaw life”. You are not making him choose, but he feels that he needs to. For you. To keep you safe. And you are not sure if you want to broach this subject again with him, afraid that if you push it, you may not like the answer you get.

You wish Arthur could see how wonderful he is in your eyes, how happy he makes you. Arthur may not be perfect, but he’s perfect for you. Those blue-green eyes light up your whole day. You don’t just see a man standing in front of you. You see your whole world. 

Arthur is the one who is the most special to you. The one you will lose sleep over. The one you will never tire of talking to. He is constantly on your mind. He makes you smile without even trying. Arthur is the only one you do not want to lose and to always have in your life. 

The world may view Arthur as nothing but a despicable outlaw, one forged in lawlessness and brutality. But they do not see what you see. He is a man born out of conflict, a product of his environment. He is stiff and frightening in the eyes of others, an unyielding and merciless force to be reckoned with. But to you, he is vulnerable and tender. Arthur carries the brunt of the ugliness in this world, and yet still claws at the hope of finding a shred of happiness for himself. 

You gently press your forehead to his, wrapping your fingers around the back of his neck. “I wish I could make you understand, Arthur.” You hold him to you for a brief moment before looking up into his face, your eyes wide and searching. “You have stolen my heart. You are worth so much more than you think. You are the very reason I keep going. You crossed my path when I needed you the most, after I lost everything. I couldn’t do this without you. You are everything I need. And I don’t ever want this to end.”

Arthur softly draws the cool evening air into his lungs as his tired eyes float across your face, mapping every line, every radiant detail that he has come to covet so dearly. The setting sun shines its copper light down upon you, casting your frame in a warm and almost unearthly glow, as if you are a spirit from another realm altogether, not even meant for this world let alone for the likes of him. 

“I really had no idea what I needed ‘til you showed up in my life with every bit of it in one package,” he laments. “One day, there you were, shining brightly like the sun.” He smiles despite himself at the memory of it, lifting a thick, calloused finger to gently pull a wisp of your hair from your eye before settling his hand along your graceful neck. “And for the first time in a really, really long time, I had hope that I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life in the dark.”

Arthur is not a man of many words, but when he does speak in those private, hushed tones with you, it makes your eyelids flutter like butterfly wings. “Please, Arthur. Let me be the temptation that you never deny yourself. I can be your safe place where your darkness can shine without judgement. Without fear.

“I know this is hard for you, Arthur. And I’m not trying to make it any harder. If anything, I’m trying to make it easier for you. I don’t care that we sleep outside on a cot in a tent. That just means I get to hold you closer to me to keep warm. And I don’t care that you’re an outlaw. Because, if anything, that means you will do anything to protect me. But I need you to trust me, Arthur. Just as I have learned to trust you.”

Arthur brings his fingers up to pinch at his temples as if trying to keep his head from exploding. “Why do you put up with me?”

“I thought I just went over that.” You smile at him. “Because Arthur, I may be yours. But that means that you are mine. Remember? I told you that in Colter.”

“Hmmm, that’s right. You did mention something about that,” he grins, his cheeks running pink as he remembers that wonderful night up in your little ramshackle cabin in the mountains. “I guess you were pretty adamant about that.”

“When it comes to you, Arthur, I am always adamant.” Your fingers lace behind his head, woven into his thick hair again as you gently pull him down to your velvety lips for a deep and passionate kiss. When you separate for a staggered breath, you begin to whisper sweet nothings to him, peppering strategic kisses along his chin and neck, along his cheeks and nose and along those plump lips again. “You are mine to kiss…to hold…to yell at…to whisper to…to worry over…to trust…to be angry with… and to love beyond measure.” 

—-----------------------------------

Later, the evening has draped its dark blanket around the earth once more. The crisp air fills with the sounds of the first signs of the frogs coming out for the Spring, their chirping so loud, yet seamlessly melded into the landscape at the same time. There is a humid thickness that settles over everything, bathing everything in a dewy layer that carries the smell of yet-to-fall rain. 

This is just a quick layover before you reach Horseshoe Overlook in the morning. No sense in setting up a fixed camp, so everyone has a bedroll on the damp ground and congregates around multiple fires, huddled for warmth under their blankets. Everyone is blissfully asleep before the day begins anew again with another set of challenges. 

You and Arthur have set up your little nest against his wagon, his bedroll laid out with blankets and a little fire going in front of you to keep you warm overnight. The two of you lay intertwined, perfectly content to be together and away from everyone else. You have finally drifted off to sleep, curled up against Arthur, his bulk and warmth a calming presence. He sits with his back propped up a bit, watching you doze so contentedly as you lay across his torso. His left arm cradles you protectively to him, his fingertips dragging lazily along your arm and shoulder. 

The fire is still stoked fairly well at this late hour, casting its soft golden hues across your sleeping form as the heat of the flames envelopes you both. Arthur stares into the fire, watching the hypnotic flames lick up and around the wood, its coals flaring crimson and pulsating like a heartbeat. 

He reaches over to his satchel, careful not to move too much and disturb your slumber, and pulls his journal out, lying it upon his thigh and opening the precious pages to write. His thoughts are still swirling from earlier:  seeing your image on a wanted poster, leaving you with Micah, and then later fighting with that idiot. But it was seeing you with Micah afterwards that has set his nerves ablaze. But Arthur doesn’t want to burden you with it any more than he has already. You are stressed enough as it is, he doesn’t want to add to it. Losing Jenny and Mac was hard for you, causing you to doubt your abilities as a doctor. You’ve been terrified of losing John to his injuries. You almost drowned trying to save Lenny from the icy waters in Colter. And now, you are hunted, just like the rest of the gang. It burns Arthur from the inside out to see such pain and turmoil behind those serene eyes of yours, always a window to your very soul. So as usual, he opts to pour his thoughts into that leather-bound book of his like it is a church confessional. 

We came down the mountain pass today. Sure glad to get out of that awful cold. But, of course nothing is ever easy for us. Maybe rightfully so. The wagon busted a wheel and had to get that fixed. The gang needs things so Dutch sent Y/N to the nearest trading post before the closest town to see if she could round up some food and medical supplies. She’d know better than anyone what we need. Of course I took her, but for some damn reason Micah was sent along with us. That man just irritates me to no end. I don’t know why Dutch keeps him around, but who am I to say anything?

But unfortunately one of my worst fears came true. We was in that village and there on the post wall was a wanted poster of Y/N. That damn bank robbery back in Red Rock. I was hoping to keep her safe from all this ugliness, but looks like I failed at that. Now she’s bound to a life of looking over her shoulder, same as the rest of us. I never wanted that life for her. Seems like everyone who gets near me gets pulled into my kind of trouble. 

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Y/N got pulled from me and had to rely on Micah to get her out because I wasn’t able to do it. In the midst of trying to escape, she had to kiss that ugly bastard. He had his hands all over her. Makes me see red just thinking about it again. But the worst part is that she had to tend to him once they got back to camp. He wasn’t ugly to her, which is a surprise, but in fact made me even more uneasy. I don’t know what’s going on in that twisted mind of his, but I fear he may have Y/N in his sights. That worries me because I can’t be around all the time to protect her and I have no idea to what lengths he’d go to get what he wants. Things are bad enough after Blackwater, I can only hope I can keep Y/N safe from Micah as well. I do love her so. I think I had to live through what love is not to really understand what it is. She’s a damn fool for loving a man like me, but I’m too selfish to let her go. And I’d die a thousand times if I lost her. I pray Dutch has a plan to get us all out of this mess once and for all. And then maybe, just maybe, Y/N and I can start a real life together. 

—--------------------------------------------------------

Several yards away, across the make-shift camp, Micah sits cross legged on the cold, damp ground, poking at his fire with a stick. Half-heartedly satisfied with the glowing embers, he reclines back against his saddle and rotates his arm in the air, trying to stretch the stiffness from his newly-repaired shoulder. A sharp pain cuts through his nerves when his skin pulls taught at your carefully-placed stitches. Micah stifles a yelp as his hand shoots to the wound, his face wincing until the radiating wave of pain finally subsides. The pain is a stark reminder to the tumultuous thoughts that plague his mind that he’s been desperately trying to bury since this afternoon. 

With a long, tired sigh, Micah lifts his weary eyes across his campfire and instinctively seeks out your sleeping form that is currently tucked into Arthur’s side. He observes how your face carries such peace and tranquility as you slumber under your lover’s protective arms. Micah shifts uncomfortably as if he can’t be contained within his own skin as the day’s events roll about in his mind, replaying over and over again like that goddamn gramophone of Dutch’s. 

He hates you. At least that’s what Micah tells himself. But he doesn’t really. You just make him feel things that he claims don’t exist. Or at least, tries to. It is that lingering taste of you on Micah’s lips that has innocently seduced his cravings for you to run wild in his soul. And now that he’s tasted you, he realizes how starved he really is. 

It is becoming clear in Micah’s mind that he is quickly becoming consumed by you, just as Arthur has, attracted to you in ways that he can’t explain and long forgot. He craves your attention like a man in the desert craves water. And he thinks about you more than you realize. 

You are both the first and last thing on Micah’s mind each day. You are becoming his weakness, just as you are Arthur’s. He aches for the feeling of your fingertips along his dry, scarred skin. The reality of it is, his heart breaks a little more every time he hears your name. And a piece of his soul dies when he hears Arthur’s, and not his, on your perfect lips. It is a whole different kind of pain when one’s heart cries, but their eyes don’t. But Micah will stare into the blinding sun before he looks into the mirror to see what can be done to fix that.  

Micah has always known that the two of you are like oil and water. But he was hoping that deep down, maybe you were just looking for an opportunity to hate him a little less. But he sees now that will never be the case. And that is the thing about it. Not only do you despise his very guts, but you are also that enamored with Morgan. And there are few things Micah can do about that. 

Micah would often watch you with Arthur when he thought no one was looking. It is much more than love you have for Arthur. You take care of him, you look after him. You make sure he is fed and clean. You mend his clothing with such precision and care. You rub his shoulders when he aches and your soft fingers dance along his forearms when he’s returned after a bad job. 

It is like a knife in Micah’s heart to know that you would never do these things for him. You could cruelly break his heart of stone without even realizing it. But that’s all he has to give to you, as he has never given it to anyone else. In fact he’s not sure any woman ever would accept it. But he’s come to terms with that because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. But what infuriates Micah is that he’s sure that Arthur doesn’t either. 

Micah pulls his bitter gaze back to the flames in front of him, his lips twisted in a pinched and frustrated expression. He flings the stick he used to stoke the fire into the heated bed of coals with a huff before bringing his clenched fist to his lips. If he had any presence of mind, he’d swipe the unshed tears from his hardened eyes before anyone sees. But Micah Bell hasn’t cried in years, not since he was a kid. It’s such a foreign concept that he isn’t even aware that it's happening. 

His vision begins to blur as he watches the burning wisps of red and orange engulf the jagged wood, noticing how they elegantly wrap themselves around the ugly, charred wooden scales like silk, offering warmth and consuming it until the fire and wood are one. 

And that is when Micah realizes that you are the fire. And he has been cold his whole life. 

*This is not my image, but posted on Pintrest by Lee

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*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people. 

[dark-and-kawaii]

⋆｡˚꒰ঌ MɪɴᴅBʀᴇᴀᴋ ໒꒱˚｡⋆

₊˚⊹♡ Summary: Halsin manages to break free from the goblin camp and “rescue” you. Bound and helpless at the grove, Halsin tries to make you see reason, tries to heal your broken mind. ♡ ♡ His patience starts to fade, perhaps he could find another way to break your mind free of Zevlor~ He knows it’s wrong, but by oakfather does your body feel heavenly wrapped around his cock…

₊˚⊹♡ Pairings: Halsin x F!Tav/Reader - Absolute Zevlor x F!Tav/Reader

₊˚⊹♡ Content: NSFW ✧ Dark Content ✧ Hurt/ Angst ✧ Stretched ✧ Big Mammoth Cock Halsin ✧ Mean Halsin ✧ Creampie ✧ Nipple Pinching ✧ Stretched Pussy From Big Cock ✧ Babbling Zevlor’s Name ✧ Pleading ✧ Halsin Fills You ✧ MindBreak ✧ Zevlor Finds You

⊹₊⟡⋆ Based Around This: Zevlor Fucks You In Front Of Halsin

⊹₊⟡⋆ Tʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs sᴛᴏʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴀ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ Hᴀʟsɪɴ ᴇsᴄᴀᴘɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ xᴏxᴏ

Damn goblins, absolutely worthless creatures. One fell asleep right next to the bars… Key dangling out of its pocket… And without Zevlor around, it was easy to break free. Halsin could finally act, could finally return to the grove, but first he had to find you. 

The Druid manages to find you sleeping on a bed hidden away from the rest of the camp. You look so at ease despite your body being littered in bruises and bites… He knows he must act fast to bring you back with him. So he does and he scoops you up, his arms strong yet gentle. Your stir, whispering Zevlor’s name… But something's off- these hands, this shoulder, they’re not his.

Your eyes snap open, panic setting in, “W-what!? What’re you-! Nyyoooo!!! Put me down!!!” you cry, thrashing wildly. Halsin holds you firm though, his arm a band around your thighs, pressing you close to him. Your legs kick helplessly, hands clawing for the bedpost, tears spilling over as you scream for Zevlor, “Zevlor! Zevy!!! D-don’t let him take me!!!” 

Your mind was completely broken, Zevlor had managed to make it so that he was the only thing you thought about night and day, and now your world feels shattered, the only anchor being Zevlor, the one you need like air itself, “Please! Please don’t take me away from him, please!!!”

Halsin pulls you away, his voice soft, “You poor thing… Please, allow me to aid you…” Your grip slips, and he bolts, his feet pounding the earth as he races through the camp and through the forest.

Your heart aches, tears streaming as he carries you away, your sobs breaking into gasps, “Zevlor…” you whisper, the name a lifeline.

When you were back at the grove, Halsin kept a close eye on you, kept you bound to his displeasure. He was far too afraid you’d leave- fearing you’d wind up back in the goblin camp. His plan was to heal you and try to get you to see reason… But each time he approached, you would recoil, fear and anger in your eyes, “Where is he… please take me back!!! Let me see my Zevlor again!!!” you scream, and Halsin’s heart sinks. 

Nights are filled with your cries for Zevlor… pleading for him to save you and begging Halsin to let you return to him. He sees how your body aches for the tiefling’s touch, how your dampness pools and drips each night, the heat coming off you is palpable. He can only watch you writhe in agony, your own fingers unable to reach your heat due to being bound… “s’need him~ please~”

A few days go by and the horns in the front of the grove sound off… And soon the others are yelling about how the goblins have returned, with a female Drow leading them and Zevlor, branded traitor.

Your eyes widened, he came for you… He came for you!!! “Zevlor!!!!” You shout and wiggled against your bindings. 

Halsin stayed in the cave with you, his irritation growing with each of your pleas.

Soon there are sounds of battle, the crackling of fire, the sounds of arrows and blades.

“No! Please let me go! I- I can’t let anything happen to him!!! Please!!! They-they will try to kill my Zev-“

“Enough!” Halsin barks, “I have tried to be patient, tried to stay calm with you. I cannot allow you to return to him.” He sees how your legs are rubbing together, he can tell- smell how aroused you are at the thought of being with Zevlor once again, and he grits his teeth. Perhaps he can try a new method of healing…

“Very well… Perhaps you just need to be reminded that he isn’t what’s best for you.” The Druid approaches you, and you immediately stop your movements, a look of horror and disgust on your face, tears already pricking at your eyes.

Throwing you into the dirt, Halsin makes quick work of the ropes holding you in place. He doesn't bother with his pants, just slips them down until he frees his hardened length. He knows what he is doing is wrong, knows it isn’t right to force himself onto someone in such a way, but-

You thrash and fight, screaming and pleading for him to stop, for your Zevlor to come snap his neck, “H-he’ll kill you- Zevlor will kill you if he finds out you- a-aahhhh!!!!! Sto-oooop!!! Please!!! Don-don’t-!!! You can’t!!! He- he- he will-!!!My body is his-“

Halsin lined up the bulging head of his cock against the fluttering lips of your pussy… He was surprised at how tight you still were after everything Zevlor had put you through, he had to stretch the lips of your pussy with his fingers to wedge the fat head of his cock inside… 

You cried, your entire being wanting to be torn in two. You knew he would never feel as good as your Zev- could never give you what he could…

Without wasting a moment, Halsin grabbed you by your hips and yanked you back toward him… Pain ripped up your back, “Ngh!!!” and down your legs. Your tongue flew from your mouth as you gasped and screamed at the sensation of being split wide.

His cock was thick and long, but nothing like the girth of your dear Zevy… Or so you told yourself… An attempt to ease your pain.

Every muscle in your body went rigid with agony. Your poor cunt clenched tightly around his prick, trying desperately to slow the devastating penetration. He fucked half of his fat cock inside you in one brutal lunge, and you felt as if your whole body was stuffed with burning, bulging fuck-meat, “s’shtop! F’can’t! N’Zev!”

He was not at all gentle.

Once he had you firmly impaled, Halsin set about using you like a sex toy, to mate with you as he would during long ruts, like an animal needing to breed. He rutted hard and fast, pounding his hips and cock into you in a savage rhythm. If you wouldn’t comply with reason then he’d fuck it into you. He’d make it so you'd never want anything else but the feel of his cock stretching your cunt, engrave your gummy walls with the memory and feeling of his cock and having you crave it with every fiber of your being.

He was rough, his thick member battering you like a battering ram. Tears streamed down your face, the pain was immense as Halsin fucked the rest of his giant cock inside you. Your stretched tight cunt lips felt as though they were ripping as he pushed the fattest part of his prick through them… 

“Z-Zevy!!!- pleashe- s-stop- nnnngh- h-he will- kill- y-you- AAAAHHH-!!! P-pleashe!!! Zev- neeed yuhhhh-“

Your words were cut short by a pained yelp. Halsin reached forward, grabbing a fist full of your hair. He yanked your head back while pulling you back onto his cock even more, making you squeal like a stuck pig, “Enough! You must see- open your heart, your eyes!”

He pulled out until just the tip of his cock remained in your cunt. With another grunt, he forced himself balls deep into your cunt.

Your back arched and you wailed, “Hng- Z-Zev-!! N-no- s-st- AAAGH!!! HALSSSIN-!!! Z-Zevy- he-!!! W-wai- a-aahhhh!!- ZE-!!- Hals-!!!”

“That’s right, my heart. Let my name fall from your lips- let nature heal your wounds- I will- mmmn- take care of you- fill you- with my heart.” He groaned.

The sounds of the battle were muffled and distant in your ears, drowned out by the wet squelches of Halsin fucking your pussy and the slap of his balls against your skin, and the loud, broken cries and moans that were punched from your lungs.

Sweat dripped from his face, now fully embedded inside your cunt, Halsin held himself balls deep… He gave a moment to feel the heat of your tight, abused cunt, and savored the way your little hole clutched at his cock… 

He’d be lying if he said you weren't one of the tightest things he's ever felt… A part of him understood why Zevlor forcefully kept you as his mate…

With a hard lunge, Halsin started to fuck into you again. His pace was mean, his hips jackhammering in and out of you, trying to break your mind free of that treacherous tiefling. Each hard thrust made your tits jiggle and bounce, each time his cock bottomed out inside you, the fat tip kissing the entrance to your womb, your entire body jerked forward and back, making a wet slapping sound.

Lightning bolts of agony crackled up your back and through your stomach and down the insides of your thighs. The bones of your pelvis felt as though they had been pushed roughly aside by the brutal, stabbing impacts of Halsin's cock… 

This wasn’t fucking, this was nothing like how your Zevy fucked you. this was being beaten from the inside with a fat, hard cock… Zevy~ your Zevlor… Your love, your master, your everything… He would do so much better~ He’d bully your insides just like this but so much better~ The way he fucked you with his whole body was far more intense than the druids pathetic attempts, at least Zevlor’s cock made you pass out each time he bred you… “My Zevy…”

With a sharp twist, Halsin grabbed one of your bouncing breasts, pinching your nipple and squeezing your plump flesh between his fingers. He leaned down, licking the shell of your ear, his hot breath fanning over your cheek and neck. 

The only thought running through your mind though was Zevlor- and what would he think of seeing you in such a position. Would he kill the druid? Pft, of course he would~ your body was his and no one else’s. Your Zevy would tear him apart and leave his guts strewn across the floor, the Druid's blood painting your bodies in a crimson display of love and passion- and then- and then he would- 

Halsin’s hand tightened on your breast, his hips picking up their pace, snapping into you at a violent, desperate pace, the tip of his cock battering your cervix, the fat, bulbous head smacking against the fleshy barrier again and again…

“Zevlor~- my Zev~- my Zevlor~♡- he- he will kill- ah- kill y-you-! Mmmm! Nnn- Haa-! Haa-! Aaa-! Zevy~ Zevy~ YESH!!! IT TURNSH ME ON~♡” you moaned, your body remembering the first time Zevlor laid his hands on you~. The pain and pleasure of the rough fucking turning your mind to mush. The thought of Zevlor’s hands being covered in Halsin’s blood, taking you right there, the two of you fucking in a puddle of gore- 

You cried out, your body clamping down hard around the druid. Your trembling legs spasmed and your pussy fluttered and squeezed around the invading prick, your mind visualizing Zevlor atop of you, “Gonna c-cum~!!! Dho my bessht to please you wihh everythinh my hody hash to offehr~ ♡♡ ZEVVVY~!!!!!”

Halsin grit his teeth, his arm wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground. His hips were a blur, the muscles in his ass and thighs clenching as his orgasm crept up his spine, his balls tightening. His grip around you was crushing, the pain and pleasure mixing together.

Your legs were dangling off the floor, bouncing wildly. You were screaming, crying and begging, “AHHH!!!! ♡♡♡ C-CUMMING!!! ZEVYYYY-!!! ♡♡ CUMMING SH’ALL OVAH YOUR SH’ICK COCK-!!! ♡♡♡ MY LOVER, MY EVERYTHING- ♡♡ I LUH S’YOU- ♡♡”

You came, and so did Halsin. His cock swelled, the thick vein along the underside of his prick pulsing, before it burst, your name falling from his lips… Spurt after spurt of cum gushed inside your pussy, filling you up, flooding your womb.

You felt the sticky mess of his seed ooze out from the tight seal of your pussy lips…

His orgasm was weak, nothing like Zevlor, nothing like your Zev~ The only thing the Druid could offer was a disappointing amount of seed…

Your body sagged, completely exhausted. There was no strength left, not even enough to lift your head. You hung limp in the Druids hold, panting and gasping, drool pooling and dripping from the corner of your lips.

He held onto you, pain evident in his features. What he had done was wrong, and he would never forgive himself, not even if the whole world did. The guilt settled heavy in his chest as he pulled out… His cum dribbled down your thighs, his cum, not the seed of the one you loved, the one you were trained for, the one you truly wanted and needed… Zevlor had broken you in ways the druid couldn't even imagine, and his actions only pushed you to call out Zevlor’s name in a delirious need for his cock...

“…Forgive me, my heart. Forgive me and let me heal you…”

You whimpered… All you wanted was your Zev…

Before Halsin could stand with you, the cave entrance opened. 

And standing there was Zevlor, his face a mask of cold anger, his eyes filled with fury and a murderous intent, the blood of his kin on his hands, the stench of death surrounding him like a cloud... 

You poor thing, you were too dazed, too fucked out to even notice your god had come to save you…

It took Zevlor a moment to understand what was going on, to see what the druid had done, the scene before him playing out like a sick nightmare... Your body, the place his cock and cum belonged, stained by the druid... “You bastard! What have you done?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?!”

Just as Zevlor lunged forward, before Zevlor could rush to your side, before he could smite the damn Druid…desperation etched on his face, fate dealt a cruel blow. Asharak lurked in the shadows, and struck with deadly precision, driving a blade deep into Zevlor's shoulder. As Zevlor turned, before he could muster a defense or attack, others from the grove swarmed, seizing him with unyielding force.

They pinned him down, chains clinking ominously as they bound him. Yet, even as they dragged him away, Zevlor fought with every ounce of strength, his eyes locked onto your slack form… Your eyes just met his, tears and snot streaming down that beautiful face that belonged to him- and he could hear it, the soft mewl of his name slipping from your swollen lips… His heart shattered with each step that dragged him away, threats and your name echoing in the air, haunting and desperate, until the door slammed shut, sealing him away from you…

[muiitoloko]

Hey there! I absolutely love the way you write the sheriff and was wondering your take on how the sheriff would behave with more masculine woman, one who wears men’s clothing, and is a hunter, and who’s quite tall and muscular. I think it would be interesting to see how he would behave when faced with a woman who actually stands up to him and who he really has to work to gain any affection from. I also see him not understanding her at all at first, but finding her interesting, perhaps he sees her shoot a deer while on a hunt and finds it weirdly sexy, would LOVE to some internal conflict with him as he realises that he actually finds this bizarre woman very attractive.

I love your work so much!!!

Title: A Demon With Breasts

Summary: George swears the strange huntress in the woods is a demon—stronger than a man, silent as the grave, and utterly infuriating—but why, then, does he crave her presence so damn much?

Pairing: Sheriff of Nottingham × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Obsession.

Author's Notes: Thank you for your request; I hope you enjoy it.

Also read on Ao3

The forest was alive with the whisper of the wind through ancient trees, the rustle of unseen creatures darting through the underbrush, and the occasional snap of twigs underfoot. It was the perfect setting for a hunt—solitary, brutal, and, most importantly, a place where the Sheriff of Nottingham could best his cousin without the inconvenience of an audience.

George stood at the edge of the glade, the weight of his crossbow comforting in his hands. His long black hair, slightly damp with sweat, clung to his jawline, and his hazel eyes burned with predatory focus. He had seen the deer—a magnificent stag, muscles rippling under its tawny hide, antlers like the twisted limbs of the very trees surrounding it.

He had to kill it first. He would kill it first.

On the other side of the glade, somewhere deeper in the undergrowth, was Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his ever-irritating cousin and the only man alive who had mastered the art of being insufferable at all hours of the day. They had wagered a small fortune on this hunt—first kill takes all. A friendly competition, if one ignored the fact that George would rather eat his own boots than let Guy best him.

George licked his lips, lifted the crossbow, and took aim, then—

The arrow whizzed through the air with a sharp whistle and embedded itself in the stag’s side. George’s breath caught as the great beast staggered, letting out a low, mournful cry before its legs buckled beneath it. His grip tightened on the crossbow as his brain scrambled to make sense of what had just happened.

Where had that arrow come from? He hadn't fired, and neither had Guy—he would have heard that bastard’s obnoxious laugh if he had. Then, from the canopy of trees above, something moved.

No. Someone.

George barely had time to process before you dropped down from a thick branch, landing beside the dying stag with a feline grace. The air around you was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves, and as you crouched beside the beast, stroking its heaving flank, George narrowed his eyes.

A man, surely. A tall, strong figure wrapped in dark, practical clothing. Someone who clearly lived outside the bounds of proper civilization, judging by the rough edges and the primal way they carried themselves.

You didn’t acknowledge him at first, not even as he stormed forward, boots crunching against twigs and fallen leaves.

“You thief,” he hissed, voice rich with fury. “That was my kill.”

Still, you ignored him. The stag shuddered one last time, exhaling its final breath. You whispered something—some strange language George couldn’t place—before closing its glassy eyes with careful fingers.

That simple act of reverence only made his blood boil hotter. With a growl, he raised his crossbow and aimed directly at the back of your head. “Stand up, you coward, and face the man you’ve just stolen from.”

And finally, you turned, and George froze.

What…? That wasn’t a man.

His mind floundered, grasping at anything logical, but all it could do was stutter and stall as he took in the bizarre woman before him.

A strange woman.

George noticed how tall you were as you stood up, not taller than him, but certainly taller than most women. Your arms were thin yet strong, and you faced him with a quiet intensity that unsettled him. For a moment, all he could do was stare, his grip tightening on the crossbow. He had expected a rugged outlaw, a common thief, or even one of Robin Hood’s pathetic Merry Men.

Instead, he got… this.

A bizarre woman.

A woman who had just stolen his kill, yet carried herself with an almost unnerving calm. Finally, George’s mouth caught up with his brain, and what spilled out was something only he could manage. “You… you’re a demon.”

You blinked.

“With breasts,” he clarified, as though that somehow made his accusation more logical.

You blinked again.

George scowled, confused and slightly unnerved by your utter lack of reaction. “Oh, so you’re mute, too?” he snapped, growing irritated. “A mute demon with breasts. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

Without a word, you knelt, grasped the stag by its antlers, and, with shocking ease, hoisted the entire beast onto your shoulders as though it weighed no more than a sack of grain. George could only gape in horror as you turned away and started walking, completely ignoring his very important, very indignant presence.

“Oh, no you don’t!” George shouted, storming after you, his boots crunching against the undergrowth. “You do not just steal my kill and saunter off like some mystical woodland spirit! That’s mine, you insufferable—”

You kept walking.

George quickened his pace. “Oi! I am speaking to you, woman!”

Still, you ignored him.

“I will have my venison! You will acknowledge my existence! You will—”

A sudden yank stopped him mid-rant. His cloak had caught on a gnarled tree branch, jerking him back with an undignified grunt.

He stumbled, struggled, flailed like an angry cat in a bath. “Son of a—bloody—fucking—”

When he finally yanked himself free, nearly toppling over in the process, he whirled around—only to find the glade empty. His jaw dropped.

His deer?

Gone.

The demon woman?

Gone.

His pride?

Wounded.

A feral scream of frustration tore from George’s throat, echoing through the forest with all the grace of a man who had just lost a fight to his own wardrobe.

On the other side of the forest, meanwhile, Sir Guy of Gisbourne was kneeling, crossbow aimed at a particularly plump rabbit. He held his breath, waiting for the perfect shot. His finger tightened on the trigger. The rabbit twitched its nose.

And then—

“AAAAAAAARGHHHHH!”

The unholy wail sent the rabbit fleeing in terror. Sir Guy, watching his dinner disappear into the undergrowth, exhaled slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose.

The road back to Nottingham was long, but for Sir Guy of Gisbourne, it was far longer than usual. Not because of the terrain, not because of the weather, not even because of the miserable lack of game in his saddlebag.

“I hate my family.”

No—tonight’s journey stretched into eternity for one reason and one reason alone: George.

The Sheriff of Nottingham had not stopped talking since they left the forest. He rode beside his cousin, gripping the reins of his black stallion with one hand while wildly gesturing with the other, his long black hair whipping in the wind as he recounted—again—his harrowing encounter with the demon woman with breasts.

“And I tell you, Guy—she wasn’t human!” George declared, eyes blazing as he nearly lost control of his horse in his dramatics. “She moved like the shadows themselves! Silent. Calculated. Unnatural.”

Sir Guy, resigned to his fate, merely nodded along. “Mmm.”

“And she was strong, Guy—stronger than a man!” George insisted, twisting in his saddle. “She lifted the stag—lifted it—as if it weighed no more than a feather!”

“Shocking,” Guy deadpanned, adjusting his gauntlet.

“I knew you’d understand,” George said, either missing or ignoring his cousin’s lack of enthusiasm. “I mean, how could she not be a demon? Tall as a man, built like a beast, and mute as the grave!”

Sir Guy hummed in vague agreement.

“And her eyes!” George continued, undeterred. “Cold. Unfeeling. No remorse for her crime!”

Sir Guy tilted his head. “Crime?”

“Theft, Guy!” George roared, gripping his horse’s reins as if they were the demon woman’s neck. “She stole from me! From my very hands! MY DEER!”

Sir Guy exhaled slowly, trying—really trying—not to roll his eyes. “George, you didn’t even shoot the damn thing.”

George ignored him. “And let’s not forget the most heinous crime of all.”

Sir Guy braced himself. “Oh, please, do tell.”

George turned to him, eyes gleaming with righteous fury. “She is evading taxes.”

Sir Guy actually choked. “What?”

George’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, his expression grave. “I realized it just as we were leaving the forest, Guy. That demon woman… she’s not just some wildling lurking in the woods. She’s a criminal. A tax thief.”

Sir Guy blinked. “A tax thief.”

“Yes.”

“A woman. Living in the woods. Hunting her own food.”

“Yes.”

“And your conclusion… is that she is evading taxes.”

George scoffed. “Guy, don’t be simple. Where does she get her income?”

Sir Guy opened his mouth. Then closed it.

George smirked, triumphant. “Exactly. She is a thief, Guy, a menace to society! She steals my game, my coin, my patience!” He shook his head, gripping the pommel of his saddle. “But she will not steal my pride.”

Sir Guy ran a hand down his face. “George, please, for the love of God—”

“Tomorrow, I return to that forest.”

Sir Guy sighed. “George—”

“I will find her.”

“Oh, no.”

“And I will—” George’s lips curled into a wicked grin, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper—“rip out her demon heart… with a spoon.”

Sir Guy groaned loudly, throwing his head back. “By all things holy, not the spoon again.”

“Oh, yes, Guy. The spoon.” George tightened the reins. “Imagine it—the slow, agonizing scrape of cold metal against flesh… inch by inch… her screams of agony echoing through the forest…” He let out a wistful sigh, as if imagining a particularly fine vintage of wine. “A work of art.”

Sir Guy’s expression was one of pure suffering. They rode in silence for a moment.

Then—

“…How would you even find her?” Guy asked, against his better judgment.

George grinned. “Oh, she’ll come to me.”

Sir Guy gave him a look. “And what makes you think that?”

George’s smirk was pure evil. “Because, dear cousin—I will set a trap.”

George was not accustomed to patience. He was a man of action, of power, of immediate gratification. When he wanted something, he took it. But for three long, infuriating days, he had returned to the woods, waiting for her to appear.

Sir Guy sighed so deeply it could have been mistaken for a death rattle.

And for three long, infuriating days, she did not.

No demon woman, no thief, no tax-evading forest creature with a disturbingly calm demeanor. Just trees, silence, and the oppressive weight of his own wounded pride.

By the third day, George was half-convinced she had never existed. That he had been tricked by some fae spirit into imagining the entire affair. That his mind, exhausted by years of stress, had conjured up some feverish hallucination to torment him.

But then, of course, he had gone and sprained his bloody foot. It was, in hindsight, a deeply humiliating injury. He had not been in the midst of battle, nor had he fallen victim to some treacherous woodland beast. No, he had been stepping over a particularly gnarled root, swearing under his breath about the lack of proper roads in this godforsaken place, when his foot had twisted at an unnatural angle and pain had shot up his leg like wildfire.

And now, here he lay, sprawled pathetically on the forest floor, scowling up at the indifferent sky, clutching his ankle as he groaned in a very dignified, very masculine way.

“Marvelous,” he muttered. “Simply marvelous.”

His horse had bolted at the moment of his fall, which was entirely the animal’s fault. A poor reflection of its training. And now he, the Sheriff of Nottingham, was alone in the wilderness, injured, with no one to—

A sound.

Soft. Barely there.

Someone was here.

George held his breath, his hazel eyes flicking to the tree line. And then—

There she was.

Appearing as though conjured by his very thoughts, she emerged from the underbrush, silent as a ghost, moving with that same impossible grace. A satchel hung over her back, and she paid him no attention as she knelt by a nearby tree, picking up a twig of all things, examining it with what seemed to be great interest.

George’s eye twitched. “You,” he hissed, propping himself up on his elbows. “Demon woman.”

She ignored him.

He clenched his jaw. “I have been waiting for you for three days, three days, and you choose now to appear?”

Still, she ignored him. George was not accustomed to being ignored.

His scowl deepened. “Are you deaf?!”

Nothing.

“Are you simple?!”

Nothing.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before attempting to sit up fully—only for a fresh wave of pain to shoot through his foot. He winced, biting back a curse, realizing with dawning horror that he could not walk.

He was alone in the woods, injured, with no way to—

No.

No, he was not alone.

His gaze snapped back to her, and for the first time in his life, he uttered a word he never used.

“…Please.”

She hesitated.

Ah.

George narrowed his eyes, licking his lips as he forced his voice into something softer. “Please,” he repeated, tilting his head ever so slightly, mustering what he hoped was a humble expression. “I am injured. I require assistance.”

A long pause.

Then—without warning—she moved.

In one swift motion, she closed the distance between them, knelt down, and before George could even react—

She lifted him. Like a bride.

George froze; his brain short-circuited. For a moment, all he could do was exist in this utterly bizarre reality. His arms instinctively looped around her shoulders, his long black hair falling over his face as he blinked in utter shock.

So this was what women felt like when they were carried.

It was… rather nice.

Dare he say, wonderful.

Oh, yes.

Yes, he could get used to this. He felt like a queen.

The warmth of her body against his, the way she carried him effortlessly, the power in her stride—this was the sort of luxury he had been deprived of all his life. From now on, he decided, the castle servants would carry him everywhere.

Up close, he could study her properly. She smelled like the forest—damp earth and pine, wild and untamed. Her face, now that he had the chance to examine it, was not entirely unpleasant. Not beautiful, perhaps, but striking. Sharp features, fierce eyes.

He smirked. “You know,” he drawled, “you are not as hideous as I originally thought.”

No response.

He blinked. “Ah. The mute act again.”

Still, nothing.

He tilted his head. “Where, pray tell, are you taking me?”

She walked in silence.

His smirk widened. “Ah, planning to keep me for ransom, are you? Wise. I am, after all, a very valuable man.” Nothing.

George huffed, adjusting his hold on her shoulders. “Really, now. Must you be so—”

You turned your head, your gaze locking onto his. “You talk too much.”

George gasped. He gasped.

“You speak?”

You went back to ignoring him.

His jaw fell open. “You speak!”

Silence.

“This entire time, you could speak?!”

Nothing.

“Oi! Say something else!”

You did not.

George fumed. “Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.”

Despite his protests, he made no effort to move from her grasp. No, he quite liked this arrangement. It was, in a way, almost intimate. He had never been this close to a woman before without some degree of plotting involved.

It was rather… nice.

By the time she carried him into a clearing, he had more or less resigned himself to his fate. A cabin stood before them, half-hidden by the trees, rough and weathered but sturdy. You carried him inside, setting him down on a cut tree stump near the fireplace before kneeling before him.

Without warning, you grasped his boot.

George stiffened. “Hold on, I do not—”

You yanked it off.

A strangled noise escaped his throat.

Then your hands were on him—strong, calloused fingers tracing the swollen skin of his ankle, pressing, testing, sending sharp jolts of sensation up his leg.

George inhaled sharply. “Ah.”

A smirk tugged at your lips.

His brow twitched. “That was entirely unnecessary.”

You pressed harder. George yelped.

“Oh, you enjoy this, don’t you?” he hissed, gripping the stump beneath him.

You said nothing. Your fingers worked expertly, massaging the swelling, applying careful pressure, sending small sparks of pleasure and pain curling through his nerves.

George exhaled sharply. “You are… quite thorough."

You stood up and walked away from him.

George wondered what you were going to do now. Eat him?

Of course.

Demon women with breasts eat men.

His stomach clenched, his hazel eyes darting around the clearing as panic curled around his mind like a viper. That was the only logical conclusion. He, the esteemed Sheriff of Nottingham, had just been carried off by some wild, inhuman woman, brought to her lair—her hunting ground—and now she was going to devour him like a fattened hog at a feast.

He had read about creatures like this in old, dusty tomes. Witches. Forest demons. Fae tricksters with uncanny strength and dead eyes. Oh, how the monks in the abbey would laugh at his fate! Eaten by a mute, tax-evading she-beast of the woods. The scandal of it!

As he scrambled to his feet, pain shot up his leg, forcing him to sit back down with an undignified grunt. Cursing under his breath, he watched as you crouched beside the firepit, pulling branches from your satchel.

George’s mind reeled.

What was this? A fire?

To… roast him?

His breath hitched in his throat. He could already see it—his own sorry corpse, skewered over an open flame, rotating slowly as you basted him like a prize hog. Would you season him first? Perhaps rub some forest herbs onto his skin before carving into him? Oh, how humiliating!

The great and terrible Sheriff of Nottingham, reduced to supper. He refused to be seasoned.

“That’s quite enough of that, you wretched creature!” he barked, jabbing a finger in your direction. “You will not cook me, you hear?! I am not some lowly peasant to be boiled and basted like a common stew!”

You ignored him. He seethed.

“How dare you treat me with such indifference! I demand—demand, I say!—that you return me to Nottingham this instant!”

Still, you paid him no mind, calmly arranging the branches in the pit.

“Have you no respect for authority?” he continued, voice rising in frustration. “Do you know who I am? I am the law, woman! The law! And I—”

“I’m going to get your horse,” you said flatly.

George blinked; his brain needed a moment to adjust.

“What?”

You dusted your hands off and turned to him, expression unreadable. “Your horse,” you repeated. “I’m going to find it. In the meantime, you can warm yourself by the fire.”

George stared. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t… that.

“You—” He licked his lips. “You mean to say you are not…?”

You gave him a long, unreadable look. “I am not going to eat you.”

Silence.

Then—

“Oh.”

A beat.

George coughed into his fist, shifting awkwardly on the stump. “Well,” he muttered, “that is a relief.”

You turned away without another word, striding back into the forest, disappearing between the trees as soundlessly as you had arrived.

George sat still, listening as the quiet returned, the fire crackling faintly beside him. It took precisely thirty seconds for his pride to recover enough to fume.

“How dare she!” he muttered under his breath. “How dare she abduct me only to not eat me!”

But even as he grumbled, he found himself glancing around, curiosity slowly overtaking indignation. Now that the initial panic had passed, he took in his surroundings properly for the first time.

And what he saw only made him more irritated.

Leftover meat hung from a crude wooden rack, some dried and some still fresh, the scent of blood mingling with the damp earth. A few animal skins stretched across the clearing, drying under the fading sun, their edges curling with age. Nearby, a splintered wooden table sat covered in an assortment of bones, broken tools, and what might have been an old drinking horn. The hut itself—if one could even call it that—was small, haphazardly constructed, and utterly filthy. The door hung slightly ajar, revealing nothing but darkness within.

George wrinkled his nose.

This was no demon’s lair. This was a hovel.

A wretched, unkempt, poorly maintained hovel.

He scoffed. Disgusting.

The woman clearly had no sense of hygiene. No sense of organization. No—no decorum. If she were to be a proper outlaw, she could at least have some taste.

He crossed his arms. Oh, this simply would not do.

If he was to be stranded here for any length of time, he would have to set things right.

And first thing first—

George didn’t know what irritated him more—the fact that you had so effortlessly located his horse, or the way you handed him the reins without so much as a word before turning away like he was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

That table needed cleaning.

He stared at you, then at the reins in his hands, then back at you. His brain, still struggling to catch up, did its best to conjure a suitably scathing remark.

“Ah—so that’s it, then?” he scoffed, lifting a brow. “I am simply to be dismissed? Sent away like an unruly child?”

You didn’t even look at him.

George bristled. “I refuse.”

You did not respond.

“I refuse, I say!”

Still nothing.

“I will not—"

Before he could finish, your hand shot out, grabbing the back of his coat with a firm grip, and with terrifying ease, you shoved him onto his horse.

George flailed. “What in the—?!”

Then, before he could so much as curse you to the high heavens, you gave his stallion a sharp slap on the flank. The horse, startled, bolted.

“YOU WRETCHED—!!”

His outraged scream echoed through the forest as he clung to the reins for dear life, his stallion thundering down the path, carrying him straight back to Nottingham in an undignified, furious mess.

Not that it mattered, because as soon as his foot healed, George returned.

And then he returned again.

And again.

And again.

Before the sun had even properly risen—you heard a distant, unholy screech echoing through the forest.

“DEMON WOMAN! SHOW YOURSELF!”

You ignored it. And yet, day after day, the screaming continued.

“COME OUT, YOU TAX-STEALING, GAME-THIEVING, UNHOLY CREATURE!”

“DID YOU THINK I WOULD JUST LEAVE?! I AM THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM, YOU WRETCHED—”

“YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM ME FOREVER!”

This went on for an entire week.

The first few times, he made an effort to track you down. He bumbled through the woods, tripping over roots, cursing loudly, occasionally getting his cloak stuck on branches like some absurdly dramatic cat. At one point, he found a pile of deer droppings and, in his infinite wisdom, tried to determine if they were fresh—resulting in a very loud, very undignified gagging fit.

You watched from a tree, mildly entertained.

But then, on the eighth day, you made a grave miscalculation.

You let your guard down.

George followed you long enough to memorize the path to your cabin, and from that moment on, he no longer wasted time searching; he came straight to you.

The first time George entered your cabin, he looked around with exaggerated surprise, hands on his hips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, hazel eyes sweeping over the room. “This is… shockingly civilized.”

Every damn day.

You didn’t bother responding.

Because, of course, the idiot had expected filth. He had expected a hovel of sticks and dirt, some crude cave where you—his so-called “demon woman with breasts”—lived like a wild beast.

Instead, he found a meticulously organized cabin.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked with dried herbs and neatly labeled jars. A sturdy wooden table sat by the window, its surface polished, free of dust. Your weapons were mounted carefully on the far wall, well-maintained and sharpened to a deadly gleam. Even the furs spread across your bed were arranged with purpose.

George scowled. “This is unacceptable.”

You turned to him, arching a brow.

He gestured wildly. “Where is the chaos? The filth? The wretched stench of depravity? You’re supposed to be a witch-man, not a—” He made a vague, disgusted gesture. “—a homemaker!”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer.

Instead, you grabbed a piece of bread, ripped it in half, and sat down at your table to eat.

George watched you.

Then he sat down, too.

Then he reached for your bread.

You slapped his hand away.

He recoiled, gasping as if you had just stabbed him. “The audacity!”

You sighed. “George.”

He blinked, as if he hadn't expected you to say his name. That you knew his name.

You met his gaze, voice flat. “Get out.”

He ignored you.

Instead, he draped himself over the table, dramatically resting his chin on his fist. “You know,” he mused, “this wouldn’t be such an unpleasant arrangement if you weren’t such a cold-hearted goblin.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

George took that as an invitation to keep talking. “And really, you should be flattered by my presence,” he continued, absently twirling a dagger he had no business touching. “Most women would kill for my company.”

You snatched the dagger from his fingers and slammed it into the table.

George grinned. “Oh, you like it rough.”

You stared at him, considering your life choices. At what point, exactly, had things gone so catastrophically wrong?

Because now—now—you had this: An annoying man.

A man who ate your food, despite contributing nothing; a man who followed you around, despite being absolutely useless; a man who made demands as if you owed him something; a man who, despite all logic and reason, refused to leave.

And worst of all—

A man who called you every name in the book.

Demon with breasts.

Witch-man.

Goblin.

Beast in woman’s skin.

Tax-evading monstrosity.

And, just yesterday—

“Curse you, you venison-thieving harpy!”

It had taken everything in you not to strangle him.

And now, now, he was back. Again.

Eating your food. Again.

Making himself at home in your cabin, as if he belonged here. Again.

And you—you—had reached your limit.

Which was why, when George leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, smug as ever, and drawled, “Face it, goblin, you’ll never get rid of me,”—

You slammed your hands onto the table, leaned forward, and hissed—

"My name is [Your Name]."

George froze, his smirk faltering, his brows lifting slightly. For once, he looked genuinely surprised.

You narrowed your eyes, voice dripping with irritation. “Say it.”

George blinked.

Then, slowly, a slow, wicked grin curled across his lips.

“Oh,” he purred, leaning in.

Something in his gaze changed. Something filthy.

You regretted everything immediately.

“[Your Name],” he murmured, rolling the syllables in his mouth like fine wine.

You clenched your jaw. He smirked.

“Oh, I like that,” he murmured. “It suits you.”

You had never wanted to throw someone into a fire more.

George’s hazel eyes gleamed with something far too pleased, far too wicked, and when he leaned closer, voice dipping into that low, taunting purr, you knew you had made a mistake.

“Tell me, [Your Name],” he mused, voice like silk and sin, “do all demons have names?”

You were going to murder him.

George tilted his head, watching you with an infuriatingly smug expression. Then, with deliberate slowness, he picked up the bread, took a bite, and smirked.

“You’re a terrible host, you know.”

You stared at him. Then, in one swift motion, you grabbed his entire chair and tipped it over.

George yelped, crashing to the floor in a heap of flailing limbs and wounded dignity.

You stood over him, glaring down, your patience utterly obliterated. “Get. Out.”

He blinked up at you, utterly unbothered.

Then he grinned.

“Oh, [Your Name],” he drawled, sprawled on the floor like a fallen king. “I’m never leaving.”

You inhaled sharply.

You were going to kill him.

You were going to gut him.

But—

God help you—

The days passed with an infuriating, exasperating, utterly impossible routine.

You almost smirked.

Every morning, George would storm into your clearing like a man possessed, ranting about your crimes—theft, tax evasion, demonry!—as if he had any authority over you out here in the wild. Every afternoon, he would follow you around like a lost pup, peppering you with endless, insufferable questions.

And every evening, he would make himself comfortable in your cabin, refusing to leave, claiming it was his right to ensure that the dangerous forest witch-man wasn’t plotting against Nottingham.

You had long since stopped trying to throw him out; it never worked. Instead, you tolerated him, barely.

But George, for all his dramatics and arrogance, had curiosity. And curiosity, in a man like him, was a dangerous thing.

“So.” He propped his boots up on your table one evening, smirking as he took a sip of your ale. “You live out here. Alone.”

You nodded, skin still warm from a hard day’s hunt.

George tilted his head. “Why?”

You huffed, reaching for your knife to sharpen it. “Because I have no other choice.”

George squinted at you, clearly not satisfied. “Oh, come now. No family to speak of?”

“No.”

His brows lifted slightly, intrigued. “None at all?”

You shook your head. “My parents died when I was young. I was left to fend for myself.”

Silence.

George hated silence.

“So, you’ve lived in this miserable little woodland your whole life?”

You didn’t even look at him. “Yes.”

“That explains why you’re built like an ox.”

You rolled your eyes. “Strength comes with necessity.”

George let out an incredulous chuckle. “Necessity?” He scoffed. “Women aren’t supposed to be strong.”

You didn’t even glance up from your blade. “Men aren’t supposed to be insufferable, yet here we are.”

George’s smirk faltered. His eye twitched.

You had been doing that more and more lately—talking back.

And for some infuriating reason…

It thrilled him.

George leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, voice dipping into a taunting purr. “So, what? You became strong simply by hauling around wild beasts and building houses out of twigs?”

You shrugged. “Close enough.”

He scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

But even as he said it, his mind—traitorous, wretched thing that it was—lingered.

The image of you lifting that stag onto your shoulders, muscles flexing beneath rough-spun cloth…

The way you wielded your bow, loosing arrows with a precision that made his own hands itch with something.

The way you moved, with such effortless, unbothered strength.

George swallowed hard, forcing himself to scowl.

Absolutely not.

He was not attracted to a feral, tax-evading beast woman.

He was not enthralled by the way your body moved—sharp, graceful, commanding.

And he was certainly not imagining the feeling of those strong hands grasping his waist, carrying him to bed—

George choked on his drink.

You glanced up, unimpressed. “Are you dying?”

He slammed his cup down, glaring at you like it was your fault that his thoughts had just turned unspeakably filthy. “Oh, shut up,” he snapped, cheeks tinged pink.

You raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, well—” He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs defensively. “—you were thinking something.”

You hummed, unconvinced.

George scowled, forcing himself to focus on anything else.

But unfortunately…

everything else only led back to you.

To the way you walked. To the way you stood.

To the way you didn’t flinch when he sneered, didn’t fawn when he boasted, didn’t cower when he threatened.

You were untamed.

And something deep, deep in his wretched, depraved soul… Liked it.

Wanted it.

George’s fingers curled into a fist, his pulse thrumming with an unfamiliar, maddening heat. He had always preferred his lovers weak.

Submissive. Eager to please.

But you—

You were untouchable. You had no interest in him. No fear of him. No desire to even acknowledge his power.

It was unacceptable. It was infuriating.

And it was so… unbearably attractive.

George gritted his teeth, willing himself to stop looking at your hands. Beautiful hands. Calloused hands. Hands that had—

He needed to leave.

Now.

Without another word, he shoved back his chair, storming toward the door.

You barely glanced up. “Finally giving up?”

He scoffed, tossing his hair over his shoulder with a dramatic flourish. “Hardly.”

Then, with a wicked smirk—just to regain some semblance of control—he leaned in close, voice dripping with challenge. “Don’t miss me too much, demon.”

You rolled your eyes.

George stormed out into the night, shoving his way through the forest with a scowl—his body betraying him with every unbearable step.

This was ridiculous. He was the Sheriff of Nottingham.

He was not in love with a man with breasts.

Absolutely not.

And yet…

Your voice lingered in his ears; your strength haunted his thoughts.

And George—miserable, furious, burning with something he refused to name—

Knew he’d be back. Tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next.

Because no matter how much he raged, no matter how much he denied it…

He was utterly, hopelessly enchanted.

[frudoo]

The Tourist - Reacher

Chapter One: Subterranean Homesick Alien

Warnings: Suggestive. Brief child abuse (NOT by Reacher). Fem!Reader. MDNI.

Reacher’s not sure how he ended up back in this town. At least, that’s what he’s trying to convince himself of. He knows damn well why he hitchhiked his way back here from the middle of God-knows-where with nothing but his passport and a toothbrush. 

     The old dog is getting, well, old. He’s lonely in this lifestyle that he swore up and down is the only way he’d ever enjoy living. The occasional one-night-stands and flings with girls he barely knew the names of were doing little to satisfy this newfound craving inside his bones. Yes, Reacher—the drifter, the hobo, the phantom—is ready to settle down. 

     He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t regret leaving you in the first place. Every girl he’s met since you has been laughably dull in comparison—none of them had your softness, your devotion, your light. None of them could send a shiver down his spine with nothing but a smile, or make him drop to his knees with reverence just to feel the gracefulness of your fingertips against his scarred, stubbled face. Not one woman he’s taken to bed before or after you has been able to make his legs give out the way you could. Not one woman he’s fucked has held him the way you did, cared for him the way you did. 

     Of course, he loved some of those women—even thought about staying with one of them in that stupid little town in Georgia, but every time he kissed her all he could imagine was you. It was superficial. When she begged him not to leave, he used his wanderlust as an excuse to break her heart. The truth would have destroyed her, and he wanted to leave her with the good memories they made. She was a strong, adaptable woman, and he has no doubt that she moved on, maybe even got married and had a baby or two by now.  

     Moving on isn’t a luxury he can afford, not since he met, had, and left you. Reacher doesn’t often make mistakes, prides himself on being effective and precise, but he is an honest man. Even if his mouth won’t admit it, his brain doesn’t let him forget. Every night he dreams about you. In every sunset, he sees you. In every gust of wind, he feels you. The smell of the grass after it rains, the aroma of freshly-baked bread and a hearty meal, it’s all a reminder of you, you, you. He can’t ignore it anymore. He has to try and make amends, either win you back or die trying. 

     The outdoor air is refreshing, lacking the bitter burn of cigarette smoke he thought had made itself a permanent resident in his nostrils on the ride here—he’s happy to have been proven wrong. If the old trucker took one more puff Reacher was prepared to smash his wrinkled face into the steering wheel. Luckily, he was able to get off at a truck stop a couple of miles from your town and walk the rest of the way. 

     He remembers every square inch of this street—the names and building numbers of every structure along the way, hell, even the brand of asphalt they repaired the road with. When he was here all those years ago the town had this street blocked off while they worked, and he was forced to take detours when driving you around. Of all the high-speed chases he’s been in, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other out the window with a gun pointed back at some red-faced criminal, Reacher loved to joke that your little residential town was the most difficult to maneuver with all the construction always going on. Really, he loved it, because it meant he could use it as an excuse to hold your hand as the two of you traveled on foot. 

     Some of his best memories were made here, memories he’s clung to since the very last day he held you. Memories of you laughing, streetlights illuminating the shine of your teeth, memories of drunkenly kissing you against back alley brick walls, memories of dancing with you in your kitchen while cookies baked and the dishes were left ignored. He still can’t pass by any bakery without heading inside to grab a couple of cookies—one for himself and one for you, just in case, no matter where in America he finds himself. 

     Reacher is sick of holding out hope that maybe you’ll turn up out of nowhere. He knows better. You’ve never been a drifter, always a homebody, just as loyal to your hometown as you were to him. If he wants you back, he has to go back. He’s a man of action, a man who goes after what he wants, and he’s planning to get it.

     It’s Thursday—your grocery day. You don’t like to go in the mornings, too many old people, and at night all the freaks come out. Afternoon is too busy, when most people get off of work, and lunchtime is flooded with pretentious businessmen who look down their noses at you when they see what’s in your basket. Right after breakfast is peak time, according to you, when the market isn’t nearly as busy as usual and there’s still a good amount of product that hasn’t been rummaged through. You shop locally to support small businesses—he’s always admired your disdain for larger corporations—and favor the little store just a mile down from your apartment. That’s exactly where he heads.

     As the sliding doors part to give him entry, he sucks in a deep breath, goosebumps rising along his skin beneath the tattered jacket he wears. It still smells just the same, like an eternal autumn with hints of cinnamon and apple. Once you’d asked the owner how she got it to smell so good inside, and he gifted you that very candle she named for your birthday one year. It burned and wafted throughout your flat as he knelt between your legs and devoured the sweetest treat he’d have that night, more so than the cake he helped you bake or the red wine you made him share with you. That was the night he confessed his love to you, but you were already peacefully asleep in his arms, too deep in a dream to hear him. 

     The first aisle you’d always head for was the canned goods—farmers from all over town sell their product to the shop and you would take every opportunity to swear up and down that it would be the most delicious veggies and homemade sauces he’d ever taste. They were good, he’ll admit, but none of them scratched the surface of anything you made yourself. Reacher had always tried to convince you to start selling your own goods whether it be the frozen meals you prepped or the countless loaves of sourdough you handcrafted. He never could get you to listen, but that’s alright. It made him feel special that he was the only one who got to taste your passions. 

     After canned goods, you’d go for meat—two pounds of chicken, two pounds of beef, two pounds of pork. Never more, never less. Then, pantry staples if you were running low: pasta, rice, flour, sugar. If, once you had the necessities, you were left with a little extra spending money in your budget, you would grab extra chocolate chips to snack on and maybe sneak into some loaves of bread later. Every time you were ready to check out, you would go to the register where the sweet elderly lady works, because although she’s up there in age, her scanning skills are sharp and quick as ever. Besides that, she always checked up on you and Reacher, and he always pretended not to notice the way she’d look at your left hand for a ring every single time she saw you.

     When the big man makes his way to the register, a bouquet of flowers he doesn’t quite remember picking up looking comically small in his massive hand, he finds that she isn’t working today. That’s not odd. Maybe she retired. He makes his way to the owner’s register instead. There’s a piece of folded cardstock on the blank space before the scanner with the words Break - back soon! written across it. His eye twitches.

     It’s fine. Reacher has all the time in the world. He can wait. He’s used to waiting—made for it. In fact, it gives him time to think. 

     You were always comfortable in your apartment, perfectly content and happy. There’s very few reasons why you would suddenly up and leave, especially being so attached to familiar places. It’s safe to assume that you still live in the same complex, more than likely the exact same space. The address is one he knows by heart, not because of his rigorous military training but because of sentiment. He’s positive he could maneuver the route blind and mute and legless because his mind and soul has always made its way back to you. No reason to believe his body wouldn’t, too. 

     The hand wrapped around the delicate flowers squeezes a bit tighter in approval of his plan. Pay, then walk to the very place all of his dreams occur in. Pay, then fall at your feet and beg for forgiveness, convince you to find a reason to let him back in. Convince himself that he deserves the sweet relief of your forgiveness. 

     The bell dings as the front doors of the shop slide open, signaling the entrance of a new customer. Reacher pays it no mind—not until he hears the pitter-patter of little feet and the telltale whine of a discontented child. He turns to observe, eyes falling upon a pouting toddler with a faded stuffy in one tiny fist and a parent’s hand in the other. A father. 

     A father whose grip is far too tight for such a fragile wrist. A father who drags the girl along with a scowl on his face and a piss-poor attitude evident in every step he takes. The toddler’s whines turn into scared little sobs, and Reacher’s curiosity turns into unbridled rage.

     He didn’t come back to this town to cause a scene. He tries to avoid conflict nowadays, but perhaps his friends and enemies alike are right—trouble follows him everywhere, and he’ll be damned if he lets an injustice go unsolved.

     Reacher knows he’s going to end up in cuffs and ultimately the news once he’s done with this piece of shit. It’s not how he planned to reintroduce himself into your life, headlining the local newspaper, but it’s oddly fitting. A grand exit, a grand entrance.

     The bouquet is forgotten on the unoccupied register as he cracks his neck in preparation.

[leopardcoffee]

𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕡𝕤, 𝕞𝕪 𝕝𝕚𝕡𝕤, 𝕒𝕡𝕠𝕔𝕒𝕝𝕪𝕡𝕤𝕖 𝟚/𝟚

Pairing: Bang Chan/F!Reader

Part 1 here

Warnings: none

Synopsis: "I want to love you where everyone can see us.”

a/n: more things to come!

Word count: ~1.3k

“Who was that?” Chan said through gritted teeth. Butterflies erupted in your stomach as he tugged you close to him. “Answer me.”

Being this near made your head spin. The warmth of his body heated you up. Your neck was still bruised where Jay’s lips had been. Chan looked feral, clearly just as drunk as you were.

“Were you going to go home with him? Let that scumbag loser fuck you up against his front door? Are you that easy? Answer me. Now.”

“I don’t answer to you, Bang Chan. I can dance with whoever I damn well please. So if I’m going to dance with him- No, if I'm going to fuck him or his friend or both, what’s it to you?”

Something imperceptible flashed in Chan’s eyes. “Everything.”

You said nothing, did nothing. Just stood there and tried to process Chan’s words. Nothing made sense now, nothing would ever make sense again after whatever this was. The hand clutching the back of your head pulled you closer, and your foreheads brushed. Long fingers threaded through your hair as his eyes delicately fluttered closed.

“Everything, Y/N. I never want to see another man look at you like that, like you’re just a body. When he put his hands on you, I couldn’t deal Y/N.”

Chan sighed deeply, his eyes still closed.

“I can’t stand this, this distance between us. The ache in my chest when you lean away from me, how you can’t meet my eyes, it’s killing me. I know it's my fault, I did this to you, to us.”

His brown eyes opened, and he pulled back. You sensed he had more to say, but this wasn’t the place. Wordlessly, you took his hand in yours and began leading him out of the club. Dutifully, Chan followed.

Once you’d stepped outside, you glanced up at him for consent before gently tugging his hand in the direction of your apartment. Neither of you dared to speak and disturb the precious moment between you. Chan’s arm tucked itself around your waist as a gust of cold wind whistled past. Something hung in the air as the two of you made your way back to your apartment, the raw vulnerability that comes before every hard conversation.

Chan stood patiently behind you while you fumbled for your keys, struggling to unlock your door with shaking hands. A frustrated noise left you as you tried to get the key to turn in the lock. Chan’s hand reached out and brushed yours away. Effortlessly, he unlocked your door and held it open for you. Entering after you, he gently shut your door and hung your keys on the hook next to it as if he was made to do it for you.

Going against the nervous feeling in your stomach, you turned to face him. Chan stood there, looking at you with his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. Wordlessly, you walked up to him and wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your cold nose into the crook of his neck. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush up against his chest. You hoped he couldn’t feel your heartbeat hammering wildly. The two of you stayed like that until his hoarse voice broke the fragile quiet.

“I love you.” You felt his nose press into the hair on the top of your head. “Always have. I couldn’t stand this, this…thing between us anymore. I’m sorry Y/Nie, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’ve been acting this way. You make me so scared, so scared Y/Nie.”

You sniffled, curling your fingers into his coat as you tried to get closer.

“I don’t want to hurt you or our friends, but I can’t keep it inside any longer. I never wanted to hurt you. I think about what I said about you in front of everyone that day in the country all the time. We almost died and I-” Chan choked.

“I almost lost you. I almost lost you before I could tell you. Seeing you so scared broke my heart, all I want to do is keep you safe in my arms forever. I love you Y/Nie, I love you so much. Please, please let me love you.” Quiet sobs followed his confession, and he buried his face in your hair.

You didn’t bother trying to hide your tears, you cried into his chest and tangled your fingers in his hair. Standing there, wrapped up in each other’s arms, you cried in the quiet darkness of your apartment.

“I love you too Channie. I love you. I always have. I wanted you to love me so bad after that day, after we almost-” You couldn’t finish the sentence. Limp in his arms, you tugged at this jacket.

He must’ve understood what you were asking for as he slipped his jacket off and hung it next to yours on the coat rack. You were asking him to stay. Taking off your shoes, you motioned for him to follow you into your room. Heart racing in your chest, you perched on the edge of your bed. He stood in your doorway, hesitating.

“Y/N, are you sure?”

“Yes Channie, I’m sure.” You pulled up the covers and waited for him to climb in with you. The moment he settled down, you wrapped yourself around him, letting your head rest against his chest. A gentle thumb wiped the dried tear tracks from your face. Chan’s other snaked around your waist and pulled your leg up over his own.

Plush lips met your own as Chan pulled you up against him. You kissed him back with just as much urgency, using your leg to pull his hips flush against your own. Your lips parted for him, and Chan deepened the kiss. Resisting the urge to grind against him, you explored every corner of his mouth. Chan groaned when you ran your hands down his chest and toyed with the hem of his shirt. You slipped your hands underneath it to feel the abs you knew he was hiding. He grabbed one of your hands before they could dip down towards his waistband and broke the kiss.

“Let me take you out to dinner first. Let me buy you flowers and pull your chair out for you. Let me put my jacket over your shoulders and walk you home. I want everything to be perfect when I ask you to be my girlfriend. I want to make the first time special for you. I want you to understand that I’m not just in it for your body. I want you, all of you, exactly the way you are. I want to love you where everyone can see us.”

Cheeks on fire, you buried your head in your hands in embarrassment. Chan laughed and pulled you closer. Prying your hands from your face, he pressed his nose against yours.

“Please let me take you to dinner?”

You smiled softly. “I only have one condition. I think now’s pretty perfect, ask me.”

Chan looked at you with such fondness that you knew you’d never doubt his feelings again. “You’re right. This is perfect. Y/N, will you be my girlfriend?”

Smiling against his lips you murmured, “Always Channie. I’m here to stay.”

[widowpunx]

Into My Arms (Rated: Explicit) [Down The Rabbit Hole We Go | Kinktober Celebrations]

Summary: In Wanda's opinion the motorcycle trip turned out better than expected. She overcame her fear of motorcycles and was rewarded for it. 

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff X Natasha Romanoff.

Words:4,765

⚠️WARNING⚠️ Just 18+ people are welcome to read.

THIS WORK CONTAINS: Graphics Descriptions of Smut, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Mommy Kink, Vaginal Sex and Dirty Talk. Natasha has a penis.

Post Black Widow Movie, Road Trips, Established Relationship, On The Run. English is not my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes.

котенок - kitty

детка - Babe

Боже мой - My God.

Available on ao3

Wanda was really scared at first. Her heart must have been thumping so loudly and hard ion her that she could feel it pounding through the leather jacket and all. Every time they came to a curve, she would clutch so hard that Natasha probably couldn’t breath.

For the whole first two hours, Wanda just shut her eyes and cursed herself for ever agreeing to get on Natasha’s damned motorcycle. Wanda was so sure that the thing would topple every time they went around a bend. And damn her, Natasha choose the road with the most winding curves in Italy. God, Wanda must have been crazy to agree to this romantic trip. Maybe crazy in love with this wild redhead.

Natasha had been planning this romantic motorcycle ride along the beautiful Amalfi Coast for weeks. The motorcycle trip was a distraction to forgot that they were fugitives and the government was hunting them.

But, by the third hour, Wanda found herself peaking over her girlfriend’s shoulder. Her legs would tense in anticipation when they came to a bend, and Natasha was starting to lean into the curves like a pro. Under the helmet Natasha was grinning like an idiot loving this sense of freedom. Riding her motorcycle was like flying.

Wanda was grining a bit despite her continuous fear. The feel of the streaming fresh air flowing through her helmet was exhilarating for. The adrenaline of the moment was turning her on. The fear turned into excitment. The feel of the powerful engine purring between her legs was getting her aroused.

God, Wanda didn’t want this trip to end, but if it didn’t soon, she was gonna make a mess on Natasha's motorcycle. This time they were headed down the road to a cozy hotel at Sorrento Village. Wanda had never been there before. She had learned to let her girlfriend make the plans and surprise her. Natasha always seemed to know what would make her happier.

Even this damn motorcycle. Wanda had resisted her so long. But finally after a long night filled with passion and love making, Natasha asked her to try it once. And Wanda, she couldn’t deny her lover anything that night, so she agreed. How could she have known that she would learn to love this too?

As the sunset falls, the road curved in and out of the trees, and their green shapes flashed by in a blur of fresh wind. From time to time the coast came into view, and Wanda could see the tide cresting against the ragged rocks below them.

Once in awhile, a shaft of fear would stab her as Wanda imagined them crashing out of control and their bodies falling to be splintered on those rocks. She would shiver then. But then Wanda would feel the strong back of her girlfriend pressed against her chest, and she would remember her strength, her gentle competence and she relaxed.

Wanda had learned to trust this Natasha in so many parts of her life. Here Wanda trusted her with her life itself, and she knew that Natasha would care for it as she always did.

When they finally came to the entrance to the hotel, it was both too soon and too late for her. To soon for the ride that had become an odyssey to end. And too late because by now not only her panties but her jeans as well were soaked wet. Wanda felt the arousal humming along her nerves, the throbbing ache of her swollen clit made it hard for her to walk straight, her legs were a bit shaky.

In their hotel room, Wanda could hear the muted sound of the waves breaking on the rocks, the tide was a gentle swell lapping at the coast leaving a tracery of foam on the rocks. She thought of making love to Natasha there and relief the throbbing heat between her thighs but Natasha had other ideas.

She and Nat enter in a cozy Italian restaurant near to the hotel during their dinner time. She was eyeing her girlfriend amusedly. Natasha has a devilsh smile on her face. She knew her so well, she suspected her aroused mode and her intense desire to feel her touch on her body. 

While Natasha checked some messages Wanda didn’t say anything, she just acted like, everything was okay. She wanted to tease Natasha so she just craned her neck and her girlfriend could see her generous cleavage shifting in her blouse. Her tits were practically bulging out of her bra and black leather jacket.

The effect on the redhead was immediate. Natasha licked her lips and sat back in her chair sipping her cold beer. Wanda smiled inwardly and toyed with the button on her blouse, from time to time rubbing her fingers over her boobies teasing her girlfriend.

Natasha kept reading the messages on her phone as she tried to act casual, but Wanda could see her green eyes following the movement of her dancing fingers on her tits. It was getting on now, and Natasha must have been pretty horny by now, being exposed to her innocent seduction and not being able to ran her tongue over her boobies.

Grinning broadly Natasha was staring at her face with undisguised lust. "Are you teasing me, uh?"

"Of course not." Wanda said with a smile but caught Natasha's lustful green eyes burning with desire and blushed. She squirmed in her seat as Natasha rose and sat beside her and murmured in her ear how much she wanted to bury her face on her slippery pussy and how much she wanted to lick her pretty tits and suck her nipples. 

Of course this caused Wanda became more needy and eager to return to their hotel room and stay alone with Nat. She stood up and made her way to the hotel room making sure her lover was following her.

Natasha followed her into the room, watching her femenine hips swaying provocatively before her. Wanda smiled making a fast job with her own clothes, throwing them on the floor as she made her way to the bed.

"What are your plans, Ms. Maximoff?" Natasha asked with a crooked grin.

'I think my plans are pretty obvious, don't you think?" Wanda giggled foolishly and took her breasts in her hands to give them a playful squeeze and emphasize her words.

Natasha smiled back. "I'd like to know how I can help you." It was then that Wanda smiling mischievously stood in front of Natasha and unbuttoned her jeans and gave them a tug to pull them down, instantly her erection jumped, freeing itself from its tight confines. Wanda took it in her hand and gave it a few gentle tugs as she felt Natasha shiver. 

 “Well mommy. I want you to kiss me first.” Wanda giggled and pressed her tits against her girlfriend's. "And then you can make love to me." With one hand still firmly grasping her girlfriend’s hard cock, she threw the other around her neck and pulled her to her, pressing her mouth on the redhead's.

Natasha groaned feeling Wanda's tongue invading her mouth as she returned the hungry kiss, devouring her mouth with passion and love. She loved to feel Wanda's naked body against her. The heat of her soft body was intoxicating like a drug. Natasha could feel the warmth irradiating from Wanda skin, she also could the goosebumps covering it as her horny girlfriend pressed herself suggestively against her.

The kiss was consuming the air in her lungs but Natasha didn't broke the kiss, the burning in her lungs was a painful pleasure but suddenly Wanda did. She stares at Wanda's happy eyes as she runs her hands down her spine.

“Lie down, mommy!” Wanda gasped, almost pushing the smiling redhead backwards onto the bed. "Let me take care of you." With that said Wanda helped Natasha undress, gently removing each piece of clothing off her body.

Usually Natasha was the one who made the decisions in the bedroom. In their relationship she ordered and Wanda obeyed, however Natasha let Wanda take the reins of the situation ... for now. She was very curious to see what Wanda would do next. Natasha can't deny that she was fascinated by the way her shy Wanda was acting, almost begging her to fuck her!

The redhead smiled and lay in the middle of the bed. She lay down on her back with her huge hard cock sticking straight up, throbbing in the air. Her smile grew wider when she noticed Wanda's eyes glued on her hard prick.

Wanda licked her lips at the gorgeous sight, her needy throbbed with intense need. She longed to jump on top of her mommy's veiny cock and ride it till she forget her own name. But she was determined to get mommy's mouth first.

A smile curved Natasha's lips as Wanda crawled onto the bed on all fours, her pretty eyes glued on her face and a sexy smile on her lips. She straddled her thighs and paused for a second as she placed Natasha's throbbing shaft between her glistening folds and then began to roll her hips. She loved to rub her pussy on the length of Natasha's prick. It was one of her favorite things. Wanda liked to feel the friction of their sexes, it always took her breath away.

Natasha contained a groan, her cock stirred with excitement as her girlfriend teased her. Wanda really knew how to turn her on. "Wanda ... Babe ..." She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment and enjoyed the warm of Wanda's pussy sliding up and down her member.

"Mmm ... Боже мой! ... Feels good!" Wanda hummed with pleasure feeling the tip touching her clit, shivering from head to toe, the warmth of her pussy made Natasha gasp. Wanda keep going for a couple of minutes but reluctantly she lifted her pussy off her mommy's wet prick.

"Can you lick my pussy, mommy?" Wanda asked with cute puppy eyes and knelt with her bald pussy directly over the redhead’s face and held her glistening pussy lips wide open.

 "Oh baby you look so pretty." Natasha smirked as she gazed up at her girlfriend's juicy pussy, her eyes burning with lust as her tongue licked her lips in anticipation. Wanda was so wet and hot for her.

Natasha's nostrils flared as Wanda's scent filled her nose. The scent of her pussy always turned her on and the fact that she Wanda was acting so shamelessly and needy made her body burn and her penis began to harden and swell to huge proportions. Natasha wanted to eat her girlfriend out for hours. An undescribable urgency grow and grow in her heart.

"Tell me, baby. Is this what you want, детка? Do you want my mouth on your sweet pussy?" Natasha whispered hotly and hold Wanda's naked ass cheeks with both hands. "Yes ... Yes ... mommy. That's all I want, please." Wanda with blushed face just stuttered before Natasha grinned and burried her mouth into her needy drooling cunt.

Wanda squealed, her hot obscene groans echoing on the hotel room. The sokovian girl in delight began to grind her throbbing pussy over Natasha's sucking mouth as the dominant redhead kissed the sensitive wet inner flesh of her pussy. Wanda let out a throaty moan as her lover's tongue probed her pussy, sliding repeatedly over her sensitive clit as her ass sway back and forth in a sexy repetitive motion.

Natasha closed her eyes and opened her mouth wide, and then slide her tongue deep into Wanda's warm pussy depths. She groans slightly and her hands grasp the witch's round ass as she noisily slurped up the tasty pussy juices. 

"Oh yeah! It feels so good!" Wanda whimpered with ecstasy as she rolled her hips, rubbing and grinding her pussy, smearing her drooling pussy onto mommy's experienced mouth. 

Wanda looked down between her blushed round tits at mommy's gorgeous face, seeing only her eyes close blissfully above her hairless pussy mound. "Oh yess! Oh mommy!" She moaned as she kept grinding her pussy on mommy's mouth. Wanda closed her eyes and lose herself in this delicious moment as Natasha warm tongue stimulate each sensitive spot on her vulva, her mouth felt fantastic in her cunt. Wanda only hears Mommy hums in delight, without missing a slurp.

Wanda giggled happily, hunching her pussy against mommy's lips. She love moments like this. The way mommy's licked the full length of her inflamed slit and suck on each fold with a few gentle tugs and then burying her tongue deeply in the warm depths of her quivering pussy, sucking all the tasty juice pouring out of her hole.

Natasha grunted and grasped her girlfriend's nude grinding ass as she sucked hungrily, licking every delicious part of Wanda's swollen slit and pushing her tongue hard and deep into her pussy hole.

Wanda was making a mess on her face but she didn't care. Natasha was breathless, her fingers dug deeply into Wanda's creamy buttocks, leaving red marks in her soft delicate skin. She acted as a thirsty woman, her pussy juices flooded into her mouth and she swallowed every tasty drop. Natasha could hear the sexy moans of her girlfriend as she seal her lips around her stiff clit and sucked on it.

"Are you enjoying this, babe?" Natasha asked between wild licks and heavy breaths.

"Ohh yeah, lick my pussy, mommy! I'm loving this so much!" The sokovian girl moaned and kept grinding her pussy up and down on the her face as her hands slide behind Natasha’s head, pressing her gasping mouth as tightly as possible against her tingling drooling pussy. Wanda was so close. She squirming and groaning, her round tits jiggling and her skin covered in sweat. She felt so fucking good receiving Natasha's tongue-fucking. Finally, the need to cum overcame as mommy kept her mouth glued to her quivering pussy and sucked hard.

"Oh mommy!" Wanda let out a loud groan as wave after wave of orgasmic pleasure filled her pussy, her chest and brain. She panted, her body trembled as she collapsed on the bed. She wanted to lay down with Natasha and enjoy the post orgasmic bliss but she had her own plans tonight to take care of mommy. She look up at Natasha who was smiling and licking her glistening lips.

Wanda blushed a little as mommy said with a grin. "You taste delicious, детка?" before giving her a soft kiss on the lips. Natasha smirked and let her hands roaming her girlfriend’s femenine body, massaging her tits as she spread warm smooches up and down her neck.

"Thank you, mommy." Wanda said with a shy grin and move her hand downward to grasp Natasha's prick. Mommy's grin grew wider as Wanda moved her fist up and down the huge length of her stiff penis, squeezing the warm veiny shaft in her palm.

 "Can I play with your cock, mommy?" Wanda asked and licked her lips. The girl was surprised that she could hardly get her fingers around mommy's beautiful dong.

"Of course you can, baby." Natasha smiled before giving Wanda a kiss on the cheek. "My cock is all yours."

"Thank you, mommy." Wanda giggled happily and kissed mommy's on the lips, then she whispered hotly into her ear. "I need to taste your cock. I need it so bad.” Natasha saw as Wanda slid down between her legs and her eyes glued on her stiff cock.

Natasha shivered when Wanda grabbed her cock and pull on it from base to tip, running her fingertips around the swollen tip.

"Do you like how hard I am for you, детка?

"Yes, mommy. I like it so much." Wanda nodded in response before she sealed her lips around the tip of her cock.

"Oh Wanda!" Natasha said with a throaty voice as she saw Wanda opening her mouth and sliding her pretty kissable lips slowly down over the length of her veiny member, swallowing her hard cock as best she could.

At first, Wanda couldn’t get all mommy's tasty prick into her mouth, but once she relaxed her throat she was able to deep-throat her cock all the way to the base of her member. Wanda moaned with eyes closed, her inflamed lips pressed around her shaft, mommy's hairless balls were on her chin.

Natasha saw stars when Wanda ran her fingers up her thighs and then her abs as she began to move her mouth eagerly up and down on her stiff prick. With a long sexy grunt, Natasha began to slide her cock in and out of her mouth. "Mmmmm!" Wanda moaned in response, mommy's hard cock sliding down her throat with each slow thrust.

She closed her lips tightly and sucked it nosily. With a smile Wanda breathed in and took mommy fully into her mouth. Her mouth watered loving this tasty cock penetrating her mouth. Wanda was so aroused that her inner thighs were wet and glistening with her pussy juice, her sex was all juicy and throbbing.

Natasha watched Wanda's red lips around her cock and groaned. Slowly she pumped her cock into her throat, listening to the soft, gurgling sounds Wanda made.

Wanda hummed and sucked her mommy's huge cock for a long minutes, enjoying the flavor and warmth of her veiny meat on her mouth. But pretty soon, her super-hungry pussy demanded more! It quivered and twitched between her thighs, just longing to be fucked by mommy.

Suddenly, Wanda let the tasty cock slip out of her mouth and sat up. She was hot and horny, and desperate for mommy's cock! She wanted her dominant mommy now. She wanted her beautiful cock filling her pussy, stretching her dephts like she always loved it!

Wanda was so highly aroused by the prospect of fucking mommy. She quickly straddled mommy's muscled pale thighs until her drooling pussy was placed above the tip of her cock. Mommy’s cock stood up proudly, her shaft was furiously red and hard, ready for her.

Wanda moaned deep in her throat and grasped mommy's cock at the base, holding it upright between her thighs. Then with a giggle she let the swollen cockhead snuggle between the lips of her pussy.

Natasha felt herself burning with intense need as Wanda groaned and sank down slowly on top of her, letting her weight do all the work. Inch after inch her tight pussy managed to swallow her veiny cock.

Wanda grimaced a bit but she didn’t stop until she felt Natasha’s pubic bone press against her inflamed pussy lips and her tip impacting her womb. It was huge and she loved it! Wanda knew her lover's long cock was in her all the way up her pussy. Her depths were burning with delight, her pussy was open and stretched, and filled with the Natasha's cock.

"Oh, baby, you're so fucking tight!" Natasha growled. She couldn't help but push her hips upwards and send her cock deeper causing Wanda to groan and giggle in satisfaction. The gorgeous witch didn't move for long seconds, she was enjoying so much to have mommy's cock buried to the hilt in her stretched pussy.

Wanda loss her breath and closed her eyes and try to adjust to the size this ten inch cock. Mommy's cock felt so good in her. She never had anything so deep before but then she met Natasha and let her fuck her one night after a hard mission. Since that day Wanda knew she was addicted to Natasha's cock.

Wanda giggled happily as she rode mommy slowly. She began to bounce her hips up and down on her mommy's huge cock, fucking herself again and again on her delicious dong. All the time Wanda grasped her jiggling tits in both hands, forcing her pussy to swallow each delicious inch of cock.

Natasha had a proud smile as she looked down between Wanda's creamy thighs, her lustful eyes glowed at the lewd sight of her thick, glistening veiny cock disappearing time after time into Wanda's drooling pussy. Her hips moved in time with hers, pumping her hard meat into her clenching pussy hole as best she could.

Wanda let out a obscene moan and began to move her femenine hips up and down in urgent motions, faster and deeper, forcing her pussy to swallow her mommy's huge prick, then lifting her nude ass as until the cockhead was inside her and then push her stretched pussy down again, grinding her swollen clit hard veiny shaft each time.

"You feel so incredible around my cock!" Natasha panted, feeling Wanda's pussy tighten around her throbbing dick. "I love my good girl's pussy!"

"Uhhmm mommy! I love you mommy!" Wanda gasped happily, loving her lover's compliments as her eyes rolled back and impaled herself on Natasha’s dong again and again. "I'm your good girl! I'm your good girl, mommy!" Her pussy juices flowed profusely, making a mess on mommy's prick as her sticky juices bathed her heavy balls.

Wanda closed her eyes and sobbed with pleasure, squeezing her naked tits. Her back was arched in ecstasy as she rode her dominant mommy, fucking her with all her might.

 The effect on Natasha was instantaneous. The redhead growled, grasping at her girlfriend's ass she began to thrust her cock upwards as Wanda fucked her back, their wet sexes making loud, obscene wet noises as she pounded hard her juicy pussy.

 Wanda sobbed and fell forwards, supporting her weight on her hands, placing them on Natasha's huge tits as her ass sways up and down, grinding and impaling her tingling pussy on mommy's rampant cock. 

"Yeah, fuck me like that, детка!" Natasha whispered and took the panting girl in her arms and brought her sweaty tits close to her face.. "Ride me! Ride my cock, котенок"

“Oh mommy!” Wanda panted with hooded eyes as Natasha licked hungrily her hanging tits and sucking and her stiff nipples into her mouth, making her pussy cream on mommy's cock. "it’s sooo bigggggg!” She groaned, gasping for air as mommy's thick cock plunged in and out of her tight slit more faster. Her green eyes were closed as she rode the redhead's prick faster and faster, her drooling pussy was on fire, burning with intense need, longing for her cum in her.

"God! What a incredible fuck! Only Natasha, her soulmate, her lover, her protector, the love of her life, her Natasha knew how to fuck her and make her see stars. Wanda whined and brought a hand to her pussy and rub her swollen clit frantically as she rode her cock, her naked ass sliding up and down with urgency.

 Natasha held her girlfriend’s hips and helped Wanda to ride her. Her green eyes enjoyed the thrilling sight as she watched Wanda's tight pinkish pussy hole engulfing her entire cock. The redhead moaned and gasped as Wanda sobbed, her stretched pussy sliding up and down the length of her member. Natasha was surprised by Wanda's strength. She was riding her so hard that the bed began to crack and bed bounce underneath them.

Natasha was trying to hold back her climax but Wanda's pussy was so tight and so warm inside that she couldn’t hold back the tingling sensation rising in her balls much longer and the violent throbbing base of her achin penis.

"Боже мой! Oh mommy! your balls are so swollen and I can feel your cock throbbing in me." Wanda hummed with a dreamy grin and reached back behind her nude buttocks, cupping her Natasha's swollen nut sack, squeezing them and massaging them with gentle tugs. Wanda begged and encouraged Natasha! "Come in me, mommy!... Squirt your hot seed up my pussy!... Come in my pussy… I want this load in my pussy, mommy!”

Natasha smiled broadly as Wanda impaled herself down on her cock with urgency, grinding her pussy against her and squealing loudly. Her gorgeous Wanda was a sweaty hot mess. Damn! Wanda was gasping for air, one of her hands grasping her jiggling tits, squeezed it hard and her nipple protruding between her pale knuckles. Wanda giggled, moving her stretched pussy up and down on mommy's cock feeling her climax approaching. Suddenly the sokovian girl stiffened and screamed at the top of her voice as her orgasm peaked.

Natasha moaned as Wanda came, her pussy depths convulsed, gripping and squeezing her cock as wave after wave of tingling pleasure spread through her like a wild fire. Hearing Wanda's pleas and screams were almost too much for Natasha.

"Cum in me! Please!! Please!" Wanda screamed loudly as Natasha grab her nude jiggling ass and thrust more deeper into her. The redhead was almost there. She knew she would not last very long. "Shit! Wanda!" Natasha grunted and her body convulsed in spasms shooting her warm load deep into Wanda's receptive pussy.

Natasha gasped and captured one of Wanda's nipples between her lips and began to suck frantically, her fingers digging into the her ass cheeks. She groaned and her cock squirted time and time again until Wanda thought she was never going to stop, filling her fertile womb with her white semen.

She sucked Wanda's tits one at a time as she blow her load into Wanda's quivering pussy. Suddenly Wanda giggled tiredly and fell on Natasha's chest. Her sweaty body was shaking, the spasms of her well fucked pussy were sending delicious tingles up and down her spine.

Natasha rolled a very tired Wanda off her body. She was amused by the sight before her. Wanda's orgasm had been so powerful that she had fainted with sheer pleasure. Her pretty witch was laying beside her and purring like a cute kitten.

"Did you enjoy that, my little cumslut? Natasha said with a dark smile as she ran her fingers through Wanda's red hair.

"Yes, mommy!" Wanda said breathlessly and spread her shaky legs and show mommy her well fucked pussy. "I enjoyed it a lot! You always take good care of me." Slowly, she eased her hand down and felt her now-sore pussy lips ooze out rivulets of white cum. Wincing at the touch, Wanda pulled up a gooey rope of cum with her fingers and rubbed into across her lips for her tongue to taste. "It taste delicious."

"I can see that, детка." Natasha said with a smile and looked at Wanda's inflamed pussy, her tender slit was open, and leaking a sticky mixture of her own white sperm and pussy juice. "Good girl!" The redhead growled and lowered her face to Wanda's tender pussy and captured a string of cum with her tongue. It tasted good. Well her cum dripping out of Wanda's pussy always tasted good.

Natasha licked her lips as she stared at Wanda's precious naked body, spread out so lewdly before her. Her round sexy tits were firm and swollen and sweaty, rising and falling as she breathed with eyes closed, her cute nipples stiff and erect begging for attention.

Wanda was a goddess her goddess. Natasha looked up into Wanda's green eyes and found pure love there, her heart fluttered at the sight of her girlfriend enjoying the post orgasmic bliss.

Natasha spend long seconds just admiring Wanda's beauty. Her flushed pacific face, her soft red hair, her soft cute smile but suddenly her open reddish pussy attracted her attention. Her delicate folds were inflamed and spread like a flower, her pussy hole was quivering and oozing her white cum.

Natasha didn't say a word she just spread Wanda's weak legs, pushing them back and bending them at the knees until her well fucked juicy pussy was exposed to her eyes and mouth.

"What are you going to do, mommy?." Wanda asked with a sassy smile.

"You'll see, baby." Natasha smirked and lowered her puffy lips and kissed Wanda's sore pussy, licking her own cum from her open slit before slide her tongue into her dilated pussy hole. Wanda giggled loving the warmth of her Natasha's mouth on her sore slit.

Wanda smiled and put a hand on Natasha's nape and began grind her pussy on her face “Mmmmmm, that’s feels good!... eat my pussy, mommy!" Wanda moaned with a dreamy expression on her face, her pretty eyes closed as Natasha lick the tender flesh of her pussy and swallow every last drop of her cum from her pussy.

In Wanda's opinion the motorcycle trip turned out better than expected. She overcame her fear of motorcycles and was rewarded for it.

#natasharedshadow

[astrxlfinale]

legs are strewn across his lap, march flipping through her camera roll, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. she'd taken some great pictures today, truly, penacony's sights were unmatched.

it's a quiet affair, basking in each other's presence though really, march is simply enjoyig the downtime of perils and adrenaline. also, who cares that she'd been teasing caelus the entire time ? she enjoys getting the chance to draw those golden eyes toward her, to shift his focus. does it make her a bit of a menace? sure, but caelus deserves it ! ❝ ━ you dropped your bat earlier, gotta make sure you keep a firm grip on it, especially in the middle of battle. if it weren't for me and my blades, it would've been terrible. ❞ a giggle escapes glossed lips, watching her companion from beneath the fringe of her lashes, ❝ ━ don't worry, i'll save you next time too. ❞

Today was easily the sort that can find itself the hellish, heavenly test of exercise. In Caelus's mind, part of him excited this very cute 'doom' the moment those invisible notches and switches all fell into place for her. Case and point? Right now how those beautiful, thigh high clad legs were actually making themselves right at home on him. By now, March likely heard the 10th 'GAME OVER' ringing out whenever she much as shifts. A shuddering sigh, one enriched with her whimsy was only a small 'reprieve' from these racing thoughts.

Enough to let her thigh prop up, enough to make him go breathless at the majesty of it all. Once again, she'd feel the vibrant flame of gold adorning those beautiful legs that almost seemed to be yelling at him. Even as she's the one idly handling a camera roll, the fact technology was in his hands right now should be a crime. Some disgruntled, outright effected groan spills away from him.

"My. Hero. ..Or should I call you my little devil?" Caelus immediately fakely rebukes. Try as he might, there was no regret locked in those eyes, and right now one hand escaped from that phone.

Firm grip she says.

By now this situation found itself reaching some teasing brand of fever pitch. Those untold dares only growing, how she proudly added a saunter to her steps beforehand, letting her shine as both a heroine and this hero's pivotal weakness. Briefly licking at his lips, there's an urgency that's roaring within to 'make her speechless and warbling'. Yet, in this princess's case he never knew such things would be easy.

Firm grip. Again. Those damn words were practically prodding the soul until anything else became a mute point. "Damn it, March!" It'd be in that moment his phone unceremoniusly clashed with the floor behind him (carelessly) dropped as a point had to be made. Soon one of those strong hands found their purchase, working with that teasing arch as a sweet handful of that thigh would be seized, grasped, squeezed in a way that clearly played with one too many barriers.

Only then would be drawn a little higher in the air, as if this damn emphasize of how fucking stunning her legs are had to be highlighted.

"And why do you think I wound up smacking into a few walls, getting blown up, and dropping that said bat? Do you know the magical damn ways ya move sometimes?" All of this barking merely equated to the further elements of anger, these were borderline confessions. A dash of scarlet heat found itself bright upon his face, only hinting at the momentum his Stellaron heart found itself taking. Leaning over a touch, it'd only lead to her leg being hoisted just a touch higher in the air, a beacon of Caelus's very downfall.

All so he can stare firm into those six phased eyes.

"You know I can wind up having you like melted ice cream."

@intcritus

[valkyrieandstrangeridingaragorn]

The problem is that MCU is willing to show the system is flawed but not willing to admit it's wrong. Either wrong in what the system did or does or that simply the system in itself is wrong in extending at all.

Few bad apples excuse. Say it needs to be better but never show how it needs to be fundamentally changed to stop the rot from spreading

It's like they think we're too stupid to understand complex storylines, and they have been doing this for a while now. TFATWS was the worst offender along with the Loki series as they had the audacity to demand that Bucky make amends to the victims as if he wasn't a victim himself. All that focus on his actions and feelings of guilt and not a damn second spent on trying to hold the government accountable for Hydra.

TWS did a part of it right with Steve deciding to take down all of Shield, but that story was quickly forgotten and CW even had the guts to try and paint the heroes in a bad light as if the government had any moral superiority here (it's still mind-blowing to me that Ross showed the NYC invasion and the helicarriers and those two were framed as arguments against the heroes and not the government).

It's super status quo-friendly which is a little insulting given that superhero movies should be the exact opposite of that. And it winds up hurting the characters as well: Steve wouldn't have left the Raft after getting his friends out, he would have done something about the prison itself. Loki would never feel amazed by the TVA, he's the god of outcasts for crying out loud, he'd be horrified by them. Sam would never tell Bucky to man up and go to the victims, he would have stormed the freaking White House to have a word with the President himself and tell him off for trying to blame it all on Bucky.

I get why we have that speech in TWS when Steve calls out to the good agents inside Shield and a lot of them stand up and fight off the Hydra shills. But damn... something should have been done regarding the "good" people who agreed with Hydra's methods without knowing it and let them grow strong enough to almost put 3 helicarriers in the air. Marvel wants us to believe those were all Hydra but that's not true... and that's the scary part!

Too bad Secret Invasion was too scared to go that route. Every single one of these movies and series are always the same: this new organization is super fucked up and all the agents are doing stuff that is shady af but don't worry, we'll kill the guy on top and everything will be alright 🤦‍♀️

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 19: Keeping Someone Safe ~ Vilkas/F!Dragonborn [2,166 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

Canon-typical violence here ⚔️ more hurt/comfort than fluff honestly, but it has a fluffy ending!

In hindsight, Vilkas should have seen it coming. Over time, he’d grown accustomed to Astra’s affinity for magic – mostly because by the time they’d known one another for a year, by the time she was Harbinger and he felt shamed by how he’d treated her in those early days, there was little he suspected he would not accept about her. Not lead because the more he saw, the more respect he had, and the more he knew there was nothing she would do that he could not respect.

There was one spell, however, that disconcerted him from the very first moment he saw it. It was after they’d avenged Kodlak, making camp after a fierce battle with the Silverhand…and all the while, he struggled to continue pretending he had not yet noticed just how damned beautiful she was. It was more difficult to keep up that pretence now that their mission was complete and all that was left to do was face the return journey to Jorrvaskr together.

She’d been in a questionable state, then – sore, tired, bloodied, just as he was, but with the added dilemma of being low on Magicka. When their fire would not start, the wood too frost-ridden and the impending blizzard threatening to make it worse, she’d trotted out the spell. Brow furrowed in concentration, her right hand was held aloft and a foul red light began to wind its way around her, leaving Vilkas to watch warily as her face grew a shade paler. After, she’d been able to conjure a fireball hot and strong enough to get the fire going.

“I thought you’d ran out of magic back then,” he’d said. “Does it regenerate that quickly?”

Something to do with her being the Dragonborn, perhaps?

“The spell before that,” she’d explained, voice rough. “It adds to my magic reserves – at the cost of my health.”

“To what extent?”

“Whatever extent the caster allows. A desperate measure…but this cold would kill even Nords such as us.”

Afterwards, he’d put the matter from his mind all too willingly. It had, after all, been the only time he’d seen her use it – before or since. She’d spoken truthfully when she said it was a desperate measure, and he could not fairly fault her for using it in those cases. Vilkas trusted her judgement.

At least until the next time rolled around.

What was supposed to have been a fairly routine draugr-infested dungeon clear-out ended up sending them headlong into a fight with something much more terrible. A Dragon Priest. They’d been woefully ill-prepared for such a battle. Foolishly ill-prepared, even with Astra’s habit of hoarding potions instead of damn well using them. And it showed. By that point, retreat wasn’t an option – some foul sorcery keeping them locked in the dungeon until they defeated their foe, and so the only way to go was through.

The fight was a laborious thing – even by the standards of their usual fights – their foe was fierce, but that was not a trait that they themselves lacked either, and it eventually became clear that it was a matter of who would tire first. Who would make the first mistake. Vilkas knew not whether Dragon Priests tired, but he could only hope that if not, they at least erred.

Moments after that half-hearted hope crossed his mind, disaster struck. Wedging the blade of her dagger in her mouth, Astra bared her teeth in a feral snarl, brought her two palms together, and shot a hefty ice spike in the direction of the Priest. It hit its mark, flying through his ward like it was nothing and embedded itself in his chest, sending him flying back from where he’d hovered in mid-air. But the force knocked Astra back, too, landing hard on the stone floor of the tomb. The Dragon Priest recovered faster.

Vilkas had no arsenal of spells – he had no bow, he didn’t even have a dagger. Nothing to stop the Priest from attacking, and no time to cover the distance required to prevent any real attack. Either dazed, weakened, or both, Astra faltered in getting up and the loathsome creature lifted one gnarled hand, ice forming around its claw-like fingers much like it had gathered in the blonde’s grasp moments prior.

Ducking, Vilkas seized an axe from the hand of a dispatched draugr and hurled it at the Priest. It met its mark, finishing the job Astra’s previous attack had started…but not before the ice spike shot from its hand. It was then that he did the only thing he could do – the only thing that made sense.

“Vilkas, no!” her shriek was ragged, and he went down at the same time the Priest did.

Although it looked like he’d die a touch more slowly, the spike embedded neatly between his collarbones, hardly slowed at all by his armour. He tasted copper rather swiftly. Kneeling over him in an instant, her icy blue eyes wide with terror, she tried to summon the familiar golden glow of a healing spell into her hands – both hands – but it fizzled out before his skin could even be warmed by it.

Swearing raggedly, she parted her hands. The light in the right remained golden, but the left was soon enveloped in the glowing red light he’d hated so much the last time he’d seen it.

Vilkas seized her hand, unable to speak – unable to tell her not to be so daft, nor that if there was any way he could choose to go, it would be this one. In defence of her. Unable even to admit that he only wished he’d been able to kiss her first. Just once.

But she shook him off, and that terrible red light began worming its way up her arm, her face paling as she channelled her lifeforce into driving healing magic into him, instead. The world faded to black by the time the red glow had wormed its way up to her elbow.

Consciousness returned to him in dribs and drabs. A scratchy tightness in his throat that usually followed a night of giving in to his brother plying him with ale – along with an ache in his shoulders and upper back, reminding him that he was no longer a lad who had seen but twenty summers, who might sleep where he dropped without feeling the consequences of it the next day.

He grunted, but it came out as more of a wheeze, a stray gust of wind howled throughout the crypt, and awareness finally hit him. As did the quiet. Eyes flying open, the light assaulted them quickly but he did not allow himself to pause, hands scrabbling for purchase on the stony floor as he shoved himself up. As he did so, his right hand met skin – smooth, soft skin, not that of any draugr. And it was cold as ice.

Astra lay slumped on the ground beside him, her face stark white and her lips blue – so blue that he thought her dead, until her eyelids twitched and he caught the shallow, beleaguered rise and fall of her chest. Vilkas had seen enough corpses to know she was very close to becoming one.

She had her last resorts, and he had his. Graverobbing. They’d passed enough burial urns to come through here, plenty brimming with treasures left behind for long-departed loved ones, leaving them all untouched because they weren’t beasts. But now he had no choice. If he had to answer to the Nine for this one day, so be it.

Minutes later he returned, although he still feared it was too long a time away, feeling sick to the core that he’d return to find the few meagre signs of life utterly gone – that she’d passed alone, on the floor of a dungeon while he scraped for scraps to help. But she had not. So, he allowed himself to hope. The three healing potions he’d managed to find helped with that, and he hoped they would help more still.

The potion ordinarily looked like pink-tinged water, but it might as well have been as vivid as blood for how it stood out in sharp contrast to her pallor, pooling at her lips and sliding down her chin. She’d cut one side of her lips when she’d wedged the dagger between them, and the potion healed as it trickled across it, the skin slowly knitting together. Vilkas stared at it for a moment, and then he took inspiration – if she could not drink it, perhaps she would still absorb it.

Cutting away her leather armour, and dearly hoping she’d live to scold him for it later, he dripped the potion across whatever skin he could find. Her jaw, her neck, the expanse of skin above her breastband, and he almost sobbed in relief when her heartbeat strengthened beneath his ministrations, and colour slowly returned to her skin.

By the time he uncorked the second bottle, she was hazily drinking it down – although still far from conscious. Hope. All he could do was hope.

Astra was awoken by the smell of a campfire. The sound of one, too, after she drifted a little more into consciousness. A fleeting sense of urgency flitted through her then – but one untethered to anything so mundane as reason or coherency, so she left it to drift by with little more than a furrowed brow and a weary exhale. The sigh wheezed its way out of her, high and reedy. She grunted. Had she drank last night? Farkas, though she loved him like a brother, liked to pretend that all had the same tolerance to ale that he did.

“Astra?”

It was not Farkas’ voice that met her ears then, but Vilkas’ – and that was all it took for everything to hit. Vilkas. The last she recalled, she’d been kneeling over him as he died, furiously funnelling more and more of her lifeforce into Magicka, despite the dizziness that pulled at her head, the black spots dotting her vision, and the cold that quickly seeped into her bones.

Her eyes opened as a hand cupped the side of her face, and she was met with the sight of piercing grey eyes before her. And a grin. Vilkas so rarely grinned – although he was not so without humour as he’d have some believe. His usual war paint was little more than a brown smudge around the very edges of his eyes, blending in to the dark circles that had formed around his eyes, thick dark stubble lined his jaw, and there was an angry patch of sore red skin at his throat, as though he’d had a brush with what was almost frostbite.

Throwing herself into his arms required more strength than she had – but he met her halfway, pulling her bodily the rest of the distance until she was all but in his lap, clinging to her as fiercely as she tried to cling to him.

“Never again!” he insisted fiercely into her tangled hair. “Do you hear me, Astra? Never!”

“Should we talk about the decision that led to me doing it?” she countered, unabashed. “Would you make me such a promise?”

He drew back and she only then noted their surroundings. Still where they’d been when she was last conscious, he’d dragged out the bodies of the draugr and the Dragon Priest, and decimated a bookcase and its ancient contents for the fire that now burned on the cleared-out stone floor. He’d even unpacked his bedroll to deposit her into. How long had she been out? It took the fire out of her next question more than her sorry shape ever could.

“What were you thinking?” she breathed. “You dove in front of that…you were a hair’s breadth from…”

She was certain he was going to die – and even then, she’d have acted no differently, fuelling her life-force into healing spells to drive into his lifeless- no. No. It had not happened. Against all odds, it had not happened. Her hands began to tremble, even where they clung onto him.

Through it all, all she could think of was how stupid they’d been. Not even in what they’d done here, for deep down she knew if it were to happen again tomorrow, or in an hour, or in the next minute, they’d do it all again exactly as they had, but in everything before. In all of the shared looks that didn’t amount to anything, both too nervous to have the follow-through on what they both hoped the other was feeling. The thing that now showed very clearly in both of their faces, and how they clung to one another still.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he said. “I won’t lose you.”

“…We’re of one mind then,” she said.

It took less bravery than she thought. Because it was obvious now, was it not?

If it hadn’t already shown on his face, she would’ve known from the way he kissed her then.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[vayle]

It's time for the flash fiction about Maddock!!

[652 words]

--A little bit of what Maddock was doing before, sorry for any errors, I wrote with my heart :3--

He trudges his way through the snow, the wild wind biting and cruel. His dark hair whips around him, his breath running ragged, he can't stop now, he can't. He spent too long tracking the beast, the Void-damned thing almost shook him, it ends now. He pushes forward, his strong legs sinking into the snow further with each step, he grits his teeth, annoyance burning bright in his veins.

This monster has been actively taunting the folk who live up this high, in the places where his Majesty the King refuses to send aid to the border towns, always ripe for an attack and essentially defenseless. These towns are expendable to the Monarchy, they live too far for them to care it seems.

And so they need people like him, people with skills enough to take down the creatures that come from the Void, laying waste to good honest folk, just trying to live, old traditions kept alive through these people, remembering the old ways. That's probably the real reason why the King doesn't give a shit, these people aren't cowards, they won't bow and he knows that, so he sees fit to stay his hand while they die off.

Maddock fucking hates that. People deserve to live as they like, as long as they don't cause suffering, so what if they like praying to trees?

The wind hits harder, as if it wasn't horrible enough, he pushes on, gripping his furs closer to his body, refusing to give in to this chill. He's been living up here for nigh on ten years, doing his job, accepting whatever the people can spare, even if it's just a meal for the night. Though it's spent mostly alone, it's better that way, better to be alone than to cause harm again…

A frantic cry warbles out into the air around him, the equal sound of a woman crying, and an otherworldly screaming. His mouth presses into a stoic line. It's time.

He grabs a fistful of iron and salt from his pack. It won't cause a ton of damage, though it'll be enough to distract this creature. From the treeline he spots a faint apparition, a woman in her wedding clothes. The weeping intensifies, for a moment, just a moment, he feels unfathomable pity for this creature, for its cruel existence.

As soon as the feeling came, it was gone. Maddock charges forward through the snow, unsteadily making his way closer, the creature waits, as if expecting this. As soon as he's close enough, he flings the fistful of iron and salt at it, the creature emits a horrific gurgling sound, he narrows his eyes, grabs his sword.

The dance fully begins.

-

He sits upon a rock jutting from the crisp white sea of snow, his brow coated in sweat, he holds his sword arm, hisses in pain, then folds the furs over to reveal a deep bite, courtesy from the creature's dagger-like teeth. He quickly rustles around in his pack, grabs the pot of honey he always carries with him, he uncorks it with one hand, dropping the lid to his side, he gingerly scoops a viscous blob of it onto the wound. He cries out, momentarily stunned by the pain, a tear slips from his eye, and rolls down to his upper lip before freezing in place.

Before him a dazzling light calls attention to itself, he stares at it, incredulous. The light coalesces into a golden blob, and then, it speaks.

"Dear friend, it is time for your self imposed isolation to end--"

He knows that voice, he huffs out a laugh as it continues with its message.

"I know you'd not come under normal circumstances, stubborn man that you are, so I'm calling in one of my favors, meet someone for me at the port in Aisley, won't you dear? I have all the details for you.."

Damn it, Safira.

[nhlhoser]

On The Rocks - 33

4 years later I post !

Master list Chapter 32

(Author note - read if you will it's been ages since I've updated - ZERP EDITTING I NEED THIS OUT OF MY HEAD)

Read @ 2:05 am

###

2:30 am illuminates my room in blue from my alarm clock as I toss my dry phone on my bed and try to cool my annoyance. I'm not exactly pacing my room but I am definitely moving around it quite a bit as I try to busy myself with the task of tidying.

Tossing clothes into the hamper with the built up frustration. The need to clean my room growing as the state of my room registers for my brain -- depression pit. As the need to sleep doesn't appear to be a concept my brain can understand, might as well get this tidied.

Clearing out all the bits and pieces of medical supply's out from around my bed is cathartic. A small step to being better and moving on from this shit once again. My earlier 'conversation' with my dad tries to pass through my conscience but is blocked by the need to clean my room. Every section cleared is a small ounce of control of my life returned to me.

The majority of my room now clear is a great breath of fresh air. Flicking the light on in my closest to start in there next; just some clothes on the floor and shoes scatter. A visual of the lack of time I've give myself to keep my shit together. Tossing the clean or dirty clothes into the hamper not carrying to check and rather just re-wash something than deal with it.

A bundle of dark blue fabric catches my eyes as I arrange my shoes on the rack. It's tucked in a odd place and must of been there for a bit as I have definitely haven't been down to this leaving in a while. Grasping it in my hands and unraveling it.

It's the shirt that I bought myself after that person spilt beer on me at the leaf game. It must of fallen out of my hamper and been kicked aside. Flipping it around and see the back for the first time; 'MATTHEWS' is a startling visual. I thought I had bought a blank one but I also was rushed. The first thought it to toss it in the trash but that's just being dramatic.

The fabric is soft in my hands as I place it in the hamper with more care than any article of clothing I've tossed in so far. The soft spot for Auston always finds its way. Moving on to the other loose pieces of clothes through my closet doesn't take long and I'm left with a mostly full basket and finally a urge to lay down.

Stepping out of the closet (The urge to make a joke here is strong - KATIE) and standing at the foot of my bed - my unmade and could use a sheet change bed - drums up a feeling of dread. My room is so close to be clean but the sheets need to be changed.

I can't sleep in my bed and the couch feels like admitting defeat (to whom I'm not sure of). Glancing at the clock it shines back brightly with '4 am'....yikes. No time like the present to start the first half of the task to make my bed.

Stripping the my bed of all the bed is a better feeling then I was prepared for and made it easier to start the trek to silently trek to the laundry room and dump it in the wash. Then I can admit my defeat to the couch.

The stairs are a breeze with one small hiccup with loosing some pillow cases to the wind (yeah i am speed). Recollecting the cases, I make it down and beeline straight into the laundry room and dumping the fabric right into the washer. The damn 'Matthews' flashes past as it falls in with the assorted fabrics.

Syds "Either direction you go it's the right one" and Steph's "be kind to yourself" are thoughts that bounce off each other and the other offending things taking over my brain. I fish the dark blue shirt from the washer- ending its journey to being clean with the rest of the load. I stare at it like it's going to give me answers to the question I haven't thought of yet.

I go to cast it back in but the thought of it leaving my hands feeling symbolic to some thing bigger than itself. I'm definitely putting too much control in a shirt. A pull in my stomach prompts me to pull the shirt closer to my body as different paths race in my mind.

My sweet lovely Nonna who instilled a majority if not all of my beliefs in life. Who gets me. She doesn't push. She listens. She doesn't judge. She's more logical than emotional. Going to her would be going to comfy, peace , and easy.

Easy...

Auston a boy- a man. A hockey player. A good and very popular hockey player..and man. He's emotional, more than he may be even aware of. He's moody. He's unpredictable. I work his team!

I exhale through my nose and finally toss the shirt back in and mindlessly finish loading and starting washer. Pouring an unmeasured amount of detergent directly in the to basin and gently closing the lid.

My Brain mulls over the beautiful scenes of the last time I was living with my nonna. The healing I had to do and the healing I need to do again.

Again...

Trauma is a fickle thing. It's such an unsteadying experience, to live life going forward to suddenly going backwards.

Am I going backwards though?

I take stock of my self staring into the glass lid of my washer as the basin turns and the sound of the wash rushing in soothes over my ears. My body aches with tension from frustration and general recovery. This all feels dramatic. My appendix nearly or did burst? I'm not even clear on that. My throat is buzzes with the memory of screaming at my dad. A small sadness folds over my heart. He just wants to help.

I'm not the broken teenage he sent off last time.

I'm not broken and I've grown.

The smalls positive thought helps pull me from the trap of thoughts and help guide me to leave the laundry room. Carefully navigating my dark home and avoiding the tripping hazards somewhat successfully.

Seeking my Cocoon of blankets and false protection on the couch once again. The length of the day weighs my eyelids as i start to settle into the couch. Sleepy yet not ready to sleep.

The unanswered and unacknowledged text nags me again just as I fully set into position.

This isn't being kind to myself.

I have a perfectly good bed upstairs that I just cleaned and just needs new sheets. I rolled myself carefully off the couch- taking the blanket with me as they remain wrapped around me. I silently haul my goofy looking self up the stairs and back to my room. The sight much more pleasant now that it's more clean.

Foregoing the new sheets I just crawl on to the mattress and into the pillows as in - fuzzy blanket cocoon. Suddenly the most tired and ready for sleep I have been in a while. So many thoughts that stay unfinished finally dissipate enough for my mind to let rest be an option.

Just as I huff out a breath of ready to let sleep take over. My phone starts to vibrate at the end of my bed. A call coming in - a call that means that who ever is calling; called me went to voicemail immediately then called me again to override my do not disturb settings.

Slapping around the mattress until the device I smack the glass of my screen. I see Austons contact taking over the whole screen with the time into corner 5:30am.

I stare at it like it's going to bite me.

I stare until the call disconnects. My screens lights up with the notification of 2 missed calls.

I ignore it in favour of re-position myself in my pillows and lay my phone on my chest. The tiredness train having now left the station without me.

My phone buzzes one more time with a text this time.

From Auston:

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I've been unpredictable and a 'moody little shit'. I need you know how much of a breath of fresh air you have been for me.

My stomach pulls this time not the stitches. It's something emotional and wrenching.

I impulsively hit call and the phone barely rings before Austin's deep voice comes thru.

"Amelia.." his tone is breathless almost desperate. What this man does to me. How did this happen?

"Auston.." my raspy pitchy voice sounding horrible. Especially after a lack of us and some drinking. "It's 5:30" unsure what to say I site the clock.

"I know. I'm sorry I just- I just I couldn't not say that now. I need you to know that there is something. I don't know how to be vulnerable.." he sounds so sounds so sad and like he's walking outside. The early morning Toronto bustle evident behind him.

"What are yo" I had to pause to cough a bit and clear my thought "what are you doing, Auston"

"Hoping to catch the girl" he pleads.

I startled as " no, why does it sound like your outside?"

"I am. I was hoping you could let me in"

My brain short circuits and my heart leaps with want.

"You know the code," and I hang up. I stare at the ceiling.

Am I dreaming?

Confirmed that nope I am wake when I lug myself up and all my aches do call out. Even with the code someone needs to let him in.

Not ready to part with my blankets I trek downstairs once's again. Pleasantly surprised at the ease in mobility and a tab but giggly?

My emotions are going at neck break speed as I pace the area between the kitchen and living room. Pulling the blankets tighter as an anxious shutter rips through me at the thought of Auston Matthews being at my door at any second.

I check my phone and he really should be here soon if not already. I move forward to check though the peep hole. The sight before me erases the doubts and dread I was feeling in front of the washer.

Auston stands with his back to my door. His hands alternately between ruffling his hair and resting on his hips. He looks like he's amping himself up? For what?

Feeling more bold than I have been I open the door. Clearly starling him as his head whips around to catch sight of me standing in the door way, blankets wrapped tightly around my head and body. Just my face and feet really showing.

There's no words and a lengthy pause as we take each other in. Auston in a dress pants and a hoodie ? He looks sad and tired. I can't look much better but when he looks me over his eyes grown fond.

"Snug as a bug," are his only words and tiny smile.

"You wish you could be this snug," the smile sneaking onto my lips as well.

"I really do," in the same second I open my cocoon as he steps forward. The cold fabric of his hoodie snaking under the blanket and encircling my mid section. We pull each other closer as if trying to crawl into each other.

He carefully steps forward to guide us into the apartment where's it easier to fully embrace. The most secure I've felt in ages. My eyes water at the sensation and then over flow when of one his land hands grasp behind my beck and fully just holds me to him. It's so easy to relax into his frame knowing that he'll support my weight. I tuck my face into his neck and inhale the scent of him I've memorized unknowingly.

It's easy..

My body stays in the moment enjoying the sensation of his firm body against mine. Dependably and steady.

My Brain however fixates on "easy"

It's so easy to love him.

My insides get hit at the realization and my breath quickens with panic. I pull back to separate myself from the panic but I'm caught in his gaze. His eyes are so deep and open. He's look into me with an intensity. I realize the position of his hand must mean he can feel my racing heart.

Oh god Oh god.

Peace. My brain just melts as Auston squeezes with just a bit of extra pressure at the points of contact. The hand on the back of neck caresses forward into my cheek before pushing both the blanket and my hair off my face.

"I mean it, Amelia. You have been the breath of fresh air I didn't know I've been needing. You have treated me with such kindness and I appreciate you. I'm sorry I couldn't express this." He stares into my eyes a mixture of intensity and vulnerability. A touch of sadness washes over his expression as a tear finally drops from my lashes and runs straight down my cheek to his hand that rests below. His thumb comes up to wipes its trail away. My lips quiver as the urge to fully sob shakes up my spine.

Auston pulls me closer and tucks his face into my neck. Breathing in my scent and squeezing for just a second. He starts to soothe a hand up my back and pulls back to kiss my forehead his lips are hot and linger before he fully pulls back.

"Let's get you somewhere cozy" He runs both of his hands up my arms and soothing them back down. I pout as he makes more room between us.

" but I am cozy," the words coming out bratty and without my control. He chuckles this deep sound that is like a purr to my ears. The resistance and heartache I was feeling before gets tucked at the back of my mind. I let myself be guided to the couch and Auston awkwardly positions himself a small distance from my designated spot in the corner of my couch.

This new spot has one small side effect - the early morning sun cuts in and illuminates my face and his. Both of our exhaustion becoming evident.

"Have you slept?" He reached forward and tilts my face to better examine the darkness under my eyes.  I stare at his darkened features that reveal that he may not of either. "Have you?" I countered lightly with a small smile well being sure connect my eyes with his.  He shakes his head but stares deeply.  The hand that tilted my faced moves to enclosing what feels like the entire side of my face. The distance becomes smaller and less awkward. 

Auston pauses inches from my face searching it for something.  I slightly narrow my eyes trying to figure him out but catching his gaze drop to my lips and return to my eyes.  Something strong wraps and roots itself around my heart as I realized that he's not just taking a closing look.

I blink at him for a second for bring myself closer so when I nod my head with approval our nose knock each other and he matches our lips together in feather light kiss.  Almost more teasing than anything before I press mine lips to his with purpose.

His arms encase me as he maneuvers his way over me softy laying me back as to kiss me fully. My hands brace his face, feeling the roughness from the 'playoff beard'.

My brain clears and my heart beats.

He paused the soft motions of his lips against mine to slowly pull back and kiss my cheek. He carefully moves me easily to be on top of him as we both lay on the couch together. Being sure to pull me close. My head lies on his chest and I hear that his heart matches mine. Blushing I turn my head to kiss his cheek but end up kissing  just below his jaw softly.

"Just one more" he whispers so delicious gruffly before kissing more deeply. His tongues brush's my bottom lip so subtle I almost missed it. A shiver runs through me as I hold him closer.     We pause with our lips together for a moment enjoying the closeness before separating. Wordlessly I tuck myself between him and couch half in his chest. My head his shoulder and right arm rubs my back and into my hair.  His left arm wrapped around me holding me to him.

There is no panic for the first time in a long time as I drift off to sleep.

[potassium-pilot]

FFXIVWrite 2023, Prompt 17: Helping Hand (Free Day)

Against the snow of Whitebrim, Dia stood tall to practice her magic. Almost a year of recovery passed by her slowly, but after the dynamis finally cleared and her nerves and reaction time had returned near to normal, magic flowed through her without problems. Fire roared, fae magic whispered in the wind, and ice fell from above. Yes, all was as it should be for her...mostly...

Now was the time for lightning to strike at her command. Clouds gathered to aid her, thundering loudly, and the electricity surging in the skies filled her with power. It was time to cast Thunder once again. Adrenaline rushed through her as she was to call down lightning. Just as she began to raise her codex to the air, however, it flashed by her eyes in a second.

The haunted red and black aether of Zenos viator Galvus, scythe in hand, leaping to slice into her, her only saving grace being that of the dynamis surrounding her, and an undying wish of hers to live and for him to never hurt again. She grappled with fear and anger and a strange, strange feeling...

Then she returned to the moment, and in the same second she saw her former enemy, her hand tingled with the electricity of her spell, incredible pain shooting down her right arm.

"FUCK!"

Dia fell to her knees, clutching her arm, shivering in pain, using any spell she could think of to help her injured hand. Eos raced to her side to try and help her. "Oh, thank the gods I fucked up that cast, Eos. That could have cost me an arm." As she attempted to fix the problem herself, she found her efforts futile. "Damn it, I can't fix this. All right, Eos, to Captain Whitecape."

Her arm was too injured to attempt a cast of Teleport, so she instead called upon her chocobo, who carried her back to the Gates of Judgment.

------

"All right, and this should help the nerve pain", Captain Whitecape offered a bottle of some sort of alchemical solution. The two of them were in a hospital room in the Congregation, a place Dia came to know well after all of the physical therapy she undertook here. Dia took the bottle and drank the concoction. Dia let escape a puff of air as the solution was certainly strong. "Gods, they ought to put this stuff in with the fare at the Forgotten Knight", Dia joked, "It'd be stronger than their usual."

"Maybe then, my patients would take their medication."

Dia scoffed.

"Don't feel too bad, Mistress Sito. You're certainly not the first mage to botch a cast that I've ever seen, and likely, you shan't be the last."

"I broke the first rule of casting: don't hesitate. You know what I did? I hesitated", Dia chastised herself.

"The good news is that you couldn't have timed your hesitation better. What you felt was simply aspected aether running down your arm, and not lightning itself. That much would have been harder to repair."

Dia groaned in frustration. "I guess. It's weird, Captain. Even when I had the aether in my control, I felt...heavier with it than I used to."

"You're most likely just out of practice. Keep working on your casting, my friend, and I think you'll soon find yourself back to where you were before, if not incredibly close."

Dia frowned. Both of them focused their attentions to the door as they heard a knock.

"Who is it?" Captain Whitecape asked. "I'm with a patient."

"A loved one of said patient."

Both of them could recognize Aymeric's voice from anywhere. "This would be your call, Mistress Sito. I can tell him to bugger off if you would like this to remain private."

Dia shook her head. "He was gonna find out about this one way or another. Let him in."

Whitecape went to the door and opened it for his boss. Aymeric walked in, making a straight path to Dia's bed where he sat next to her. "Ser Handeloup told me you came here gripping your hand. Are you all right?"

That bloody snitch!

He gasped as he saw her mangled hand, purple and black aether pulsating underneath her skin, the veins throbbing. "Fury!"

"It's all right, really. I was practicing casting again and I messed up a cast of Thunder. This is just aether. He already gave me some medicine, so I'm just waiting for it to kick in."

"Once it does, Mistress Sito's hand should return to functioning, after which time", he turned to Dia, "I advise you to revisit your hand exercises."

"Fair point."

Once Captain Whitecape gave the all clear, and saw that her hand looked closer to normal, Aymeric and Dia walked to Borel Manor together.

"You said you hesitated in your cast?" Aymeric clarified.

"Yup."

"What caused your hesitation?"

The memory of my fallen enemy coming back to kill me.

"I...don't know. All I know is that the minute I tried, I just..couldn't."

Aymeric hummed.

"Gods, I just...am I sure there's nothing missing? Even when I was surging with power, something was off. I felt imbalanced."

"Did Captain Whitecape have anything to say on the matter?"

Dia shook her head. "He just thinks I need to keep practicing, but it's not like that, Ayms. I've gone a ways without using combat magic before and picking it up again never felt like that."

"Perhaps a second opinion is warranted."

"No, there's not a better chirurgeon in Ishgard."

"Then what of the Conjurers Guild?"

Dia's eyebrows raised. "You think they would help?"

"I think it foolhardy to not give them a chance to aid you. Kan-e-Senna was a fine healer, and I'm certain she's not the only capable conjurer available."

"She's technically a White Mage, but still...I guess...better than keeping around that heavy feeling and risking my arm every time."

"I couldn't agree more."

--------

The midday shined into the hollow of the Conjurers Guild. Dia stepped down the path and approached the lobby, looking around the place.

"Can I help you?" A voice asked.

Dia brought her focus to the voice's source: a padjal with short blond hair and emerald green eyes.

"Oh. Hello there. I was wondering if...I might get some help."

"I can certainly try. Please, join me in the other room." Dia followed the padjal through a door and down a hall. "My name is I-Seko-Pesi. I'll do my best to aid you today." He opened a door and allowed Dia entry. Once he closed it, he asked, "May I presume this is about your right hand?"

Dia looked down. Though much of the black and purple aether had retreated, and her control over her hand felt normal again, some of the discoloration yet remained. "Pray forgive me if I'm wrong, but it looks like a cast of some spell may not have been performed correctly. Something lightning-aspected?"

"I mean, you're not wrong, but that's being treated, believe it or not. It's not why I'm here."

"Very well. What brings you to me, then?"

Dia tried to find the words. "Well...you are right in that I did cast a spell incorrectly. You see, it started a year ago--"

"You returned to Hydaelyn from the end of the universe with life-threatening injuries, which has kept you abed for quite some time."

Dia gawked at him. I-Seko-Pesi laughed. "Worry not. The Elder Seedseer warned us that you might visit us for treatment because of this. That said, enough time had passed that I thought it unlikely to happen...until today, that is. I know who you are, Dia Sito."

"Oh, that's...reassuring..."

"I know perfectly well that you have saved our universe. But one look at you tells me that you're not happy with what occurred to bring you to this point."

Dia's discomfort grew as he seemed to peer into her soul.

"So, what is it exactly that brings you here?"

"My spellcasting and my reflexes are a bit...sluggish, as it were. The chirurgeon I was seeing before insists I'm just out of practice, but something feels...wrong. I don't know how else to describe it."

"Hm, I see." I-Seko-Pesi gestured to a chair. "Take a seat. I would be happy to inspect you." Dia obeyed and sat down. There wasn't an ilm of her that I-Seko-Pesi didn't cover. Something close to twenty minutes passed before I-Seko-Pesi rose.

"Physically, I cannot find a single thing wrong with you aside from your arm, though you were telling the truth when you said it's being treated."

Dia sighed defeatedly.

"Pray do not give up hope too easily, Dia. There's one area I've yet to check." The padjal went behind her and cast some sort of spell over her head. "Tell me exactly what happened to your arm."

She told him everything- that she was in the best shape she had been in a while, felt confident enough to try casting again, and failed when she hesitated.

"What caused your hesitation?"

For some reason, she felt quite calm. There was nothing that kept her from telling the truth to him- not that he was forcing it out, but rather, she felt comfortable enough to admit it to him.

"I...had a vision of sorts."

"Oh?"

"There was an enemy of mine, Zenos viator Galvus. When I was trying to cast, I saw him again; he was trying to slice into me."

I-Seko-Pesi's magic made auras appear before him- he deduced the emotional state of his patients using color and shape. Before, Dia's was a pale blue wave, but the blue was being intruded upon by a red and black spark.

"Tell me more of this man."

That made her chest tighten. The aura in the back of her head grew overwhelmingly bright, the red and black spark overtaking any calm, and the spark itself backfired against him, tossing I-Seko-Pesi across the room.

"Thal's balls!" Dia stood up and ran to the padjal. "Are you all right?"

The conjurer groaned a bit in pain. "There's a reason we keep cushions on these walls."

She never thought about it, but there was, in fact, cushioning along these walls.

"You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to send a conjurer flying." Once I-Seko-Pesi stood up and healed a bit of pain in the back of his neck, he declared, "I believe I've found the source of the sluggishness."

"Zenos?"

"In a sense. Come, take a seat again."

"I don't want to hurt you again."

"You won't. This time, I know better."

Dia gulped before taking the seat as he requested. I-Seko-Pesi returned to the back of her head and started casting. "As I'm certain you know, magic takes quite a bit of focus. This is why casters rely on Lucid Dreaming to help us restore our mana pools. Your mind must be free of distraction. Unfortunately, your travails against this Zenos person have brought you to a point where your mind is burdened and recalling the pain and suffering he has inflicted upon you."

As he examined her, he noticed that there was a red spike- he was not in danger, but rather, she felt ashamed of something.

"Is there something more to this?"

She figured that if I-Seko-Pesi was using magic to read her emotions, it was useless to lie anyway. That said, she still didn't know how to phrase it.

"You are safe in here, Dia. I am legally obligated not to say a word to anyone. Such are protections in Gridania as we also provide mental healthcare."

The shame switched to an orange vibrating ball. She feared something. "You're not throwing me into a sanitarium, are you?"

"Nonsense. The sanitarium is for tortured souls that might hurt themselves or others. I deem you not a danger, Dia. You're safe."

I-Seko-Pesi's magic allowed for soothing effects to overtake the brain, enough that Dia could recall her feelings surrounding Zenos without too much trouble. Her aura shifted to a gray sludge as she recalled it.

"He used me."

"How?"

"He got an Ascian to rip my soul from my body, place mine in a corpse he dug up from gods only know where, and parade himself about in my own body. I fought my way to tempered Garleans and magitek, crawled through the snow as my strength failed me, and just barely made it in time to stop him from murdering all of my loved ones using my own body."

I-Seko-Pesi grimaced. "Matron preserve..."

"Never mind how he left me for dead on multiple occasions when I attempted to stop him from murdering everyone. And failed. Miserably. Then he has the gall to try and help me at the last minute, gorging on the last of the Mothercrystal's aether to fly to me, just so he could battle me once more. He stalked me, like I was prey to him. I agreed to it."

"How did that make you feel?"

"...I did it to make sure he could never touch anyone I love again. It made me feel...obligated. I felt angry. Yet, I felt pity for him too. That really was the only thing he had left to live for. If I suffered him for much longer, imagine what he could have done next, especially with the aid of Mothercrystal aether."

He saw the cacophony of emotions swirl about, but she left out one specifically.

"There was something else", I-Seko-Pesi reminded her. "Something that I wonder if you even remember."

There was. The sensation she felt in her interruption in Whitebrim called back to mind.

"What was it, Dia?"

Her breathing quickened as the answer bit away at her soul. I-Seko-Pesi could see the shame reappear.

"Please, do not let shame stop you. I promise, I want to help you, even if you are not proud of it."

"...I hate that I felt it", she admitted voicelessly.

"What do you hate?"

"...bliss."

This confirmed what I-Seko-Pesi saw. "And why did you feel bliss?"

"To return every last bit of pain he ever inflicted on me tenfold. To feel the control I had in that moment. It was my moment. It was mine, and not his. Oh, I never had that in battle before."

"And that terrifies you to feel this."

"Yes. It proves his point."

"What point?"

"That I'm just as bloodthirsty as him."

I-Seko-Pesi took in a deep breath. "There's a bit of animal in all of us. This animal is good, mind you. It serves to help every last one of us survive. It keeps us connected with Hydaelyn as a star. Animals, like anything else, react to their surroundings. You said it was only in that battle that you felt that bliss?"

"Yes. I've never liked fighting before that. I did it because I had to."

"A fair point. You've known Zenos only as a threat. When the time came that you felt able to quell it, you took it. You've faced your defeats against him, you destroyed despair itself just before that, you had dynamis surging through you. Even if these weren't aiding factors, is it so bad that you felt that while destroying him?"

"It's terrible that I felt that."

"Is it? The feeling was simply that, Dia- a feeling. You've not chosen to seek that bliss again from anyone else in the same manner. While your feelings are important, holding onto shame as you reconcile these things within you will only hamper you in the long run."

"I..."

"I would like to help you resolve this conflict within you in another session. Might you be willing to return to me next Earthsday? One o' clock?"

"Are you sure?"

"If you wish to regain your former clarity and balance when you cast, I urge you to consider meeting with me regularly. I can help, and I wish to help. It would be my honor."

Dia smiled. "All right. Earthsday, one o' clock. I'll be here."

"Wonderful."

Dia stood up before the padjal asked, "May I ask one more thing?"

"Sure."

"What compelled you to take on such a monumental task?"

"...Hydaelyn. Before I killed her anyway."

He quickly realized he was absolutely onto something by asking her to return regularly. That's way too many issues to try and cover in a day.

"I see. I look forward to meeting you again."

She grinned. "Yeah, me too. Take care." She waved and walked out of his office. As she approached the entrance, she took a deep breath of the Gridanian air and exhaled slowly.

I'm returning here a lot, aren't I?

[gh0stbled]

So Don't You Stop Being a Man.

closed starter for @d1ss0lv3 // 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐒.

The   Inferno   Event   simmers,   a   haze   of   heat   and   shadow,   wrapped   in   the   low   hum   of   conversation   and   the   pulse   of   distant   music.   The   room   is   alive   with   temptation—eyes   catching   on   glimmers   of   satin   and   the   glitter   of   champagne,   the   air   thick   with   intrigue.   And   in   the   midst   of   it   all   is   Ryn,   moving   through   the   crowd   like   a   dark   secret.   Her   latex   body-con   gown   clings   to   her   every   curve,   as   if   the   night   has   draped   itself   over   her   curvaceous   body,   whispering   promises   only   the   daring   can   hear.   She   is   a   symphony   of   soft   danger,   each   step   a   note   in   the   song   she   plays   without   saying   a   word.

She   finds   him,   just   as   she   knew   she   would—Lesley,   standing   there   with   that   familiar   calm   charm   that   used   to   fool   her.   Yet   when   their   eyes   meet,   she   can   see   the   way   his   composure   cracks,   just   a   little.   She   smiles   to   herself,   remembering   the   last   time   they’d   seen   each   other   at   her   apartment.   The   way   his   gaze   had   faltered   under   hers,   like   a   candle   flickering   in   a   strong   wind.   The   way   she   had   played   with   his   nerves,   letting   her   words   and   glances   linger   just   long   enough   to   leave   him   wondering   if   she   was   teasing   or   something   more—but   the   pretense   was   there   back   then.   The   need.

And   now,   here   they   are   again.   The   game   continues.

Ryn   slips   through   the   crowd,   her   movements   smooth   and   unhurried,   like   a   panther   weaving   through   the   jungle.   She   stops   beside   him,   her   shoulder   brushing   his,   letting   the   connection   spark   between   them.   The   scent   of   her   perfume—something   warm,   dark,   like   spiced   amber—wraps   around   her,   subtle   but   lingering.   She   tilts   her   head,   her   lips   curving   into   a   smile,   playful   and   predatory   all   at   once.   Reminiscent   of   when   they   would   hunt   back   home.

"Lesley,"   she   purrs,   her   voice   low,   velvet-soft,   "we   really   should   stop   meeting   like   this…   though   I   won't   lie,   I   do   like   watching   you   squirm   a   little."   Her   gaze   drifts   lazily   over   him,   taking   in   his   own   state   of   dress,   ever   so   handsome   with   that   cowboy   hat, and how easily he towers over her.   "But   I   hope   I   don't   make   you   too   nervous   this   time,"   she   adds,   a   note   of   amusement   in   her   voice,   "wouldn't   want   you   losing   your   nerve   before   you   even   have   a   chance   to   look   me   in   the   eye."

She   leans   in   just   enough   for   her   breath   to   graze   his   skin,   her   lips   near   the   curve   of   his   jaw,   close   enough   to   possibly   stir   something   deep   in   the   pit   of   his   stomach.   "You   know,   I   went   to   see   the   movie   again   like   I   said   I   would   and   this   time   I   did...   indulge   myself,"   she   whispers,   her   words   a   soft   caress.   "It’s   funny,   isn’t   it?   How   the   smallest   things   can   unravel   the   strongest   composure.   It   felt   damn   good,   actually."

Her   hand   rests   lightly   on   the   bar   beside   him,   fingers   tracing   invisible   patterns,   every   gesture   deliberate,   teasing.   She   lets   the   silence   settle   between   them,   heavy   with   tension,   before   she   pulls   back   just   enough   to   catch   his   eyes,   her   own   gaze   steady,   unwavering.

"I   like   how   it   felt   in   that   scene,   how   you   took   control,"   she   muses,   her   voice   dipping   into   something   more   thoughtful,   though   the   teasing   edge   remains.   "But   control’s   a   fragile   thing,   isn’t   it?   All   it   takes   is   a   whisper   in   the   right   ear…   a   glance   held   just   a   second   too   long.   And   suddenly,   you’re   not   so   sure   anymore.   Kinda   like   the   last   time   we   saw   each   other.   Still   made   me   wonder   if   I'd   been   able   to   do   that   to   the   real   you."

Her   smile   widens,   catlike,   as   she   leans   back,   giving   him   a   moment   to   breathe—though   not   too   much.   "But   don’t   worry,"   she   adds,   her   tone   light   but   laced   with   challenge.   "I   wouldn’t   want   to   make   you   too   uncomfortable.   After   all,   I   wouldn’t   want   you   to   miss   the   fun…   and   I   know   you   wouldn’t   want   to   miss   me."

Her   eyes   glint   in   the   low   light,   playful   but   predatory,   as   though   daring   him   to   match   her.   "So   tell   me,   Les,"   she   whispers,   voice   soft   as   silk   but   sharp   as   a   blade,   "how have you been since we last saw each other?"