#knotted fence for fencing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rainrot4me · 5 days ago

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A Hunter's Moon

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

──────────────────────────────── smokey eyes - lincoln

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Beneath late summer nights, Jack always found you. Human and monster, two different worlds separated by a picket fence. But when he didn't return, you set out to look for him. You find him in rut, in pain, in the ache of something like love—and what kind of friend would you be if you refused him?

✦ . Characters: Eyeless Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Friends to lovers, partial-canon backstory, rut/heat cycles, mentions of blood and violence, gore, cannibalism, predator/prey relationship, chasing, biting, vaginal, cunnilingus, multiple positions, rough sex, animalistic sex, belly bulge, clawing, begging, partial non-con, creampie, breeding, knotting

✦ . Words: 15.5k

✦ . Note: Monster fucker nation please stand, this one is for you. Very gross, very scary, but ohhhhhhh so good and yum and UGHHHHH. Feast my children. Don’t tell the others, hurry hurry hurry, we can’t let them know that this is what we’re into.

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You always loved June.

It was one of those syrupy summer nights, the air thick and soft, clinging to skin like a second, invisible layer. Cicadas droned lazily from somewhere deep in the woods, their chorus blending with the distant hum of traffic beyond the trees. The sun had long dipped behind the hills, but the heat of the day clung on, reluctant to let the world rest.

Your backyard was a patchwork of dim porch light and moonlight, the fence throwing long shadows across the brittle grass. Beyond the fence stretched the treeline, thick and dark as spilled ink, pulsing with the unseen eyes of the forest.

The fence was old—weather-worn wood, sun-bleached, as tall as your chest, and starting to splinter in spots—but it was your fence. Your spot. The place where every night, like clockwork, you would stand on one side with the glow of your kitchen lights behind you, and he would linger on the other, half-concealed by the darkness of the pines.

You heard the faint scuff of boots on dried leaves, the rustle of branches catching on old denim. You didn’t even have to look. You knew it was him.

“Late again,” you teased, leaning against the picketed wood. Fireflies darted around overhead, slow and golden, tiny lanterns against the night.

Jack shifted closer. Tall, broad-shouldered, the faintest glint of moonlight catching the wet curve of the dark mask he wore, the slits where eyes should have been yawning and black—just two gaping sockets, still managing somehow to see you. The copper tang of dried blood still clung faintly to him, mingling with the loamy smell of the forest and his favorite cologne. All wrapped up in an oversized gray hoodie and old wrangler jeans.

“I had…business,” he rasped, voice rough like something left too long in the dark.

You studied him, heart twisting. Once, things had been different.

You met Jack in college, before everything changed.

He was Eyeless Jack to the world now—a name passed around in hushed rumors and panicked police briefings—but once, he was just Jack. Jack Nyras, pre-med major, scruffy-haired and half-insomniac from too many late-night study sessions. You’d first bumped into him, literally, outside your genetics class when you spilled an entire iced coffee down the front of his hoodie.

Instead of getting mad, he laughed. That laugh, even now, you remembered with a painful fondness: easy, warm, too big for his slight, lanky frame.

After that, you were inseparable. You sat in labs together, sharing notes, studying for hours until your brains turned to mush. Sometimes you’d catch him drawing twisted little sketches of incredibly detailed body parts in the margins of his anatomy book, black ink dripping from his pen like nightmares, doodling hearts and vein patterns and every bone you could think of. He’d grin sheepishly if you pointed it out.

“Just to blow off steam,” he’d told you.

If only it had stayed that way.

But something was off that last semester.

It started with Jenny. A bright-eyed, over-eager girl with too many questions about death, about gods, about what might live on the other side of everything. You’d seen her hanging around Jack, pressing him for his knowledge of anatomy and the occult. You hadn’t thought much of it—she was a weird kid, but who wasn’t in college?

Until the night they took Jack to a ritual.

You hadn’t known where he went, at first. A text left on read. A worried voicemail. Then nothing. You had no clue.

They’d dragged him to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town, where Jenny and her cult had tried to summon a demon—and they’d needed a human sacrifice to open the door. Jack. Your Jack.

They had held him down, cut his eyelids away so he could never look away, and scooped out his eyes with brutal, surgical precision. You would have nightmares about that for years: those empty, bleeding sockets. Then they poured something black and slick, like tar, into the holes—a living thing that pulsed and smoked, thick with hatred.

It was supposed to let a demon pass through him, a doorway wearing a human face. But something went wrong.

Instead of a perfect vessel, Jack became the demon’s prison. The possession took root, warping him, twisting flesh and bone. His skin turned an unnatural gray, hard like stone. The black voids where his eyes once were never stopped weeping that tar-like ichor. Needle-sharp teeth split his mouth, rabid and hungry.

Jack was the only one to survive, if you could call it surviving.

When he came to you after, it was in the dead of night, half-collapsed against your back porch door, trying to hold his guts inside his ribs with clawed, shaking hands. He was weeping. You’d never heard a sound like it, the noise of someone whose soul had been torn in half.

“Don’t look at me,” he begged, voice raw, inhuman already. “Please.”

But you did. You looked. You saw him for what he had become, and refused to turn away.

You kept him alive those first weeks, when he didn’t know what to eat, didn’t understand the pull inside him. You watched him break down on your kitchen floor, apologizing over and over. You helped him find ways to stay hidden, to scavenge what he needed to keep from losing his mind completely.

When Slenderman came for him—a towering, impossible shape between your backyard trees one night—you thought you’d lose Jack for good. But even that faceless horror couldn’t break the bond you’d built. Jack still came back, slipping from his grip in brief windows, always returning to the same spot at the back fence, where your world met the dark.

You wondered if part of him fought that puppet-string control just to see you again.

The truth was, you had every reason to fear him. You’d seen the news reports, the evidence photos, the torn bodies left in his wake. The world would call you naive, maybe even insane. But you knew him. You’d seen him laugh over spilled coffee. You’d watched him hold a scared freshman’s hand in a bio lab when they passed out during a dissection.

That Jack was still there, tangled in the ruin.

So you never turned him away. Even now, years later, you stood by your back fence on humid summer nights, waiting for the quiet scuff of his boots through the weeds. You told him about your boring, safe life—air conditioners and late shifts and microwave dinners—and he told you, in broken pieces, about the horrors he couldn’t help but feed on.

And despite all of it, despite the monsters clawing at his mind, you stayed. Because sometimes being a friend wasn’t bright or easy. Sometimes it was raw and heavy and stubborn, refusing to let go of someone even when the world said you should.

If you wanted, you could forget that night he’d stumbled from the woods, half-monster and half your friend. You could pretend this fence was a line dividing your worlds.

But you didn’t.

Because he was Jack. A biology major, obsessed with genetics and a little too competitive at beer pong. Now, the woods had become his kingdom, the darkness his only safe harbor. But some things hadn’t changed: the way he still leaned forward a little when you spoke, or how he listened more than he talked.

“Rough night?” you asked gently.

He tilted his head, a gesture oddly canine in its curiosity, “Rougher for them.”

You sighed, but there was no real fear in it. If there was one truth in your world, it was that he’d never hurt you.

“I had a pretty boring day,” you offered, voice light, trying to balance out the shadows in his. “Work was slow. Mrs. Carter’s cat had kittens, I saw them in her yard. Oh—and I got a sunburn.”

His head dipped, as if acknowledging the small tragedies of a normal human life. “Show me,” he said quietly.

You laughed, brushing your sleeve up to reveal pink skin. “See? Totally my fault. I fell asleep in the hammock.”

He reached forward, clawed hand resting on top of the fence, close but not quite touching. “You should be careful,” he murmured. “The sun can be quite dangerous this time of year.”

That startled a laugh out of you—a small, real sound. “Wow, Jack, you going to lecture me on skin cancer now?”

A faint, rasping chuckle answered, like dry leaves scraping together.

You both fell into silence, the comfortable kind. The night seemed to wrap around you, humming with late-summer heat, thick with scents of honeysuckle and crushed grass. Somewhere far off, an owl called.

You studied him across the fence, trying to read the shape of him. You could still see the slope of his shoulders, the faint twitch in his jaw when he was worried. The eyeless mask made him look monstrous—but you’d stopped seeing it that way long ago. Nowadays, you were just upset you couldn’t see his cute smile.

“Jack,” you said after a while, softer now, “are you…okay?”

His shoulders rose and fell. A sigh? Maybe.

“I don’t know if I even remember what ‘okay’ feels like,” he murmured. “But… this. Talking to you. It helps.”

Your heart pinched, warm and a little sad. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

You saw him shift closer, a whisper of movement, enough that the shadows seemed to lean toward you. You swallowed, wishing you could reach over the fence and touch him, just once. Instead you let your fingers curl against the peeling paint. “I’m glad you still come back,” you smiled. He just nodded.

“You should go inside soon,” he rasped. “It’s too warm to sleep, but… safer. You should eat some dinner.”

“Will you stay out here a while?” you asked.

He dipped his chin, the faintest promise. “Yeah. I’ll keep watch.”

It was nothing, and it was everything.

Crickets sang to fill the hush that followed.

You stepped a little closer, pressing your palm to the wood between you, pretending you could feel his heartbeat through the fence. If he even still had one.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, trying to smile.

He nodded once again, a barely-there motion. “Same time.”

“Goodnight, Jack,” you said softly.

“Goodnight,” he answered, voice steady, a vow carried on the warm summer air.

And then, like a dream dissolving, he stepped back into the gloom of the pines. You caught one last glimpse of his silhouette before the night swallowed him whole.

The fence was still warm under your hand, the cicadas still singing. You exhaled, steadying herself, knowing that tomorrow he’d be there again—your friend in the woods, monster and boy, killer and companion.

And you would be there too, waiting for him.

── .✦

The day crawled by, the hours sticky and dull. You’d scrubbed your kitchen counters twice, answered a handful of emails for work you barely remembered, and even tried to read a book on the back steps—but the words blurred in the heavy evening heat.

All you could think about was Jack.

Ever since that night, years ago, your days felt incomplete until you met him at the fence. Those small conversations, traded across weather-ruined ply-wood, had become your strange ritual, your fragile thread of normal.

Tonight was no different. As the sun began to drop, you practically inhaled your dinner—pasta gone rubbery from the microwave, but you didn’t even taste it—swallowing mouthfuls so fast you nearly choked. Then you ran a hand through your hair, smoothed the wrinkles from your shirt, and stepped outside.

The air was still and damp, the kind that made your arms itch. The cicadas thrummed their endless song, hiding the hush of the woods. You leaned on the fence, peering into the tree line.

Nothing.

You waited, shifting your weight from foot to foot, hoping you’d see the pale glint of his mask moving between the trunks. But the woods stayed silent, the sky growing darker by the minute.

Maybe something came up. Maybe Slenderman needed him. Maybe he was hunting. He was usually late anyway.

You tried to reason with yourself, but the night stretched on, thick and empty, until the mosquitoes started biting and you had no choice but to go inside.

The next night, you came out early, practically running through the kitchen just to get to the fence faster. But again—nothing. The woods felt wrong, like a silent accusation, each leaf unmoving in the hot breeze.

The third night, you could barely stand to eat. You pushed your food around the plate, your stomach a hard knot, fingers picking at the torn edge of your thumbnail until it bled. The skin around your cuticles was raw from worry, your breathing shallow and thin.

Three days, you thought, three days is too long.

He had never gone three days without showing up, not since that night you saved him from bleeding out in your basement.

A cold panic clawed at your throat. You pictured him cornered somewhere, wounded, or worse—devoured by whatever lived inside him. You pictured Slenderman tearing him apart like a dog with a ragdoll, or the police finally catching him, gunning him down before he could explain he was more victim than monster.

Your fork clattered to the plate. You couldn’t take it.

You stood so fast your chair scraped a painful shriek across the floor. You grabbed your flashlight, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out, and stalked out into the night.

The fence gate to the woods creaked open, a hesitant protest that felt far too loud. The path beyond was half-eaten by weeds and dark as ink, but you forced yourself through, lungs full of warm, wet air that smelled like dirt and dying leaves.

If Jack wasn’t coming to you—then you would go to him.

You stepped across the fence line, your safe little world snapping shut behind you like a broken jaw, and let the darkness swallow you whole.

── .✦

The woods closed in around you the moment you crossed the fence line, swallowing up the distant hum of the highway and the yellow glow of your back porch light. Out here, everything was shadow layered on shadow, the air thick enough to choke.

You stepped carefully, branches scratching your shins, the beam of your flashlight bouncing across the undergrowth. Every so often you caught a flash of color—a scrap of paper, a mushroom cap, a piece of trash—and your heart would leap in false hope, only to crash back down when it wasn’t him.

Where are you, Jack?

You tried to keep your breathing quiet, tried not to think about the thousands of unseen things rustling in the tall grass. Your imagination filled the darkness with monsters: faceless giants and hollow-eyed shapes, hands reaching.

A branch snapped somewhere ahead, sharp and loud. You flinched, heart hammering up into your throat. Your flashlight jerked wildly, sending yellow arcs of light through the undergrowth.

“Jack?” you called, voice soft and strangled.

No answer. Only the startled flutter of birds erupting from the canopy, taking to the sky in a rush of frantic wings. You staggered back, hand clamped over your chest, adrenaline scalding through you.

You swept the beam of the flashlight across the trees, willing him to be there—a dark mask, a familiar slouch, anything—but the woods only gave you more silence.

Panic built behind your ribs like a scream. You tried to swallow it down.

“Jack?” you called again, a little louder this time, your voice carrying through the trees.

Nothing.

The darkness pressed in. Every stick crack, every scuttle of an animal felt like claws reaching for you. You forced yourself forward, one step at a time, your sneakers sinking into damp earth.

You called again, and again, each time a little braver, though the sound of your own voice nearly terrified you more than the silence did.

“Jack,” you pleaded, “if you can hear me… please answer.”

The flashlight beam wobbled as you clenched your shaking hand around it. The woods felt too big, swallowing your words whole. You had no idea how deep Jack had gone, or if he was even alive, or if you’d ever find him again.

But you had to try.

You would keep going. Even if it meant walking straight into a nightmare, you would keep looking for him, because Jack had never left you alone, even at his worst.

And you refused to leave him alone now.

You kept walking.

The night felt endless, the same dark trees repeating over and over until your legs burned and your feet throbbed inside your sneakers. Branches snagged at your sleeves, tearing tiny holes you barely registered. Bugs droned in the heavy air, the only thing keeping you company.

You lost track of how long you’d been out there—forty minutes, an hour, maybe more. Every step felt like you were sinking deeper into something that didn’t want you there.

Then your flashlight caught a rounded shape in the dirt.

You froze, breath stuttering, and dropped to your knees. The beam landed on it properly this time, and your heart broke in a single, sharp crack.

Jack’s mask.

It lay half-buried under leaves and mud, one side split down the cheek like something had struck it hard, the once-smooth paint now chipped and stained. It looked wrong, abandoned, like a piece of him torn away, like it had been sitting here for a couple of days.

“No,” you whispered, fingers trembling as you picked it up. It was heavier than you expected, damp with rain and sweat, smelling faintly of earth and blood.

“Jack!” you shouted, panic swallowing every scrap of caution you had left. “Jack! Where are you?”

Your voice rang off the trees, harsh and desperate.

Nothing answered.

You shoved the mask under your arm and pushed onward, scanning the cliff runoffs and dry creekbeds where you knew animals liked to hide, searching the tangled roots along the old trails, calling his name again and again.

“Jack! Please—answer me!”

The woods felt different now. As you climbed another steep rise, lungs burning, you realized it had gotten… quiet.

Way too quiet.

The cicadas were gone. No crickets. No night birds. Nothing.

Like the entire forest had been smothered under a heavy, waiting hush.

Your footsteps sounded painfully loud, each broken twig echoing off the trunks around you. You forced yourself to keep moving, scanning every hollow, every patch of shadow for a flash of gray skin or those ink-black tears—anything to prove he was still here.

But the silence felt absolute.

Crushing.

Wrong.

You swallowed, hard, the edges of the quiet closing around you until it felt like the woods themselves were holding their breath.

The stillness was so heavy it pressed on your eardrums, leaving you dizzy and unsteady. You clutched the broken mask tighter to your chest, heart hammering, flashlight flicking from one twisted branch to another.

That was when you heard it.

A wet, tearing sound, slick and raw, like someone wringing out a soaked rag. Then another noise—a sharp pop, like cartilage snapping.

Your stomach lurched.

You turned your flashlight toward the sound, its pale circle shaking so badly it barely held focus. You swallowed, took a single step, then another, trying not to crack any twigs, the silence around you making every breath sound huge.

You crept forward, through brambles that snagged your jeans, and finally reached the thick trunk of a pine tree. Its bark was rough against your palm as you steadied yourself, heart about to pound out of your chest.

The noises were louder here—slurping, chewing, flesh pulling away from bone.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a heartbeat, steeling yourself, then leaned to peek around the tree.

The sight made your legs go out from under you.

Jack was crouched low, his claws sunk deep in something—someone—sprawled in the mud. His face was buried in the corpse’s stomach, his mask gone, the ruined hollow of his sockets pressed to ruined flesh as he tore through it with those glinting, animal-sharp teeth.

Wet, black gore streaked his chin. Strings of it dripped from his mouth as he devoured what was left of the person’s organs.

He looked monstrous, more beast than man, moving in a brutal, mindless rhythm that made bile rise in your throat.

A scream clawed its way up before you could stop it, raw and terrified, tearing itself from your lungs.

The flashlight fell from your hands, clattering against a rock. Jack’s broken mask slipped after it, landing in the dirt.

Your knees buckled and you crashed to the ground, hands braced in the leaves as you gasped, the scream still echoing through the dead, silent woods.

Jack’s head snapped up, raw and slick with gore, strands of dark tissue clinging to his torn lips. For a moment, he just stared—or aimed those hollow sockets at you, emptier than any night you’d ever seen.

Then he let out a sound.

It was a low, throaty grunt, bubbling through whatever remained of the man’s organs, followed by a choked, strangled whine.

He shoved the corpse aside in a jerking, hungry motion, the wet smack of it hitting the ground making you flinch. Jack’s claws scraped through the dirt as he pushed upright, swaying on his feet. The moon caught the raw gleam of his teeth, stained black-red and sharp as glass. The front of his gray hoodie was stained dark, blood covering his chest and collar.

He took a staggering step toward you, hunched, moving in fits and starts—a predator not quite remembering how to use its limbs.

“J—Jack,” you stammered, voice cracking under the weight of your own terror.

Another grunt, this one higher, confused, almost hurt. But he kept coming, head tilted like he was trying to place you, thick lines of blood still running from his mouth.

You scrambled to your feet, hands scraping against sticks and dirt. Your flashlight lay where it had fallen, but you didn’t dare grab it—the thought of wasting a single second made your heart seize.

You ran.

Your legs barely worked at first, a jolt of panic burning through them so violently you stumbled. Behind you, Jack howled—a horrible, broken sound, like a wolf choking on its own kill—and then he charged.

You heard him crashing through the brush, smashing into trees hard enough to shake the branches overhead, snarling and sobbing all at once.

Your lungs tore with each gulp of damp air, your feet tangling in vines and roots. The world blurred, branches whipping your face and arms, your pulse a screaming rhythm in your ears.

You glanced over your shoulder—mistake.

Jack was close, horrifyingly close, lurching forward on all fours at times, then staggering upright, drool and blood flinging off his chin with every strangled cry.

The sound of him was horrible, like a nightmare given voice: gasping, wet snarls, a boy’s whimper trapped in a monster’s throat.

You pushed harder, legs on fire, tripping through a creek bed and nearly going down. Behind you, Jack crashed in after, water splashing like a thunderclap. He slammed against the bank and scrabbled up again, claws raking mud, his body moving with a terrifying, unstoppable hunger.

The night around you felt like it shrank, every tree too close, every shadow reaching. You could hear him breathing—wet, ragged, sharp—right behind you, the animal panic of a predator whose prey was slipping away.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks, half from terror, half from heartbreak. Jack. Your Jack. Reduced to this. Hunting you like he didn’t even know your name.

He wailed again, an echoing, desperate sound that sent a fresh spike of adrenaline through your spine.

You scrambled up a hill, nails tearing into the dirt for grip, and felt him slam into the slope behind you, sending rocks and dead leaves skittering down around your heels. He tripped on a root, crashing to his knees with a scream of frustration, but he was already dragging himself up, unstoppable.

You felt pathetic, small and breakable, every instinct screaming to run run run run—

But there was nowhere to go, nowhere safe. The forest was a cage, and Jack was filling every inch of it, his cries ripping through the dark, hunting you down with mindless, monstrous determination.

You ran anyway, because you had to.

And behind you, he followed—crashing, wailing, unstoppable.

It only took one misstep of your foot, one trip—a rush of air and the thunder of clawed feet, and then he crashed into you with the force of a falling tree.

You hit the ground hard, the breath punched out of your lungs, dirt grinding into your palms. Before you could even scream, Jack was on top of you, pinning you to the forest floor with all his unnatural weight.

He snarled inches from your face, the sound raw and animal, splattering you with thick, foul-smelling gore. Blood dripped from his wide lips, fat droplets falling onto your cheek, sliding warm and sticky into your hair. You noticed it then, the absolute richness of his smell. Like his cologne, but so stout and thick you could’ve choked on it.

You froze, terror swallowing you whole, every muscle locked in place. His claws curled into the ground beside your head, framing you like steel traps.

“Jack,” you choked out, your voice breaking under the fear, “Jack, it’s me—please, please, it’s me!”

He leaned closer, so close you could smell rotted copper and damp earth on his breath. His hollow sockets flared wide, a horrible, empty focus. Another snarl tore out of him, spraying more blood across your face. Even the tips of his pointed ears were speckled with the stuff.

You raised your hands, palms open, pressing against the dampened fabric of his hoodie, feeling the quivering, rigid muscles beneath.

“Jack—Jack, please,” you sobbed, “you know me—it’s me, it’s me—”

Something in him stuttered.

The endless growling broke off, replaced by a high, confused whine. His head twitched, tilting to one side, like a dog trying to understand a new word.

His breath hitched, and then he bent down, nosing against your cheek, sucking in deep, shaky lungfuls of your scent.

His three black tongues emerged, slick and twitching, and began to sweep over your face in long, wet strokes, gathering up the blood he’d splattered there. It was revolting—warm, sticky, and far too intimate—and you flinched as he moved lower, tongues pressing to your neck, tasting, cleaning.

He breathed you in so desperately you thought he might inhale your entire soul. His chest heaved against your hands, shuddering with each inhale.

“Ssr—” he tried, voice grinding out of a throat that sounded half broken, “Mmn—Hah—”

You could hear it, buried in the monstrous ruin of his voice, “So-Sorr-ey—Mmn-sorr—Mnn-Miss yewhh—”

He kept trying to form the words, but they came out in garbled sobs and animal rasping, drool and blood dripping onto your skin.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t even breathe.

His tongues kept working, lapping gently at your throat, tasting, nuzzling, his claws scraping at the dirt on either side of your head. A pitiful whimper rattled through him every time he pulled away and tried to speak again.

It was like being pinned by a hurricane—something impossibly powerful and terrifying, but also heartbreakingly confused, lost, wanting only you.

You stared up at the empty sockets inches from your eyes, mind screaming, every nerve alight with raw, animal terror.

Jack’s blood-slick mouth hovered above you, trying so hard to shape human words, but all that came was a broken, hopeless cry.

Your heart pounded so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. Jack’s weight felt endless on top of you, a monstrous, crushing presence that smelled of blood and rot and something older, darker.

But… this was Jack.

You tried to remember that—your Jack, even buried in this nightmare. You preached about loving him and being there for him no matter what, but as soon as you’re faced with a horror, what did you do? Stupid.

You drew in a weary, shaking breath and reached up, fingers threading through the wild, tangled strands of his dark hair. The roots were tacky with drying blood, but you ignored it, combing gently, soothing.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice raw, “Jack… it’s okay. You’re okay.”

He whimpered against your throat, the monstrous rumble of his chest vibrating against yours. His tongues tried to drag across your cheeks again, desperate and sloppy, but you pushed him back with a shaking hand, steadying him.

“Stop—hey, it’s okay,” you tried again, voice firm but soft, like talking to a wounded animal.

He froze, breathing you in so deeply it hurt to hear, then slowly lowered his head until his brow touched yours. The blood was sticky between you, but the contact steadied him, just a little. You’d never have thought touching him, seeing him without his mask for the first time in months would’ve been like this. Fate has a weird way of working things out.

You kept your hand moving through his hair, gentle, grounding, and after another moment he shifted, claws pulling out of the dirt beside your head and instead curling around you, wrapping you in a terrifying, protective cage.

His hands—bloodied and sharp and so wrong—trembled as they ghosted under your shirt, rough against your waist, pulling you closer, pressing your ribs against his chest.

His entire body shook as he settled, breath ragged and uneven, the smell of iron so strong you wanted to gag. Still, you stayed, letting him hold you, even when every terrified instinct screamed to run.

Moonlight spilled through a break in the canopy, falling on the two of you in a cold, pale wash. It caught the gore still clinging to his jaw, the unnatural gray of his ruined skin, the inky stain of his hollow eyes.

Jack clung tighter, claws pricking your sides, breathing hard against your neck, confused sounds still rumbling in the back of his throat.

He didn’t understand. You could feel it in the frantic rhythm of his touch—he didn’t know why his body felt so raw, so starving, so desperate.

Jack stayed wrapped around you, claws trembling against your back, his breathing raw and frantic. His face was buried at your neck, those horrible tongues twitching against your skin, tasting you over and over as if it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Your head spun. He was so strong—you could feel it in every twitch of those monstrous hands, how easily he could have broken you. But he didn’t.

He was shaking, whimpering, lost.

“Jack,” you tried, voice cracking, “what is this? What’s happening to you?”

He made a mangled sound, low in his chest, trying to force words through a throat that wasn’t made for them anymore.

“Ca-c-can’t—” he rasped, wet and torn. “Can’t… s-stop.”

You swallowed, panic still clawing at your ribs. His claws flexed under your shirt, not hurting, but clutching at you like a lifeline.

“Can’t stop what?” you asked, heart hammering, “Hurting? Hunting?”

He shook his head, a violent, jerky movement against your neck, a fresh whimper breaking free.

“Smh-smell… y-you…” he gasped, voice breaking. “C-c-can’t… st-stop.”

Your mind was spinning, trying to piece it together. You thought of how he’d tracked you down, how he couldn’t stop licking you, couldn’t get enough of your scent, the way he was holding you now like he needed you to keep breathing.

Your stomach dropped.

Was this… heat? The word felt alien, but close. Or something like it. He was… an animal, twisted by what they’d done to him. Maybe his body had gone feral in more ways than just hunger.

“Jack,” you whispered, dread crawling up your spine, “are you… in some kind of… rut?”

He went still, pressed against you. A miserable, pained whimper came out, low and helpless.

“Dha-d-don’t… know,” he stuttered, voice thick with something raw and pathetic. “I… s-smell… yo-ou… need…”

It made your head swim. Of course he didn’t know. How could he? No one ever taught a monster about instincts like this.

His claws scrabbled at your back again, then curled around your waist, pulling you even tighter. His face pressed into your collarbone, those tongues working against your throat like he was trying to memorize you.

It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking.

“It’s okay, Jack,” you whispered again, voice catching, “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Jack trembled against you, his claws flexing and unflexing along your ribs, scraping your skin just enough to sting. His entire body was rigid, shaking, the way a bowstring might before it finally snapped.

A raw, pained groan crawled up his ruined throat, and then—he moved.

He shifted, his hips dragging against yours, grinding down, slow and clumsy, a desperate friction that made your blood run cold and your spine bow off the ground. He did it again, harder, a broken sob rattling out of him. He was hard, and so painfully, terrifyingly big.

It was so wrong—but so heartbreakingly human in a twisted way.

He didn’t know what he was doing. You could feel it in how he shook, how his claws fluttered against your skin like he was afraid to hurt you. But some dark, feral instinct had its claws in him now, and it wouldn’t let go.

“J-Jack—” you stammered, terror slicing through you like a blade, “Jack, wait—wait, please—”

He didn’t seem to hear you. Or maybe he couldn’t.

He only whimpered, grinding down again, more frantic, his entire body surging with confused, alien need. The weight of him pinned you, crushing you into the damp earth, making it impossible to squirm away.

Your words turned to babbling, desperate, tears spilling from your eyes.

“Jack, please, wait, j-just—just hold on—you don’t have to—!”

But he needed to.

His tongue, the longest of the three, licked up the side of your neck, tasting your tears, and his whole body shuddered in something close to ecstasy.

You were perfect—you smelled so good, so alive, so his.

Jack keened against you, hips ramming forward again against the center of your thighs, a hopeless rhythm he didn’t understand, only that it made the gnawing ache inside ease for the briefest second. You grunted with every press, legs clamping to close around his hips, but it was no use.

His claws roved under your shirt, skittering against your bare skin, so hot and feverish it felt like they might burn you.

You tried to hold on to him, hands bracing against his chest, trying to reason with him, but he was gone to you—lost to instincts so deep and cruel they drowned out everything else.

“P-please, Jack,” you cried, voice catching on a sob, “I know you’re in there—I know you’re in there, please just—”

He didn’t answer.

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling with a desperate, shaking gasp, then ground into you again, a brutal, guttural snarl tearing from his chest.

There was hunger, yes—but not for organs, not this time. It was a hunger that was aching, tearing him apart in places he didn’t even have names for anymore.

He needed you. And he couldn’t stop.

The heat in his body was a firestorm, swallowing everything that made sense, leaving only need. You smelled so good—the salt of your skin, the sweet tang of your fear, the soft, warm human scent that had always belonged to you.

His claws scraped against your ribs as he ground down, again and again, unable to stop, each movement more desperate than the last. A whine rattled out of him, high and pained, like it physically hurt to be this close and not inside you somehow. You matched his whines, your thighs shaking with how his cock rubbed against your cunt through layers of thick clothing.

Your hands clutched at his hair, pulling, nails digging into his scalp. You were crying, babbling, your voice cracking with half-formed pleas—but you weren’t fighting him, you didn’t think you could anyhow.

He latched onto that with something feral, something primal. You wanted him, some buried part of you did, or at least you weren’t kicking him off, and that was enough to break what was left of his reason.

His tongues flicked over your neck, tasting sweat and tears and heat, making him snarl in frustrated ecstasy. The sound vibrated through your chest, and you arched up against him without meaning to, hips meeting his with a helpless grind that made his claws clench hard enough to bruise.

The world was spinning, dizzy and molten, your voice cracking again as you gasped, “J-Jack—”

He couldn’t stop.

“Mhnn—M’sorry—”

He bit you.

His jaws snapped down on your shoulder, too hard, the sharp points of his monstrous teeth tearing straight through the thin cotton of your shirt and sinking into flesh.

You screamed—a sound tangled between pain and something far, far darker, some twisted surge of relief that made you go limp under him.

He tasted your blood, hot and coppery, and moaned against you, rutting his hips so hard you could barely breathe.

Your head fell back, tears streaming, your body alight with panic and arousal and a hundred things you couldn’t name.

“Ah—Fuck—!” you sobbed, hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even as you trembled from the agony of his bite.

He whined around the mouthful of your skin, drool and blood spilling down your shoulder, tongues fluttering against the broken flesh. His claws skittered under your back, catching on the fabric, desperate to feel you, to anchor himself before he tore you apart completely.

The smell of you, the taste, the way you moved against him—it was too much. It was everything.

Jack’s grinding grew more frantic, more nasty, sloppy and desperate, like an animal starved of touch for centuries, driven by something so foreign he couldn’t even name it.

You moved with him, rutting up to meet his rhythm, your voice breaking into half-sobbed moans as you clutched him closer, dizzy from pain and heat and the horrible, unbearable need radiating off of him.

It was messy, violent, a collision of instincts and terror and some warped, twisted need to save him.

It built like a storm, each frantic thrust of his hips dragging you closer to a precipice you couldn’t see, didn’t even know it was there until you felt the coil in your stomach. Jack was panting, growling, his claws scoring lines onto your ribs and back and all over as he rutted against you, mindless and unstoppable.

You were barely breathing, the pain in your shoulder mixing with something hot and carnal that had your hips moving up to meet his every time, your voice caught in your throat in sobs and broken cries. Your thighs feel open, legs coming around his broad hips to wrap around him, locking your feet together at the base of his back.

The smell of blood, sweat, the damp soil—it all blurred around you, your entire world narrowed to the way his hips slid against yours, his length pressed against your aching clit.

Jack’s tongues lashed against your skin, tasting you, claiming you, his breath so ragged it rattled his chest. His hips stuttered, harder, faster, his growl climbing into something high and keening—

You felt the tension snap inside you like a frayed wire, every nerve flaring white-hot as you choked on a sob, your hips jerking up, caught in that same unstoppable rhythm.

Your orgasm crashed through you, messy and raw, pain and pleasure and terror all tangled together until you didn’t know what you were feeling except that you couldn’t handle the pressure any longer.

He felt it too.

Jack’s whole body went rigid, a strangled, animalistic cry bursting out of him as he ground down hard, shoving you into the dirt so rough your bones ached. He shuddered, every muscle seizing, the heat of him smothering you as he came, mindlessly rutting through the last frantic pulses until his hips slowed to stutters.

For a long moment, there was only panting—his huge body draped over yours, twitching, shaking.

The forest was silent except for your breathing, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the coppery sting of blood sharp under your nose.

Jack went still, finally, the frantic, feral madness draining out of him all at once like a burst dam. He slumped against you, heavy and limp, rasping out broken, rattling breaths.

You felt his face move against your neck, those horrible tongues twitching sluggishly, no longer hungry, just back to cleaning the blood that trickled from your bite.

A low, almost human voice crawled out of him, helpless and raw.

“C-cou-couldn’t—” he tried to say, and choked on a sob, “couldn’t s-stop…”

Your shaking hands found his hair again, combing through the blood-matted strands. Your voice was thin, ruined from crying, but you managed to get words past your cracked lips.

“I-I know,” you whispered, “Jack, I know…”

He let out a hoarse, broken whine, pressing his face harder into your throat. The pressure of his claws, still tucked under your shirt, turned gentle, almost soothing, stroking your bare skin in a clumsy mimic of affection.

The blind, animalistic need had quieted, leaving something raw and battered in its place.

He was Jack again, for now—shaky and confused and so, so sorry.

“D-didn’t… want to… h-hurt…” he stammered, one of his tongues licking a stripe up your jaw as if trying to apologize, “you smelled so-soo good…”

You swallowed hard, blinking against the tears.

“It’s okay,” you whined, voice paper-thin, “it’s… it’s okay. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”

He let out a low, pitiful whimper and curled tighter around you, as if even after all that, he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You felt the heat of him, the ragged exhaustion, the sloppy, dazed nuzzles as he licked at the bite he’d left on your shoulder.

But then—you felt it.

Hard. Still hard.

Thick and throbbing, pressed against the curve of your hip, pulsing with a need that clearly hadn’t burned itself out yet. The realization shot a cold spear of panic through your gut, even as your mind reeled from the aftershocks of what you’d already survived.

“Jack,” you breathed, voice breaking, “wait—”

But he was moving again. A slow, rolling grind against you, the heavy ridge of him rutting over your thigh. You flinched, a fresh spike of sensitivity bursting through your half-numb body.

He whined—higher, clearer, more Jack than the animal—but still desperate.

“C-can’t stop…” he stammered, his voice raw and torn, but understandable now, “please… I need… more…”

Your heart lurched, hammering so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. You put your hands against his chest, trying to push him back.

“J-Jack—wait—just—just hold on a second—”

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

He loomed up over you, gray skin catching in a shaft of moonlight, eyes still hollow and leaking that inky blackness, but somehow so full of you, focused only on you.

A clumsy claw caught the hem of your shirt, tugging, tearing the cotton easily as if it were paper. Another hand fumbled at your waistband, his movements frantic, awkward, scraping your skin as he tried to pull your pants down. He tore his claw through your shirt, ripping the fabric in half, shoving it off your chest. The air was warm, but your flesh still crawled with goosebumps, crossing your arms across your bra.

“J-Jack—” you pleaded, voice cracking, “slow down—”

He shook his head, a course growl pulling out of his ruined throat, all three tongues lolling and quivering as he nosed at your bare shoulder, inhaling you like your scent was the sweetest perfume known to man.

“Sm-mells so… g-good…” he slurred, breath shivering across your damp skin, “It hurts… I need…”

He sat up off of you onto his knees and tugged harder, practically ripping your pants down your hips, dragging the fabric across your thighs and off your ankles, leaving you shivering in the warm night air, half-covered in blood and dirt and his own desperate scent.

Your head spun, panic and some horrible spark of want twisting in your belly.

His claws raked down your sides, leaving angry red lines in their wake, but his grip gentled near your hips, as if trying, clumsily, to be careful with you.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking around the word like glass, “I need it…”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was tearing at what was left of your clothes, his claws hooking into your panties and ripping them in a single, impatient pull. The elastic snapped, leaving you bare beneath him, the humid night air kissing every inch of your trembling skin.

Jack leaned back, just enough to see you fully—the sight of you exposed made him snarl, low and guttural, his hips twitching in a spasm of aching need.

You gasped when he tore at your bra, the clasps giving way to those claws so easily, leaving you naked, splayed out beneath him in the mud and leaves. His tongues ran over his lips, shivering in the night air, and he lowered his face to your chest, sniffing so deep it made your skin prickle.

Jack shifted above you, still breathing in those ragged, animal-edged huffs of air. His claws twitched at the edge of his hoodie, scrabbling almost clumsily as he started trying to yank it off, frustration roughening his voice.

“Too… h-hot,” he snarled, voice breaking as he tried to pull the oversized fabric over his shoulders, “can’t—too tight—”

It was ridiculous, in a way—the thing was big on him, he had to roll up the sleeves for crying out loud, but with the way his body strained and trembled now, even that roomy cloth felt suffocating.

You watched, dazed and shaking, as he finally managed to drag it over his head, the hood catching for a second on his head before he ripped it free with a growl.

The air hit his skin and he shivered, shoulders rolling. His body was… terrifying, and yet so painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.

His skin, that strange ashy blue-gray, gleamed with sweat, muscles standing out in sharp, tense lines. Broad shoulders, roped with lean, powerful definition, his chest heaving, his ribs showing the slightest hollow from days of half-starved hunting. Scars ran across him in jagged, uneven tracks, some healed rough, others still pink and new.

The moonlight skimmed over his abdomen, tracing hard-cut muscle under a shimmer of sweat, each breath flexing the taut cords of his stomach. His hips were narrow, but thick with power, and every line of him looked made for violence—but somehow so vulnerable in this raw, exposed moment. But the pièce de résistance was the trail of hair that started under his belly button and traveled down to somewhere unknown beneath his waistband.

He tossed the hoodie aside and leaned back over you, hair matted and damp around his forehead, claws spreading on either side of your waist as he growled, breath ghosting over your chest.

“Hold on now, w-wait—” you stammered, but the words barely left your lips before his mouth was on you.

He licked a broad, hungry stripe up the slope of your breast, then latched on, three tongues working over your nipple at once—hot, slick, inhuman. You cried out, body arching up, nails digging into his shoulders as the wet heat sent a jolt of electricity through you.

He moaned at the taste of you, his voice raw and desperate, his hands splaying out over your hips to pin you down as he moved lower, lower still, dragging those horrible, clever tongues across every inch of you.

When he settled between your thighs, you tried to close them—but his claws kept you open, spreading you wide, your body so exposed you could hardly stand it. You leaned up onto your elbows, fingers digging into the grass.

Jack paused for just a second, panting, his face hovering over your slick, his tongues twitching with anticipation. He let out a broken, hungry little whimper. Was he… was he fucking drooling?

“P-pretty…” he slurred, the syllables barely holding together, “so… pretty…”

And then he lunged, mouth burying itself against you with no finesse, no mercy.

You screamed, your back bowing off the ground as those three tongues moved with wild, sloppy desperation, lapping at you like he was starving. It was too much—the rough flicks, the obscene wetness, the teeth scraping gently at sensitive skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure and terror straight through your core.

You gasped, hips jerking, the spark of pleasure sharp as lightning through your belly. Jack let out a deep, satisfied growl at the reaction, circling your clit with the tip of one of his tongues, soft at first, then firmer, more insistent, making your muscles clench under him.

You fisted his hair, gasping, voice cracking as you tried to guide him, tried to survive the hurricane of sensation.

The second tongue joined the first, working in a counter-rhythm, stroking and licking at you until you were shaking again, barely able to think. He was playing with you—greedy and clumsy, but somehow still so achingly precise, watching you break apart under every drag of his tongues.

“J-Jack—oh my god—slow—please—!”

He didn’t slow. Couldn’t.

He added another.

His monstrous hands pinned your thighs even wider, his growls vibrating right through you, and he sucked at your clit with all three tongues, so intense you almost blacked out, eyes rolling far beyond the back of your head.

“Fuckk—y-you—taste—” he babbled into you, lost in it, “so fucking good.”

You felt his hips rutt against the ground while he devoured you, grinding for relief even as he tore every ounce of yours from you with terrifying devotion.

It was savage. Beautiful.

You were helpless, caught under him, trembling as the pleasure built again and again, nowhere to go, nothing to do but cling to him and pray you survived.

And Jack—he just kept going, lost in you, a monster starved for more than flesh.

Then, with a hungry deliberation, he shifted, tongues drawing lower, to the dripping entrance of your core. One slick tongue traced around the tight ring of muscle, circling, then gently pushed inside—the stretch was strange, hot, noticeable, and you cried out, fisting the dirt, hips rolling helplessly.

Jack shuddered like he could feel it, letting out a sound halfway between a moan and a growl that vibrated against your cunt.

Then a second tongue slid in next to the first, thicker, the two of them twisting, writhing, pressing against places inside you that made your toes curl and your spine curl off the forest floor.

“F-fuck—Jack—!” you sobbed, barely holding on.

He whined, eager, desperate to please, and a third tongue pushed at your entrance, stretching you even more, making you feel so full and so impossibly overwhelmed. He fed them in deeper, deeper still, moving them in slow, obscene thrusts as your body fluttered helplessly around them.

His claws dug into your hips, holding you steady, and he watched you break apart, those empty sockets somehow burning with a savage, possessive adoration.

“Cant stop—I can’t—” he stammered, voice shaking as much as you were, “So warm—”

The tongues twisted inside you, slick and hot and everywhere, while the tip of one still worked your clit in perfect, punishing circles—until your mind was nothing but static. You could feel your restraint dissolve, feel every muscle coming unbound with every pass of the muscles roiling around inside your gummy walls. All you could do was hiccup through tears that spilt down your cheeks, hands lost between fisting the grass and Jack’s messy hair.

He wouldn’t make you decide for long.

Jack finally slowed, his three tongues pulsing one last time inside you before starting to pull free—inch by inch, painfully slow, the writhing muscle dragging slick and hot against your walls.

You cried out, hands scrabbling through the dirt, thighs shivering so hard they nearly clamped shut around his head. Jack lifted, and the sight of him made your stomach twist—his face was covered in you, slick and glistening all the way to the hollows of his cheeks, dripping down the edges of his jaw.

He panted, claws still gripping your hips, and then—almost absently—he used those tongues to clean himself. They swept up over his chin, lapping across his cheeks, curling to drag away every trace of you with obscene thoroughness.

The longest tongue curled all the way up to the corner of his eye socket, slicking away a streak of blood, while the others worked over his lips and down to his throat, catching every drop.

It was monstrous, horrifying—but something about it was also devoted, his noises soft and grateful as he tasted you over and over again.

When he was finished, his face shone faintly in the moonlight, wiped clean by nothing but his own inhuman hunger, and he looked down at you with those hollow, endless sockets, panting, starved, still wanting.

“Taste so… mhnn—so go-good—” he stammered, voice breaking apart, almost overwhelmed himself.

Then, shaking, he leaned back on his haunches, claws fumbling at the button of his jeans, breath coming out in deep, stripped huffs. The denim was already soaked with sweat and stained with little flecks of gore, clinging to his muscled thighs.

“C-can’t—too tight—need…” he growled, frustrated, claws almost tearing the button clean off before he finally managed to wrench it open and shove the jeans down.

The second they fell, your breath hitched. You felt your stomach roll over on itself.

His cock was monstrous, huge even by impossible standards, flushed a dark bruised-blue that almost glowed in the slivered moonlight. Thick ridges ran along the underside, pulsing faintly, and the head was slick and shiny, drooling a bead of clear precum that dripped to the dirt below. Veins wrapped around the shaft like dark ropes, throbbing with each frantic beat of his inhuman heart.

It was obscene, the sheer size of it, the way it twitched and jumped with the smallest movement of his hips. Your body tensed, terrified and aching all at once, while Jack looked down at you with those endless, hungry sockets, a guttural, whiny sound escaping his throat. A noise a dog would make if you held food above its head.

“Sweet girl,” he rasped, voice shaking, “Want—hnn—want inside… please… pl-please.”

He was so hard he looked in pain, the length of him bobbing forward, heavy, glistening, terrifyingly perfect in its brutality. One clawed hand wrapped around the base, a poor attempt to steady himself as he leaned over you, every muscle in his lean, powerful frame quivering with raw, feral need.

You could barely breathe, heart hammering against your ribs, as Jack loomed over you—huge, starved, and desperate to make you his.

A wave of terror slammed into you, cutting through every dazed, sweet ache in your body. Your instincts screamed run, and before you could even think, you rolled over onto your stomach, dirt scraping your skin, legs wobbling as you tried to get your knees under you.

You were so weak, so shaky from everything he’d already done to you, but you managed to crawl forward, dragging yourself clumsy and frantic through the leaves. No fucking way were you going to take that thing.

“Jack, no—” you gasped, voice breaking.

But he snarled behind you, a sound so deep and hungry it rattled your bones.

“Don’t run…” he growled, words wet and cracked, “…don’t run, pretty girl…”

You made it only a few feet before his claws closed around your calf, the rough grip tearing a desperate cry from your lungs. Jack hauled you backward with terrifying ease, your fingernails clawing at the dirt as he dragged you until you were flush against him, your back pressed to the heat of his bare chest, his hips crowding up behind you.

He leaned over, breath scalding against your ear, and you felt the monstrous weight of his cock slide along the curve of your ass, so heavy and thick it made your whole body clench up.

It rested there, pulsing hot against your skin, smearing precum over your lower back and leaving your mind reeling with just how deep he was going to go.

“Don’t run…” Jack repeated, lower, almost a begging whimper tangled with the snarl, “n-need you…need all of you…”

He ground forward, letting the head of his cock catch between your cheeks, then angling his hips, slid his length between your thighs, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel the impossible stretch waiting.

Your breath came in sharp, terrified gasps, the world a dizzy blur as his claws dug into your hips, holding you pinned, his voice breaking as he panted into your hair.

“P-pretty…don’t run…gonna make you f-full…so full…”

The sheer heat of him, the solid, inhuman girth twitching and drooling against you, made your head spin. Your heart thundered like prey under a predator’s paw—helpless, trembling, trapped.

You tried to squirm again—a panicked, half-blind attempt to drag yourself away, the leaves and damp earth clinging to your elbows. But Jack’s low, animal snarl made your heart stop, vibrating through your ribs like thunder.

“Don’t,” he rasped, breath raw and uneven, “don’t run—gonna take you—”

His hips rolled, the bulging head of his cock catching against your clit, making you yelp and arch from the sudden jolt of raw, overwhelming pleasure. He dragged it up and down your slit, soaking you with slick precum, smearing it across your folds until you were trembling so hard you could hardly breathe.

Then he shifted, the tip nudging against your entrance, parting you, teasing just enough to send another bolt of fear straight through your spine.

You tried to move again, legs kicking weakly—but that only seemed to annoy him. A harsh growl ripped out of Jack’s throat, and before you could even scream, he slammed both hands onto your back, claws spreading wide across your shoulder blades and pinning you flat against the earth.

He pushed, his massive weight bearing down, forcing your spine into a sharp arch so your ass was high in the air and your chest crushed to the dirt. It was a humiliating, bestial pose—your body forced to submit, trembling, fully exposed.

“Stay,” he snarled, voice cracking around a broken whimper, “stay still—don’t squirm…”

You felt the head of his cock pressing again, harder this time, nudging into you with enough force to steal your breath, the tight muscle of your cunt burning already. You could barely process the stretch, barely believe it would fit, your walls already fighting the impossible intrusion.

Jack’s hips flexed, and the head started to push in, painfully slow, prying you open one quivering inch at a time.

“F-fuck—so tight—so…warm…” he stammered, panting above you, his claws tightening on your shoulders until they dug sharp enough to sting.

The pain was blinding, a burn that radiated through your hips and made tears prick your eyes. Your body shook, helpless, every muscle trying to clamp down and push him out—but he wouldn’t stop.

Jack rocked his hips forward, the head bobbing deeper, pulling out a fraction only to shove in again, each movement nudging him further and further inside until your walls were clinging to the first few inches of that monstrous, ridged length.

Your mind blurred, terror and overstimulation crashing together, as the stretch split you wider and wider—and Jack’s heavy breaths grew more desperate, his voice breaking into wild, devoted praise.

“Yeah—so good—so good—take me—need you t-to take all of me…”

And you realized, in that moment of absolute terror and helplessness, that he meant to fill every aching, breaking inch of you, no matter how much it hurt.

“Oh fuck— Oh, God—wait, Jack—”

Jack’s rhythm grew steadier, more determined, as he worked deeper—each push splitting you a fraction more, the obscene stretch lighting up every nerve in your body. Your breath came in ragged, sobbing pants, eyes screwed shut against the tears as your walls spasmed helplessly around him.

He was relentless, hips rocking, drawing out and then pushing a little deeper each time, forcing your body to mold around him. You could barely process how much was already inside—it felt like too much, so impossibly full, and still he hadn’t bottomed out.

“Hold on—hold on—just wait,” you hiccuped, reaching your arms behind you to plant against his hips, trying to stop him from going any further. You could already feel him bumping against your cervix, drooling tip nudging the deepest parts inside of you.

“Almost, pretty girl—almost there,” Jack rasped, voice wet and fractured.

You choked out a half-formed plea again, but it was lost in the dark as he pressed closer, his sweaty chest crushing against your back. He shifted his claws from your shoulders to dig into the dirt on either side of your head, caging you, pinning you, leaving you nowhere to go as you trembled under him.

And then—with a low, guttural growl—he leaned down and bit into the other side of your shoulder, teeth tearing your skin, white-hot agony blinding you. He locked his jaw tight.

Your scream broke the night, ripping from your throat, echoing through the trees. You pressed your forehead to the ground, heaving and panting into the grass.

In that moment of your rawest, most helpless pain, Jack shoved forward, burying the final brutal inches in one unforgiving thrust. The monstrous cock slammed home, hilting inside you so deep you could barely comprehend it, your body jolting forward from the force as if he meant to split you in two.

Your walls convulsed, spasming wildly around his impossible girth, every nerve alight with pain and pressure and a sick, brutal pleasure that made your head spin.

Jack’s breath rattled against your neck, hot and frantic, his tongues slipping out to lap at the blood welling from his bite as he held himself buried to the hilt, trembling over you like a beast barely chained.

“So—so warm,” he whined against your torn shoulder, voice shaking, “Feels so g-good, baby. So tight—”

And you felt everything inside you go tight and molten and unbearably full, helpless under the weight of him, pinned in a way you could never escape, your body forced to take every impossible inch.

You felt him shift—a subtle grind of his hips, the head of that monstrous cock grinding even deeper, making you jolt with a strangled cry. He couldn’t even wait until you got adjusted.

He let out a wet, shattered moan. “G-gonna move—can’t—can’t stop—hold still—”

And then he pulled back. Slowly at first, dragging that inhuman length from your spasming, quivering walls until only the tip was left stretching you wide, and for a heartbeat you thought he might let you rest.

But then he slammed back in, the force of it making your eyes roll up, punching the air out of your lungs in a weak sob.

“F-fuck—so—tight—” Jack stammered, voice raw, animalistic, clawed hands braced on either side of your head as he started to fuck down into you.

Each thrust was brutal, making you lurch forward, the wet slap of his hips against your ass echoing through the dead-silent woods. He was so deep, so thick, dragging against spots inside you that left your mind spinning, the pain a white-hot brand with every punishing push.

You tried to crawl away again—an instinct, a desperate, animal attempt to survive—but Jack caught you by the hips and slammed you back against him, snarling in your ear, “Don’t run—don’t you run from me. You’re mine—mine—”

His claws dug into your sides, angling you up so every thrust hit a new nerve deep inside, making your stomach tighten painfully around him. You could barely breathe, your body forced to take it over and over as he fucked into you like a starved animal.

Jack’s moans started to crumble, breaking apart into sharp whimpers and cries, his teeth dragging over the bite-mark on your shoulder, licking the blood and sweat. You felt him trembling, desperate, the force behind his thrusts growing frantic and messy, cock twitching with every pull out.

He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.

And under the moonlight, pressed into the dirt with his massive length tearing you open over and over, you realized neither could you.

It hurt. God, it hurt—but something in the pain had started to shift, twisting deep in your belly until it burned into something hotter, something needier. Each time Jack slammed forward, your cunt clenched, not just from the brutal stretch but from a raw, wicked spark that left you reeling.

You couldn’t help it—your hips began to rock back to meet him, your battered body chasing the next drag of that searing cock as it raked through your oversensitive walls.

Jack stuttered for a second, stunned, a growling noise pulling out of his throat as he realized you were pushing back. That you wanted more.

“Yeah, yeah—sweet girl—” he stammered, voice breaking, “feel so—so good—”

Your hands scrambled backward, clinging to the thick muscle of his arms, then up to dig your fingers into his shoulders, nails dragging across hot, sweaty skin. He was burning behind you, feverish, the broad line of his chest flexing with every ragged breath.

“Jack,” you gasped, voice catching, “t-touch me—please—Jack, please—”

That was all it took.

He let out a deep, snarling whimper, the sound rolling through his chest and into you, and then he was moving even harder, rutting into you with sloppy, frantic thrusts that made your thighs spasm and your vision blur.

His claws scraped the earth beside you as he tried to keep from ripping you apart, every thrust wet and obscene—slick squelching, drool dripping from his mouths down onto your back, strings of precum and slick soaking your thighs as his jeans pooled around his knees.

The raw, nasty sounds of him splitting you open filled the air, sticky and wet and feral, each thrust making you clench tighter, wanting more, more, no matter how much it hurt.

Jack’s hips smacked against your ass again and again, leaving stinging bruises, and still you pushed back, desperate to meet every brutal stroke. Your hands clung to him like a lifeline, nails raking across his skin, your body screaming for more even as it trembled under the onslaught.

Jack’s tongues slipped out again, drooling, laving down your spine, tasting your sweat, your skin, your pain—unable to stop devouring you in every way.

“Don’t—don’t stop—” you choked out, and he let out a hoarse, shattered laugh that broke halfway to a growl.

“Can’t—never—never stopping,” he gasped, rutting forward until your knees buckled, forcing you to collapse under him, pinned to the dirt by his weight and the vicious, monstrous cock ripping you apart.

It was filthy, raw, a primal mess of slick and sweat and drool and blood, and neither of you could seem to get enough.

Jack’s thrusts slowed momentarily, a slurred, choked sound catching on his tongues as he pulled out, dragging that massive length from your trembling, ruined body inch by inch. You gasped, nearly sobbing, empty in a way that made your insides clench desperately around nothing.

But before you could catch your breath, Jack’s claws wrapped around your hips, hauling you over like you weighed nothing, flipping you onto your back. The warm night air bit into your sweat-slicked skin, making you groan—then his shadow fell over you, huge and monstrous, his eyes boring down like twin bottomless holes.

You reached up, arms instinctively curling around his shoulders, holding onto the thick, corded muscle under his burning skin. His lean, powerful torso flexed with every breath, still dripping with sweat.

He lined up again, the fat head of his cock dragging through your slick folds, and you both moaned, bodies shaking with raw, hungry need.

“Jack,” you whimpered, voice small and cracked, “fuck me, c’mon—”

“Gonna—gonna put it back in, pretty—so warm—so good—” he rasped, leaning over you, three tongues lapping from his mouth and twitching as he stared down, almost mesmerized.

Then he pushed.

It was every bit as brutal, every bit as overwhelming as the first time, the massive length stretching you to your limit and then beyond, the head forcing your walls open until you thought you’d break.

Your back arched, a scream caught in your throat—but it didn’t get out, because Jack was already sinking deeper, deeper still, until you felt a tight, blunt pressure so far inside you that it made your vision white out.

His eyes went wide, hollow sockets somehow hungry, staring right at your stomach.

“Look,” he panted, a grin tearing across his blood-streaked lips, “look at you—”

You followed his gaze, and nearly broke—a distinct bulge pressing up under the roundness of your belly, obscene and impossible, shifting every time he moved.

“Oh my god—Jack—” you cried, eyes glassy, “that’s—fuck—”

“Inside,” he growled, voice reverent and broken, his claw pressing right against that bulge. You felt it, felt the way it shifted with the head of his cock, and a raw, helpless sob tore out of you.

“Can you feel me?” he crooned, barely human, claws stroking your hips, pressing harder against the bump in your stomach. “Can you feel me all the way here?—S-so deep, pretty girl—mine—”

You shook, nodding, tears slipping from your lashes as the pleasure spiked unbearably.

“Yes—yes, Jack—yours—yours—”

He let out a hoarse, ecstatic snarl and started pounding into you again, faster, harder, the force of each thrust making that stomach bulge jump under his hand. You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, gripping for dear life as he rutted you into the dirt, tongues lapping at your face and neck, worshipping you. Each thrust knocked his cock against your g-spot.

“Never gonna—hah—let go—” he grunted between sloppy, punishing thrusts, “gonna fill you—make you full—of my babies—”

You couldn’t even answer, your body was on fire, arching and breaking under him, every nerve screaming for more as the woods spun around you.

It came faster than you could even register.

You couldn’t take any more—each brutal, slamming thrust was a lightning strike, fire rolling through your veins until everything inside you clenched, burned, and finally broke.

Your back arched hard off the ground, arms locked around Jack’s shoulders, mouth open in a silent cry as a devastating orgasm ripped through you.

“Jack—!”

Your walls squeezed him so tight he nearly lost his mind, your core fluttering and gripping him in pulsing waves, slick and scorching. Jack’s claws immediately wrapped around your back, holding you close against him as if he could fuse your bodies together.

He let out a strangled, desperate growl, eyes locked on you, breathing so ragged it almost didn’t sound human. Something in him seemed to snap—a feral instinct flooding through every monstrous inch of him.

“Pretty—so good—” he babbled, voice raw and cracking, “mine—mine—mine—”

Then he lurched down, seizing your mouth with a ferocity that stunned you.

His tongues plunged inside all at once, stretching your lips wide, thick and powerful as they explored every inch of your mouth. One curled under your tongue, another ran across your teeth, the third so deep it made you gag, stealing your breath.

You choked on the sheer overwhelming invasion, tears spilling down your cheeks, but couldn’t pull away—Jack’s hands were iron around your waist, crushing you to him, the feverish heat of him radiating through your trembling body.

His tongues moved with a filthy rhythm, tasting you, claiming you, drool mixing with your tears until everything was slick and desperate. He moaned right into your throat, rutting his hips hard against you while his tongues tangled deeper, worshipping you like you were air, water, salvation.

Your climax was still crashing through you, making your legs weak and shaky as you tried to breathe through the frantic kiss—but Jack wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t stop, lost in that blinding animal need to own you completely.

Your lungs burned as his tongues kept invading, every inch of you claimed and devoured. The taste of him—coppery, inhuman, mixed with the salt of your own tears—filled your senses until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

His cock was still pounding into you with a punishing rhythm, the tip punching so deep inside you that your stomach bulged again and again. Every thrust made your sensitive walls clench helplessly, overstimulated, still pulsing.

Jack moaned into your mouth, frantic, tongues twisting and licking and fucking into you while he fucked harder, losing any semblance of control. His claws dug into your hips, pinning you in place, pace stuttering as he chased the final edge.

“M’gonna—” he gasped, voice barely even a voice, just a devastating, hungry snarl against your lips, “gonna fill you—make you—mine—!”

You felt him tense, the length of him swelling impossibly inside you—then he buried himself to the hilt, the head smashing up against your cervix, and roared.

Hot, thick cum poured into you in heavy pulses, stretching you so full you could feel every gush, every wave crashing deep inside. Jack’s whole body shook above you, tongues still gagging your mouth, drool and tears mixing on your face as he pumped you full.

Your walls fluttered again, clamping down on him instinctively, milking every drop until he finally slowed, breathing ragged and wild.

He collapsed against you, still inside, still impossibly hard, arms curling around you protectively like he’d never let you go. His tongues finally pulled free of your mouth, leaving you gasping for air, lips bruised and slick with spit.

Jack buried his face against your neck, panting, lost and shaking, whispering in a hoarse, cracked growl, “Mine…always mine…”

You thought—prayed—he was done, but then you felt it: a new pressure, deep in your gut, stretching you wider from the inside.

Your eyes flew wide, panic spiking again.

“J-Jack? What’s happening?” you rasped, voice shaking, but he only whined into your neck, his hips rocking against yours, grinding in short, desperate ruts.

You felt it swelling—something solid, something burning, growing right at the base of him.

Oh god.

You tried to move, to shift, but his claws curled around your hips, locking you down hard.

“Stay,” he snarled, voice a warped echo against your throat, “don’t run.”

You gasped as that thick knot stretched you, forcing you even wider, burning with a brutal, almost cruel fullness. Your walls spasmed helplessly, trying to reject it, but Jack was stronger—so much stronger—and he held you down while he forced the growing bulb past the tightest part of your entrance.

It finally popped inside with a wet, obscene sound, lodging deep against your cunt, locking you to him.

You screamed, back arching off the ground, mind breaking under the sheer bruising invasion.

Jack moaned—moaned—a weary, needy cry, shoving his face against yours as if to soothe you.

“Can’t—can’t let go—” he babbled, voice dripping hunger and desperation, “mine—mine—stay—stay here—”

He ground his knot deeper, each tiny thrust making it swell even bigger until you felt like you’d burst. The fullness was blinding, overwhelming, his cock jerking and twitching inside you as another pulse of hot cum flooded you, trapped by the knot, locked away.

Your hips shook, pinned, no escape as Jack licked and bit at your neck, rutting slow, greedy circles against you even with the knot sealing you tight.

“Don’t—don’t run, sweet girl,” he panted, voice trembling, “can’t…can’t let you go…”

You felt every throb, every pulse, the unbearable stretch, your whole body trembling and on the verge of breaking apart under him.

Jack was still, but you could feel him trembling—muscles locked tight, claws flexing against your hips as though afraid you might vanish if he let go for even a second.

You squirmed, a whimper tearing from your throat as the knot shifted painfully, the pressure pressing right up against your cervix.

“Jack,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, “Jack, it’s too much—”

He whined, the sound broken and needy, burying his face against your cheek, tongues tracing clumsy, comforting patterns over your sweaty skin.

“Can’t—can’t let go yet,” he slurred, voice ragged and half-human, “feels too good—can’t—”

You felt him try to rut again, short, choppy motions that only made the knot grind harshly against every raw, sensitive part of you. A shocked moan escaped your lips, your body arching under him, pleasure and pain blurring together until you couldn’t separate them. You slammed your fist against his shoulder.

“Shh,” he crooned, breath hot against your face, “s’okay—s’good—so warm—so warm inside—”

His hips stuttered, forcing the knot to jerk inside you, and you could swear you felt another faint gush of heat flood your battered, filled-up core.

Your walls fluttered around him helplessly, milking every drop.

Jack whimpered again, as if even he couldn’t stand the feeling, and wrapped his arms fully around your waist, drawing you up against him until your chests were smashed together. You could feel his heart hammering through your skin, a wild, frantic rhythm that matched your own.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged, voice warbled and broken, “please—pretty please—don’t leave—”

You could barely breathe, dizzy from being stretched and locked in place, but you nodded, trembling, stroking through his sweat-slicked hair.

“I’m here,” you whispered, voice cracking, “Jack, I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

He made a sound like a sob—part growl, part weep—and curled around you, knot twitching inside you, sealing you so perfectly you could feel every tremor of his body through the hot, thick lock of him.

And there, under the hush of the woods and the silver light of the moon, you stayed tangled together, your breath mixing, no escape, no space left between you.

── .✦

The woods felt endless, but you clung to him like an anchor, your hands tangled in his hair, your cheek pressed against the rough planes of his shoulder. His knot still held you in place, keeping every inch of him buried deep, a constant, heavy pressure that refused to ease for what felt like an eternity.

Neither of you could move much, so you talked, your voices small and exhausted under the wide, quiet dark.

“Where…where did you go, Jack?” you asked, trying to steady your breathing as another aftershock rolled through you.

He rumbled softly, claws smoothing along your spine. “Didn’t know,” he rasped, sounding like himself again, raw and worn-out. “Felt…wrong. Everything was red. Loud. Inside my head.”

You nodded, heart twisting. “I thought you were dead,” you admitted, a tear slipping out, catching on the blood drying across your cheek. “When you didn’t come, I— I thought—”

His arms tightened around you, a protective squeeze. “Not dead,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, “I couldn’t control much, but… I knew I had to stay away. Knew if I saw you I would hurt you.”

You sniffled, breathing in the rich, earthy scent of him, still faintly metallic from all the blood. It was terrible—but it was him, and that was enough.

“I came looking,” you whispered, voice breaking, “I couldn’t just sit there, Jack, I— I needed you to come back.”

A pained groan rattled in his chest, his claws dragging up to cradle your face as best he could. “Pretty girl,” he rasped, almost gentle, “mine…always mine. M’so sorry…”

You felt him shift, hips jerking, the knot giving a final, deep pulse inside you. It made you cry out softly, but then you felt it: the swelling finally, blessedly going down. Inch by inch, the brutal stretch began to ease, and you could feel the heavy, wet fullness slipping from your body with a messy, shuddering slide.

Jack grunted as the knot popped free, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, legs trembling uncontrollably.

For a moment you just lay there, both of you breathing hard, staring at each other. Then Jack leaned down, pressing a surprisingly sweet kiss to your cheek before sitting up, guiding you carefully.

“Come,” he murmured, voice steadier now, “let’s—let’s go.”

You nodded weakly, your body aching and filthy, but still reaching for him.

Jack helped you with fumbling claws, reached for your jeans with shaky claws to help tug your them back onto your ankles and into place, grimacing at the mud-smeared fabric. He growled under his breath, pulling your ruined panties out of the way and scowling at the torn, limp scraps.

“Shit,” you laughed weakly, voice hoarse and a little hysterical, “Jack, those were my favorite pair.”

He shot you a look through his hollow sockets, a low, embarrassed huff.

“And my bra?” you added, smirking despite the soreness. “Guess that’s toast too.”

Jack shifted, claws fumbling with the remains of your bra, what was left of the cups shredded and hanging from one strap. “Didn’t—” he rasped, voice cracking, “didn’t mean to.”

You snorted, half delirious, letting him help pull your dirty t-shirt back down over your shoulders, trying to keep what modesty you had left.

“Yeah, well,” you sighed, “you owe me a shopping trip.”

A surprised sound rumbled from him—almost a laugh—before he bent to fix his own jeans, dragging them back up around his hips, claws clumsy from lingering adrenaline. He tried to tug his hoodie over his head, only to growl when it stuck to his sweaty back, the sleeves twisted.

“Hot,” he grunted, voice frustrated, trying to shrug out of it. “Too…tight.”

You had to bite your lip to keep from giggling as you watched him wrestle with the oversized, shredded hoodie, muscles flexing and straining as sweat dripped down the lean, scarred lines of his back and chest.

“Jack,” you teased softly, “you’re gonna rip that too.”

He shot you a sulky look, then finally tossed the hoodie aside, leaving his bare skin gleaming under the moonlight.

You spotted his mask in the dirt, cracked and stained, and you picked it up with a shaky hand.

“Here,” you whispered, offering it to him.

He stared at it, hollow eye sockets softening, then took it gently from you. Jack sighed, then leaned down and scooped you into his arms like you weighed no more than a feather.

You couldn’t help a startled little laugh, clinging to his neck. “Jack—!”

“My sweet girl,” he repeated, voice quieter now, more sure. “Taking you home.”

Your heart ached at that—so familiar, so safe despite everything.

He turned, stepping carefully through the underbrush, still clutching you close as if you’d vanish if he let go. You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed, hearing only the rhythmic pounding of his heart and the slow, steady steps through the woods.

The broken flashlight swung from his claw, the cracked mask tucked into the crook of his elbow, a battered promise that somehow, the two of you had survived one more night together.

The night air clung to your skin as Jack stepped carefully along the familiar path, carrying you easily in his arms. When you saw the glow of your porch lights through the trees, you almost sobbed with relief, clinging to him tighter—and he just kept walking, carrying you still. You could see the silhouette of your fence ahead, the place where, for so many nights, you’d waited on one side while he stayed on the other, the fragile, invisible line you’d both respected all this time.

But now—

Jack shifted you in his hold, reaching out with one clawed hand to unlatch the fence gate. It creaked open, spilling a pool of soft porch light across the grass. And just like that, he stepped through, crossing the boundary he’d never dared to cross before. It was almost ceremonial, the moment so huge it stole your breath.

He came through, you thought in a daze. He finally came through.

He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, just carried you straight toward the back door, nudging it open with his shoulder. The house was cool inside, smelling of candle wax and lemon dish soap—so normal, so safe compared to the horror outside. The floorboards were faintly warm from the day’s sun, and the air conditioners hummed, washing over your sticky, bruised skin.

Jack set you down gently, claws steady even if you could feel him trembling. Then, without a word, he guided you to the bathroom, flipping on the light with an awkward flick of his elbow. You winced at the sudden brightness.

You didn’t even have to ask, he handled everything. Undressing you again, running warm water over your washcloth, holding you tight. He knelt in front of you, running the damp cloth across your arms, your belly, carefully dabbing away the drying blood and mess between your legs. His gray skin was flushed darker in patches, his eye sockets soft around the edges, hollow but somehow tender.

“Stay still,” he mumbled, voice low and rough, so much clearer now.

You let him clean you, trembling, heart pounding at every careful sweep of the cloth. He undressed too, cleaning the still bloodied and slick-stained parts of his body, running the rag over his jaw and neck. When he was done, you leaned against him, boneless and trusting, letting him gather you back up into his arms.

This time he carried you to your room, the house dim and quiet except for the chirping bugs outside. He paused at the foot of your bed, as if making sure you really wanted him there, the question unspoken.

You reached up and cupped his jaw. “Jack… just get in,” you whispered.

His shoulders slumped in relief, and he eased you down onto the mattress, then crawled in after you—still completely naked, still warm with the sticky night air and smelling of earth and moonlight and something feral you couldn’t name.

The sheets tangled around you both as he curled protectively against your back, claws twitching, breath tickling your ear. You could feel every line of his strong, scarred body pressed to yours, his skin so hot it almost burned.

He buried his face against your shoulder, exhaling shakily. “No more gate,” he rasped, like it was a confession. “No more fence.”

You nodded, tears pricking your eyes. “No more fence,” you agreed, voice soft and breaking.

Jack’s breathing slowed at your back, his chin nestled against the crook of your shoulder as if he might melt right into you. The cicadas outside carried on their summer song, but your room felt impossibly calm, impossibly still.

He shifted, clawed fingers brushing across your ribs, a hesitant stroke. “…Missed you,” he rasped, the words broken but more human than you’d heard in days.

You swallowed hard, reaching down to lace your fingers with his. “I missed you too. I was so worried.”

A pained noise rattled out of him, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. “Didn’t…know where I was,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “Felt…wrong. Everything smelled and looked wrong.”

You turned in his arms, close enough to see the faint scars along his lips, the smear of blood he’d missed near one temple. “Like…a haze?”

He nodded stiffly. “A dream. A bad dream.” His claws flexed in yours. “Couldn’t…stop. Needed—Need you.”

Your heart pinched at that, at how raw he sounded. You reached to smooth his damp hair away from his forehead. “That’s why you didn’t come to the fence?”

“Didn’t want you to see,” he rasped, ashamed, looking away for a second. “Didn’t…trust myself.”

You hugged him tighter, pressing your forehead against his. “Jack, I came looking for you. I wanted to see you. Even if you were… messed up.”

His body shuddered, swallowing a rough, pained sound. “Came…through the gate,” he mumbled, voice almost childlike, like he couldn’t believe it himself.

You smiled, despite everything. “Yeah. You finally crossed my fence.”

A huff of air against your cheek—maybe the closest Jack could get to a laugh. Then he shifted closer, pressing his hips into yours. You could still feel the heavy weight of him, even now, half-hard where he lay against you.

“Still��feel it,” he admitted, cheeks darkening, as if shy.

You gave a nervous little laugh, brushing your fingers through his sweaty hair. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He ducked his head, almost hiding against your neck, mumbling something soft.

“What, baby?” you asked, gentle.

His voice was so raw it cracked in the middle. “…Never gonna leave again.”

Your chest went tight, tears pricking your eyes. You cupped the side of his face. “Good,” you whispered, letting him hear how much you meant it. “Good, Jack. I’m not leaving, either.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years, then buried his face against your shoulder again, arms banding around your waist. The two of you lay tangled together in the sticky summer night, hearts pounding, no fences, no gates, no walls left between you.

── .✦

You woke slowly, warmth and stickiness pulling at your senses before your mind could even register what time it was. The curtains glowed with that syrupy gold of a sunrise, a hint of last night still vibrating in the walls.

But what really forced you awake was the strange, achingly sweet pull deep between your legs—a wet, rhythmic swirl that nearly made you arch right out of the bed.

Your eyes shot open, breath lodging in your throat, and you gasped as you fumbled the sheets off your chest—only to see a dark, familiar shadow moving below the covers, a low, wet slurping sound vibrating straight through your bones.

“J-Jack—” you whimpered, voice a strangled mess as you dug trembling fingers into the sheets.

The shape below the blanket shifted, and then a sudden, precise flick of a tongue against your clit made your vision explode in white. You barely managed to shove your hands down to find his hair, grabbing at the strands, when your body snapped—the orgasm crashing over you so hard your knees tried to slam together, your hips twisting helplessly.

Jack didn’t even stop, if anything, his hands pinned your thighs down harder, clawed fingertips dimpling your soft skin as he let you ride the crest of that wave. You were writhing, shaking, trying to push him away, but he only rumbled deep in his chest—a possessive growl that left your body going limp.

When he finally surfaced, crawling up over your body, the blanket fell away to show his face—drool smeared his chin, along with your slick, and all three of his tongues curled out to lap at the air before sliding back behind sharp teeth.

He was panting, like he’d been starved all night.

“J-Jack,” you tried to breathe, grabbing his shoulders as he hovered over you, “didn’t we… didn’t we handle this last night?”

A pitiful, rough whine left him, one of his hands curling against the pillow beside your head. “Not enough,” he croaked, voice shredded, raw. “Need…more.”

His hips dipped against yours, and you felt the hard, achingly hot length of him, smearing against your thigh. A tremor shot through you, panic mixing with want.

“Jack, please—”

“Need you,” he repeated, lower this time, a snarl clawing through his words as his claws scraped the bedding beside your head, inches from your skin. “More.”

His body pressed you down into the mattress, wild, unstoppable, like the night had barely scratched the surface of what he needed.

Your breath caught in your throat, tangled between fear and something so shamefully eager you could hardly stand it. Jack loomed over you, the heat rolling off his body, eyes like pits of pitch and night, starved even after everything.

He lowered his head, nosing along your jaw, breathing you in like you were the only thing left on earth that could save him. “Pretty,” he rasped, tongues flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat, “smell so good…can’t stop…”

His hips rolled against yours again, grinding, thick and hard, and you felt him shiver all the way down to the bones. His claws dug into the sheets beside your ribs, trying to hold himself back, but you knew there was no holding him back.

A flicker of sunlight broke through the curtains then, kissing the two of you in the warm glow—him hunched over you like a beast out of a half-forgotten dream, you trembling and wide-eyed, your hands knotted in his hair.

You swallowed, voice breaking as you dared to smile through the haze.

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered, and you meant it—even if you were terrified, even if everything hurt and burned and ached, you still meant it.

His head bowed, shoulders heaving, and a relieved, broken sound fell from him, more human than you’d heard yet. He pressed his forehead to yours, panting, clutching you like you were the last tether to what was left of him.

And then he surged forward, capturing your lips, those monstrous tongues wrapping around yours, and in that feral, messy kiss you felt every unspoken word he couldn’t form—how he loved you, how he’d always come back, how he could never leave you again.

The world outside kept turning—birdsong and heat, soft light and the creak of old wood—but you were wrapped in him, in that terrifying, impossible devotion.

There was no fence anymore. No boundary.

Just the two of you, locked together, in all the ruin and the tenderness you’d built. Your Jack.

Thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

#creepypasta #smut #creepypasta fanfic #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x y/n #creepypasta x you #creepypasta x female reader #eyeless jack #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack x y/n #eyeless jack x you #eyeless jack x female reader #jack nyras #creepypasta eyeless jack #eyeless jack creepypasta #slenderverse #slender man mythos #eyeless jack smut

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wetpussyju1ce · 6 months ago

Text

Alpha!König x Omega!fem reader (smaller than König)

original post

for @ohdrey89

+18. mdni.

könig and his tiny soon to be heat partner are a cute pair. since the day König shoved his whole knot inside her, his brain chemistry shifted and he's been stupid for her ever since. absolutely awe struck w her. he can't help it. now when she's all calm, asking him if he'd be willing to help her fix some fences to keep foxes away from her chickens, as if the day before his mind and whole being wasn't blinded with so much pleasure he felt reborn. she can't be asking him that so… so casual when he feels like he'd die if he stays away from her for too long.

he definitely knows he has some underlying issues if he's feeling this affected by them having sex for the first time. or maybe it's love. he'd like to think it is. because she's funny, smart, kind and pretty, and her pussy is the wettest, warmest and tightest he's ever been in. so yeah, she's definitely a catch. and she seems like she likes him to a degree, because even after their little excapade at the cottage, she still smiles at him and holds his arm or squeezes his thigh when they're all gathered up before dinner in his pack house.

his heart hammers in his chest and he feels his balls throb whenever she bats her pretty eyelashes at him or teases him. she asks him to help her with the most random things, things that require heavy lifting around her own little garden and cottage. and he does it. because why the fuck would he say no?

and she knows what she's doing too, sits on a bench with her chin resting on her palms as her elbows rest on her knees, watching the massive Alpha chop enough wood to last 3 winters, just because she asked. and he's sweating through his t-shirt, the fabric sticking to his freckled and scarred skin under. and she's just taking it all in. the bulging biceps, the big hands, the massive shoulders, his thighs that are as thick as trunks and the bulge between his legs, her absolute wet dream, live in the flesh.

when he's done, he's panting and his t-shirt is drenched, so he takes it off and she grins like the cat that got the cream. She offers him water off her cute pink pitcher, and he drinks like half of it. when he's done. she takes the water back inside the house, with him following her, his t-shirt in his hands. he stands in her small kitchen awkwardly, too big, too out of place for her soft and cozy home. that is until she tells him to leave the t-shirt on the floor, she'll wash it later. and he's about to disagree because he can wash it himself but then she's slowly lifting her tiny t-shirt over her chest, and he chokes on his spit.

His eyes immediately land on her small breasts and he can't breathe.

König doesn't even realise he's already crossed the kitchen and now has her flat down on her dinner table, his mouth licking and sucking, taking his fill out of her chest. And he's moaning, big warm rough hands holding her still as she laughs and moans on the table.

He frantically unbuttons her shorts and pulls the zipper down, before he can pull down her shorts and underwear in one go he remembers his manners and looks up, “Can– Can I eat you out? Please?”

“Yes,” She grins and he doesn't waste another second, pulling her clothes down in one go. he gets his head between her legs, buries it as far he can go, his nose nudging her clit as he licks broad stripes over her wet lips, then shoved his tongue in.

One thing the Omega learned about König is that when he wants something, he does it fully, wholeheartedly, he doesn't waste time with pleasantries. If he wants to eat her pussy, he will, with everything he's got.

The Omega quickly startes to trash under his filthy mouth, she grips his hair and pulls, her legs shaking as he messily drinks her slick between her legs. The noises he makes are loud and wet. She gets momentarily worries he may drown down there, considering she leaks a lot, like so much, especially when he's involved. But all König does is feast on her sweet cunt, drinking out of her as if she was the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, and she may as well be considering his dick is about to rip through his jeans, his knot tingling and ready to swell.

Her mind is foggy, her eyes are rolling at the back of her head as he eats her out and thumbs at her nipples with one hand at the same time, he's not giving her time or space to breathe. With every exhale she moans, and when he ears finally stop ringing she realises he's been speaking to her. Or at least saying something and she makes a small confused sound, looks down her body and tries to listen over the sound of him loudly and sloppily drinking everything she has to offer, and finally picks up something. König is another planet, his brain shut down and all he can repeat over and over again are praises for her, and her pussy; "You taste so good, so good-- So sweet and warm and tight-- Please come on my face, please I want it--"

That's it. That's all it took for her to squirt all over his face, shouting in her small cottage, writhing on her dinner table that she definitely needs to clean later. König is over the moon, unashamedly moaning with his head between her legs, he doesn't give a shit about breathing when she's covering his whole face with her slick, marking him up. He doesn't even realise he's also coming in his trousers, ruining his boxers with a horrifying amount of cum, but he'll deal with that later, after he gets his fill.

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arthurmorganswh0re · 3 months ago

Text

The Things We Carry

about: you tell arthur morgan you're expecting. he has a hard time accepting his new reality, juggling his responsibilities with the gang. a new life calls for arthur, but his past pulls him in the opposite direction.

tags: angst, pregnancy, illness, tb, death, loss, grief

wc: 15.7k

an: hi so i put this together over the course of a week. i had the idea of what life would've been like if arthur got someone pregnant but the tragedy that happens in the game still happens. so this is really sad imo, and REALLY long. hope you enojy :3

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The sun was dying slow behind the mountains, bleeding rust and gold across the sky. It should’ve been beautiful, the kind of sunset folks wrote songs about, but your stomach was twisted tight, a dull ache blooming in your chest. You leaned against the split-rail fence just outside camp, your fingers knotted together, cold even though the air was warm.

You could hear him before he even came into view. The sound of hooves crunching through dead leaves and fallen branches, his horse’s low huff, and then his voice–rough, tired, familiar.

“Y’alright out here?”

You turned slowly. Arthur swung down from his saddle, dust rising at his boots. He was already frowning, something unreadable behind those blue eyes. He didn’t like the quiet, not from you.

“I been lookin’ for you,” he added, taking a few steps closer. “You missed dinner.”

“Wasn’t hungry.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed deeply. “That right?” He studied you for a moment, head tilting slightly. “What’s wrong?”

There it was.

You looked at him–the man who’d carried you across rivers, pulled bullets from your leg, whispered soft but broken apologies into your hair when he thought the world was ending. And still, somehow, this felt harder than all of that.

“I need to talk to you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes narrowed just a little. “Alright.” He leaned against the fence besides you, arms crossed, glancing sideways. “Talk, then.”

You hesitated. There was no soft way to land this. No way to pad it with kindness. So you just said it, like pulling a bandage off a bullet wound.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hit the air like gunfire. Sharp. Irrevocable. Loud, even in a whisper. Arthur didn’t move. He didn’t speak, or blink. The only sound was the breeze brushing through the pines and the distant murmurs of camp behind you.

You turned to him, trying to find his eyes. “Did you hear me?”

He straightened slowly, like a man waking up inside a nightmare.

“What did you say?”

“I’m pregnant, Arthur,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I’m gonna have a baby. Your baby.”

For a split second, something flickered in his face. Something raw. Then it vanished behind a wall of cold, practiced detachment.

“Goddammit,” he muttered, turning away from you. His hands went to his hat, taking it off before raking through his hair like he wanted to tear it out. “Jesus Christ.”

Your chest squeezed. “I didn’t plan this Arthur.”

“Well no shit, neither did I!” He snapped, spinning back toward you. “You think I got time to be somebody’s father? You think that’s a good idea, right now? With everything goin’ on?”

You flinched like he’d hit you. “I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just thought you deserved to know.”

He paced, boots heavy in the dirt, a storm rolling behind his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. You don’t know what this life is. I can’t keep you safe, I can hardly keep myself safe. I kill people for money,” he spat, “I lie, I steal–I ain’t no man a child should be lookin’ up to.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m not askin’ you to be a hero, Arthur. I’m just telling you what’s real.”

“Real?” he scoffed bitterly. “Ain’t nothin’ about this life real, not really. It all ends bloody. You know that. So what, you wanna bring a child into it anyway?”

“I didn’t choose this,” you finally snapped, “it happened. And I’m scared, alright? I’m scared outta my goddamn mind. But I’m still standin’ here. I still told you. That should mean somethin’.”

He went quiet again, breathing hard, hands flexing uselessly at his sides now. The fire was gone from his eyes and what was left was something worse. Emptiness. Shame.

“I ain’t no good for you,” he said, barely audible.

You blink back the burn in your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”

He looked at you then–like he was memorizing your face for a day he already knew was coming. His jaw clenched, hard.

“How far along?” he asked, gruff.

You swallowed. “Couple months, maybe less.”

He nodded slowly. That muscle in his jaw twitched again. And then, he stepped back. “I need to think,” he said, almost choking on the words. “I–I need to clear my head.”

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. Just silence. Just the sinking feeling in your gut as he turned, climbed back into the saddle, and rode off into the dusk without another word.

The wind picked up behind him, colder now, as if it carried the weight of what had just broken open between you.

And you stood there, alone in the failing light, hand drifting instinctively to your stomach, wondering if he’d come back before the world burned down around you.

The days bled together like bruises—blue and yellow and aching.

Arthur didn’t say a word.

Not a damn word since the night you told him.

He didn’t storm off again. Didn’t yell. He just… slipped away, day after day, like a shadow shrinking in the light. He rose before camp stirred and came back well after sunset, when the fires were low and the air was heavy with sleep. You’d catch glimpses of him—sharpening his knife alone by the wagon, brushing down his mare in the dark, smoking in the trees with his back turned. Always just out of reach.

He avoided your eyes like they might burn him. And worse? He never said your name. Not once. Every time you passed close, every time your hand hovered near his on a shared task or your eyes lingered too long—he moved away. Like you were poison.

At first, you were angry.

You’d built something with him. Earned his trust in a world where most folks had to fight just to stay human. You’d shared nights wrapped in blankets under the stars, whispered truths into the hollow of his throat, watched him flinch at your touch not out of hate, but out of unfamiliar tenderness. He chose you—over doubt, over fear, over all the mess of the gang and the blood that clung to his hands.

And now? He was gone without ever leaving.

You tried, the first day. Quietly approached while he fed the horses, voice low and careful.

“Arthur…”

He didn’t look up.

You tried again the next afternoon, your voice sharp with frustration.

“You don’t get to just pretend I don’t exist.”

He kept walking.

By the third day, you stopped trying.

You felt like a ghost in your own skin, caught somewhere between furious and hollow. Not just for you, but for the life growing inside you—silent, unseen, and already left behind.

Even Dutch noticed the tension, though he said nothing, just gave Arthur one of those long, assessing looks across the fire. Hosea, bless him, opened his mouth once to ask if you were alright, then closed it again when he saw your face.

And you? You tried to go about your days like nothing had changed. Gathered herbs. Cooked. Patched your torn shirt. Held your composure like a knife between your teeth. But at night—those were the worst. When camp was quiet and the stars pressed down and you could hear the distant murmurs of Arthur’s voice talking to anyone but you.

One night you stood in the shadows behind a tree, watching him laugh softly at something Charles had said. It hit you like a punch to the ribs. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t in pain. He’d just shut you out. Tucked you away like a mistake he didn’t know how to unmake.

You pressed your hands to your stomach, eyes burning, and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby,” into the cold dark air.

Because whatever Arthur Morgan was running from—you were part of it now.

The next morning, he rode out before dawn. Didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t say goodbye. Just like before. And the issue—the truth of it—hung between you both, thick as smoke and just as choking. Unspoken. Unresolved. Like so many things in his world.

As he left, something inside you went still.

Not shattered—not yet. Just... cold. Numb. Like your heart had folded itself in half and tucked away behind your ribs for safekeeping. You lay in your cot staring up at the pale canvas of your tent ceiling while the camp stirred outside—pots clanging, voices low, hooves thudding against frost-hard earth. It was just another day in a world that didn’t stop moving, even when yours had.

He wasn’t coming back.

Not to you. Not to this.

Maybe he hadn’t meant to be cruel. Maybe silence was the only language he could speak when he was drowning. But knowing why didn’t change the ache. It didn’t make it easier to carry the weight of him—and the life growing inside you—alone.

By the time you emerged from your tent, the sun was climbing through low clouds and a few flakes of snow drifted down, slow and aimless. The gang was bustling—Bill was already drunk, Tilly was peeling potatoes, and Dutch was giving one of his sermons by the fire, voice full of honeyed hope and half-truths. Nothing had changed, not really.

Except you.

Your hand lingered at your belly again, a soft, unconscious gesture now. You were starting to feel different. Not much, but enough. A flutter of nausea some mornings. A new kind of tired in your bones. A quiet awareness of something not quite visible but still entirely real.

And no one knew but Arthur. And he had left you alone with it.

You avoided the questions—told Miss Grimshaw you were just sick, waved off Tilly’s concern with a forced smile. No one pushed. Not yet. But the pressure was building like thunder on the horizon.

That night, you sat alone near the edge of camp, watching the stars through bare tree branches. The fire crackled low beside you, but you didn’t add more wood. You liked the quiet. You needed it.

You thought about leaving.

You’d thought about it before, in passing. But now the idea rooted deeper, more real with every breath of winter air. What were you waiting for? Arthur to come back and pretend he hadn’t abandoned you? Dutch to notice and offer some poetic bullshit about fate? The gang to change?

No.

You knew better.

This life was a dead-end road—drenched in blood, shrouded in smoke. You had followed it long enough. And now, for the first time in a long while, you had someone else to think about. Someone who hadn’t asked for any of this. Someone who deserved better than a cradle made of stolen gold and broken promises.

The decision came slow, like a fire building from embers. Quiet, steady, irreversible.

You were going to leave.

Not tonight. But soon. You’d need to be smart—take supplies, money, maybe even a horse. You weren’t sure where you’d go, not yet, but the world was big, wasn’t it? There were towns where nobody knew your name. Farmlands. River valleys. Places where children were born without gunfire outside the window.

You spent the next few days preparing in secret. Quiet, careful. You mended saddlebags. Stashed food in a hidden pack under your cot. Pocketed bits of coin from jobs you hadn’t turned in. No one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

The air got colder. Snow stuck to the ground some mornings, lingering in the shadows. You began to wear a heavier coat, buttoned low over your belly. No one asked. Maybe they didn’t want to know. Or maybe they knew and chose the same silence Arthur had.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

You were leaving.

Then, one night, you crept out before dawn. The moon was low and the sky washed silver. The camp was still sleeping, curled in tents and dreams and old regrets. You paused near Arthur’s tent. It looked the same as ever—neat, quiet, impersonal. As if he might return at any moment and slip back into place, as if nothing had ever changed. But you knew better now.

You stepped forward. Hesitated. Then left something small at the flap—a folded note.

You didn’t write much. Just a single line, in your uneven, looping script.

I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.

And that was it.

You saddled a horse—quiet, a mare you trusted—and rode out under the veil of a waking sky. No tears. No theatrics. Just the crunch of hooves over snow and the slow bloom of morning behind the trees.

You didn’t know what lay ahead. Towns, danger, loneliness. Maybe worse.

But you also knew this: you were strong. Strong enough to survive this world. Strong enough to carry what Arthur couldn’t.

You rode on, hand on your stomach, heart full of silence and fire.

And for the first time in days, you felt something like peace.

The camp was half-awake when Arthur finally returned. He had been gone on a long hunting trip with Charles, bringing home a variety of meats and pelts like elk, moose, and beaver.

Snow clung to Arthur’s coat, stiff and crusted. His horse was tired, ribs heavy from the hard ride. He didn’t speak to anyone—just tied her near the hitching post, nodded at Pearson’s half-hearted greeting—acknowledging their bounty. He trudged through camp like a man halfway through a bad dream. He didn’t expect to find anything waiting for him. He hadn’t really expected you to wait, either. But when he reached his tent, the first thing he saw was a small folded piece of paper, tucked just beneath the flap like a whisper someone left behind.

He stared at it for a long time. Snow melted in his hair. Cold sank into his boots. But his hands didn’t move—not until his chest felt tight enough to crack. He bent down, fingers brushing the worn edges of the paper. It still smelled faintly like you.

“I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.”

There was no signature, you hadn’t needed one. Arthur stood there for a while, the paper trembling just slightly between his calloused fingers. He stared at your handwriting until the ink blurred. Then he folded it carefully, like it was something holy. He opened the flaps to his tent, walked in, and sat on his cot he once shared with you. He thought long and hard about what to do next. Should he follow you? Or just find you? Should he let you get away from the dangers of the gang, leaving everything unsaid? For a moment, he was confused.

Then, he decided the right thing to do was to find you. At least to know you’re both okay. For peace of mind, he told himself.

It took him close to a month to find you. Weeks of bitter wind and half-frozen trails, of sleeping under pine trees and asking questions in dusty towns. He’d asked too many people if they’d seen a woman on horseback—strong-willed, quiet, brown eyes, maybe wearing a coat too heavy for her size. Most shook their heads, some offered a guess. One said she saw someone that sounded like you riding north, toward Strawberry. Arthur hadn't meant to feel hope when he heard that. But he did. And that hope kept him riding straight through the storm.

When he finally reached Strawberry, the town was blanketed in soft, half-melted snow. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A dog barked somewhere behind the sheriff’s office. The main street was quiet but not empty—townsfolk bustled in and out of the general store, a rancher tied off his horse outside the saloon, and the sky overhead was gray with the weight of coming snow.

He tethered his horse near the general store and made his way toward the inn. The woman behind the counter barely glanced up until he said your name. Then she nodded, almost cautiously. “She’s got a little house up behind the falls,” she said. “Bit outside of town. Walkable if you don’t mind a climb. Been keepin’ to herself mostly.”

Arthur thanked her with a tight nod and turned away before she could say more.

He found the house nestled at the edge of the woods—small, crooked-roofed, with a low stone chimney and a fence half-built around the back. Smoke curled from the chimney. There was laundry strung between two trees, fluttering in the cold wind. A horse was grazing nearby—he recognized her. One of the mares from camp.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. You were here. You’d really done it. You made a life—without him.

He knocked before he lost his nerve. At first, there was nothing. Then he heard it—footsteps inside. A quiet shift of movement. The door creaked open an inch, just enough for you to peer out. Your eyes widened. For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just that snow-heavy silence between you.

Then softly: “Arthur.”

He swallowed hard, unsure what his first words to you would be. “You just left.”

You opened the door the rest of the way. You looked… different. Not worse. Just changed. Stronger in some ways. Tired in others. A little paler, maybe. But your eyes were clear. And your belly had begun to show.

He noticed you had a hand resting gently over your stomach.

“I left because I had to,” you said. “You gave me nothing, Arthur. Not a word. Not even a look.” Silence fell. “I waited. And then I made the only choice I could.”

He stepped forward, his voice low and rough. “You think I didn’t notice? I was tryin’ to protect you, goddamn it.”

“By pretending I didn’t exist?”

“By not dragging you down with me.” His voice almost an ashamed whisper. He was angry, but not at you. It wasn’t ever at you–it was to himself. At his own fear, his own cowardice.

You stared at him, your voice calm but heavy. “You weren’t protecting me. You were avoiding me.”

Arthur looked away, jaw tight. “I know.”

The wind rustled the trees. A pair of crows shrieked overhead, then flew off into the gray sky. Arthur’s voice was slow when he finally spoke again.

“I was scared. Of what it meant. I don’t know how to… do any of that. How to take care of you. I was…” he paused for a second, searching the space between you two for words he couldn’t form himself. “...I was afraid I’d ruin everything. That i’d break somethin’ I love.” The words escaped him in a hush.

You blinked at him. That word hung there—love—suspended like breath in the cold. A word he so rarely used for you. A word reserved for moments like these. Rare, raw, and tender.

“But that don’t mean I didn’t care,” he continued. “It don’t mean I didn’t think about you every second of every damn day since you left.”

He met your eyes then, and his voice broke on the edges. “I was angry when I saw that note. Not cause you left—but ‘cause I didn’t go with you. And that ain’t your fault. That’s mine.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, you stepped aside and nodded toward the inside. “Come in,” you said softly.

He hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold.

The cabin was warm. Simple. There were blankets by the fire, food on the table, a kettle steaming. It was a life—not fancy, but real. Tangible. Safe. Something he knew he couldn’t offer you.

Arthur looked around like he didn’t quite believe it was all yours. All yours.

“Guess you didn’t need me afterall,” he muttered.

You turned to face him, arms crossed, a quiet defiance in your stance.

“I wanted you. That’s different.”

Arthur looked at you, and for once he didn’t try to explain himself. He just let the silence fall again, softer this time. And after a while, he stepped forward, slow and careful, and rested a hand over yours on your stomach. You didn’t pull away, neither of you said anything.

The kettle whistled low and steady in the quiet of the cabin, catching your attention. You walked across the small cabin towards the stove where the kettle sat patiently. You poured the tea with slow, deliberate movements—hands steady, though your heart felt anything but. Arthur sat across from you at the small wooden table, hands clasped around a chipped mug, eyes tracing the grain in the wood like it held answers he couldn’t find in you.

It had only been a few weeks but it felt like another lifetime since you’d last spoken—since you last looked him in the eyes and seen something other than guilt buried in them. The fire cracked in the hearth, casting golden light over the room. Outside, the snowfall had started to thicken. Fat flakes drifted sideways in the wind, gathering along the windowsill and piling slowly against the porch. Arthur glanced toward the window, jaw tensing slightly.

“You’re not gonna make it back to camp tonight,” you said quietly, watching him. He didn’t argue. “I’ve got a spare bedroll,” you added, eyes flicking down to your tea. “You’re welcome to stay. Just for the night. It’s… safer.”

Arthur hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Guess that’d be smart.”

Smart. Right. Logical. Reasonable. So why did it make your heart twist in your chest?

Time passed by slowly, slower than what was comfortable in all honesty. But the two of you caught up slowly, like two people trying to reach each other in a language they’d almost forgotten. You told him about the town, how the general store clerk gave you extra oats when he noticed you were eating for two. How the lady at the inn had helped you find the little cabin. How quiet it was out here, how lonely, sometimes, but how peaceful too.

Arthur listened in silence, nodding now and then, gaze never straying far from you. He didn’t interrupt. Just sat there, hat in his lap, looking like he’d aged a little more since the last time you saw him. He told you he’d been running jobs between looking for you. That the Pinkertons were getting too close. That Dutch was getting restless, dangerous. That the world he lived in was unraveling—and fast. He admitted that he was thankful you got out at the time you did, especially considering the baby you now carried.

You asked him if he was alright, he lied and said he was fine. But you saw the wear in his eyes. The way he sat too stiffly, like he was waiting to run. Like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome here or trespassing on something he’d already lost. Later, after the sun dipped low and the wind began to howl harder through the trees, you made supper. Nothing fancy, just stew and bread and the last of the salted meat. He thanked you with a nod so quiet it almost didn’t reach his lips. You ate in near silence, listening to the wind rattle the shutters to the cabin.

When you both moved to the fire, you sat on opposite sides. The warmth between you helped, but the space still yawned wide with unspoken questions. Arthur cleared his throat. “I ain’t gonna pretend like I didn’t mess up,” he finally spoke, voice rough, eyes on the flames. “I did. I know that.”

You glanced at him, waiting. He fidgeted with a loose thread in his glove. “I don’t know what I’m doin’. With you. With the kid. I ain’t had someone depend on me like that in a long time. And I ain’t got much left in me to give.”

You looked at him a long while then said, “I never asked you to be perfect, Arthur. I just wanted you there.” The words hung in the air between you, quiet but heavy.

“I know,” he muttered.

You both fell silent again. The wind moaned outside, louder now, a storm building on the ridge. You pulled your blanket tighter, feeling the ache of old hope stirring in your chest—hope you didn’t quite trust anymore. When it got late enough to yawn, you laid out the spare bedroll beside the hearth. You didn’t ask him to share your bed. You didn’t offer. And he didn’t ask. But you lingered, both of you, staring into the fire like it might hold something more than flickering light and fading warmth. Finally, he laid down with a groan, one arm folded beneath his head. You extinguished the lantern and climbed into bed, facing the wall. Neither of you fell asleep immediately, simply laid awake in the quiet comfort of each other's presence.

You rolled over, checking the time. Past midnight. You sat up, staring through the dark cabin towards the now dying fire of the hearth. Something told you that he was still awake. With a voice barely above a whisper, “Do you want to be in our child’s life?”

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor. You couldn’t really see him from where you sat but you imagined his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, mouth drawn tight. For a long time, he didn’t answer.

Then: “I don’t know.”

Your heart sank, slow and heavy.

But then he added, voice lower now, more raw: “I want to. I just… I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. Like I messed up everythin’ else.”

“You can’t undo the past, Arthur,” you said. “But you can choose what you do next.”

He stayed quiet for a long moment, his silence saying more than he could.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you reassured him. The quiet hung between you like smoke.

You saw him nod, just once, like it hurt to do it. “Alright.”

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t reach for him. Neither of you moved. But something shifted in the stillness. A step, a breath, a beginning, maybe.

And in the deep hush of a snowbound night, you both lay awake, listening to the wind, the crackle of coals, and the slow tentative beating of three hearts trying to learn each other again.

The next morning came blanketed in white—the snow thick on the porch railings, the trees sagging under its weight. There was no point trying to ride out. The roads were buried, the air sharp and bright with winter silence. You stood at the window with a steaming mug between your hands, watching the frost climb the glass.

Behind you, Arthur stirred. You didn’t turn around.

“I’ll split some wood,” he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

You nodded. “Axe is out back.”

It was a small thing. A simple thing. But it was the beginning.

That first day, you watched from the porch as he chopped kindling. His coat hung open, breath fogging in the cold. He worked without saying much, but he didn’t complain either—not about the cold, or the blisters, or the snow piling up around his boots. Every now and then, he glanced toward the house. Toward you.

You pretended not to notice.

He carried the firewood in and stacked it by the hearth. You nodded to him when he came in, and he gave a short grunt in reply. Then he sat at the table while you prepared breakfast—oats, some berries you’d dried from the fall. You passed him a bowl. He muttered a soft “thanks.”

The silence was different now. Not sharp. Not full of tension. Just… new. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to scare it off.

The days passed like that. Slow. Simple.

Arthur fixed the fence behind the cabin, tightening rails and replacing slats where the snow had cracked the old ones. You offered him soup afterward, and he sat close enough by the fire that your knees brushed under the table. Neither of you pulled away.

He mucked out the little barn beside the house, fed your mare, helped patch the draft in the window above your bed.

You caught him standing in the doorway more than once, watching as you folded linens or stirred something over the stove. He never said anything when you looked back—but he didn’t look away either.

That unfamiliar pull grew stronger with every quiet chore. Every wordless glance. Every brush of your fingers as you passed each other in the narrow kitchen.

And still, neither of you spoke about what this was.

Or what it might become.

On the sixth night, the snow stopped.

Stars appeared—faint, but visible through the thinning clouds. The moon glowed soft and full, casting silver over the trees. Inside, the fire had burned down low, throwing flickering shadows across the walls.

Arthur stood near the hearth, hands resting on the mantle. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow. You sat on the edge of the table, watching him quietly.

He turned.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, voice low.

You tilted your head, unsure where it was going.

He hesitated, eyes on the floor. “About you. About this place. The baby.”

Your hand went unconsciously to your belly.

Arthur looked up. There was something in his eyes you didn’t expect.

Not fear. Not shame. Something softer.

“I ain’t good at this,” he said. “Any of it. But I feel… different here.”

“Different how?”

He took a slow step toward you. “Like maybe I could be someone else. Someone better. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

You blinked, heart tight in your chest.

“Do you want to be here?” you asked. “With me?”

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” he said quietly. “Camp’s still out there. Dutch is still out there. My past, all of it—it ain’t gone.”

He came closer.

“But right now? All I know is this feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been.”

Your breath hitched. And in the quiet that followed, you stood. Walked toward him. Met him halfway. The kiss came slowly—tentative, uncertain. His hand was warm against your jaw, calloused fingers trembling just slightly. Your hands settled at his waist, anchoring yourself to him. He tasted like salt and cold air, like woodsmoke and something unspoken. Something real. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was honest.

When you pulled away, you didn’t say anything at first. Neither did he. You just stood there, inches apart, breathing the same space. Then Arthur gave a short, almost broken laugh.

“That okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You smiled, faint and sure.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That was okay.”

The fire burned low. The snow outside had stilled. And for the first time in a long while, the weight of what you carried didn’t feel quite so heavy. Not when someone might finally be willing to carry it with you.

Days turned into weeks and before you knew it, Arthur had been at the cabin for 2. Life seemed content, calm. You were happy, and Arthur seemed…happy too. Your belly growing by the day, and Arthur’s affection growing along with it.

Arthur had started to fall into a rhythm that felt dangerously like peace. He’d wake early and tend to the horses, the quiet hum of your morning routine comforting in its familiarity. Sometimes you’d sit together at the table, hands brushing as you reached for the same spoon. Other times, he’d find himself pausing in the doorway, just to watch you move around the little cabin like you belonged there—and like maybe, somehow, he could too.

But peace is fragile when you come from a life built on gunfire and running.

You were inside by the fire, mending a shirt. Arthur was outside, splitting the last of the firewood, when he paused—head tilted, brow furrowed. The sound of horses echoed down the ridge. Not one. Two.

He moved toward the front porch, wiping his hands on a cloth.

You stepped outside just as the riders crested the path.

John Marston was the first to dismount—coat dusty, a tired look in his eyes. Behind him, Charles followed, calm as ever but serious. They both looked cold, weather-worn, and—Arthur noticed it right away—urgent.

“Arthur,” John called out, his voice taut. “We’ve been lookin’ for you.”

Arthur stiffened. “Didn’t know I was missin’.”

John gave a humorless laugh. “Dutch sure thinks y’are.”

Charles slid from his saddle, giving you a polite nod before turning to Arthur.

“He sent us out days ago,” Charles said. “Said there’s a job comin’ up. Big one. He needs everyone back.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

You stepped down from the porch, eyes scanning the two men.

“What kind of job?” you asked.

John looked at you for a moment, then turned back to Arthur.

“Blackwater. The ferry,” he said grimly. “Dutch says it’ll be the last one. One big score, and we’re done.”

Arthur looked down at the snow-covered ground, fists curling at his sides. The cold crept up his spine, but it wasn’t the weather. It was the weight. The pull of obligation. The noose of loyalty tightening again.

“He needs you, Arthur,” John pressed. “He’s been getting… unpredictable.”

Arthur’s throat was tight. “He’s always unpredictable.”

Charles crossed his arms, quiet but firm. “We’re not here to twist your arm. Just… Dutch is counting on you. You’re the only one who can talk sense into him.”

A long silence settled over the yard.

You looked at Arthur, and he could feel your eyes like fire on his skin. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Why now?” he asked, finally. “Why this one?”

John shifted, glancing toward the horizon. “We’re losin’ ground. Pinkertons are closing in. We’re out of time.”

Arthur dragged a hand down his face. “Goddamn it.”

You stepped forward, voice calm but firm.

“So what, Arthur? You just go back? Just like that?”

He turned toward you, eyes flashing with conflict. “I don’t know!”

The air turned brittle. The sound of the wind in the trees was the only thing filling the space between all of you.

“I been tryin’,” Arthur said, his voice cracking. “Tryin’ to be here. To do something that ain’t just robbin’ and runnin’. But I still got people countin’ on me.”

You crossed your arms, holding yourself tight.

“I’m not asking you to turn your back on the gang,” you said, quieter. “But you can’t keep doing both. You can’t keep one foot in that life and one here.”

Arthur looked down, jaw tight.

Charles watched the exchange, saying nothing, but you could see the understanding in his eyes. The quiet sympathy. He’d always been the only one who truly saw Arthur.

“I’ll wait by the horses,” Charles said after a moment, and he walked off without another word.

John lingered a bit longer. He looked at Arthur, then at you, then back again. “You’ve got some thinking to do,” he said, voice rough. “But don’t take too long. Dutch won’t wait forever.”

Then he turned and followed Charles down the path, their footsteps crunching in the snow. When they were gone, the silence was louder than it had been in days. You and Arthur stood a few paces apart in the yard, breath curling in the cold air.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” you replied.

He looked at you then, really looked. Like he was searching for something in your face—some answer, some permission to let go of the life he’d lived too long.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

“Then don’t,” you said. “But if you stay, stay for real. Don’t keep your heart out there with Dutch. With that life. I can’t raise this baby always wondering if you’re coming back with bullet holes in your side.”

Arthur looked down at the snow between you, nodding slowly.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice like gravel. “Scared that I ain’t gonna be the man you need. Or the man that kid needs.”

You stepped toward him, placing a hand gently on his chest, over the slow, heavy beat of his heart.

“I’d rather have an honest man who’s scared,” you said, “than one who runs off pretending he isn’t.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily.

“I need time,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Take it. Just don’t take too long.”

The wind picked up again. The snow swirled between you.

And for the first time in a long while, Arthur Morgan had to ask himself who he was when he wasn’t the gun for hire, the loyal soldier, the ghost riding behind Dutch Van Der Linde. Because now, for the first time, he had something to stay for. Something to lose.

That night was quiet, still, only the sound of the cracking fire filling the small cabin. Arthur didn’t say much when it was time for bed, instead he curled himself around you, holding your belly in his hand until he fell asleep. You took in the moment, memorizing the feel of his breath on your neck, his scent that you grew accustomed to over the course of the past couple weeks.

But quiet tears streamed down your cheeks and fell onto your pillow, yet you made sure Arthur didn’t hear you cry. Fear, panic, unease. It all grew in your chest simply by imagining that he could possibly be gone, that he’d miss your belly growing, miss the birth, miss the baby’s first… everything. Still, you wiped your tears, breathing deeply and taking in his calming scent. You put your trust in the universe, hoping that it would be kind to you like you were to it.

It’ll all work out, you tried to convince yourself.

You woke before dawn to the sound of boots on floorboards and the distant clinking of saddlebags. The fire was down to glowing embers, the cabin cold. You sat up slowly, watching his silhouette move through the dim light—tall, broad, quiet as a ghost. His back was turned, but you knew the tension in his shoulders like your own breath.

He didn’t expect you to wake.

“Where are you going?” you asked softly as you sat up on the bed you both shared.

Arthur turned. His hat was in his hands, that battered old thing he never seemed to take off unless he had something heavy weighing on him. Like now.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered.

“You didn’t.”

He crossed to your side, sitting besides you so you were eye to eye. His face was rough from sleep, beard untrimmed, but his eyes—those storm-colored eyes—were clear.

“I’m going back,” he said. “Just for a while.”

You knew it was coming. Still, your chest tightened.

“Blackwater?” you asked.

He nodded. “One job. Dutch swears it’s the last. I ain’t so sure I believe him, but… I gotta be there.”

You swallowed thickly. “And then what?”

Arthur reached for your hand. His palm was rough and cold, but his grip was steady.

“Then I come back here,” he said. “For good.”

You stared at him, searching for the cracks. The fear. The doubt. But all you saw was something that scared you even more: hope.

“You really think you can leave that life behind?”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes falling to your joined hands.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I want to. I know I’m tired of runnin’. Tired of buryin’ people. Tired of wonderin’ what the hell I’m doin’ it all for.”

He looked back at you, voice low.

“But here… with you. Our baby. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away.

“Promise me,” you whispered. “If something goes wrong—you come back home anyway. Don’t disappear. Don’t vanish into that world again.”

Arthur brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“I promise.”

You stood on the porch when he rode off.

His horse kicked up frostbitten dirt as it wound down the snow-covered trail. He turned back once—just once—and raised a hand in farewell. You lifted yours in return, heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

And then he was gone.

The cabin felt too quiet without him.

You went about your chores—feeding the mare, boiling water, keeping the fire alive—but the stillness weighed on you. It crept into the corners like smoke, like a draft you couldn’t seal out. You caught yourself reaching for a second mug in the morning, turning toward the door at the sound of hooves that never arrived. And every night, you laid in bed with a hand resting over your stomach, missing the weight of his hands, wondering where he was. Was he safe? Was Dutch pushing him too far again? Would he come back whole? Would he come back at all?

The days blurred.

You’d sit by the fire in the evenings, a book open in your lap, barely read. The wind whistled through the trees, and you’d stare out the window for long stretches, listening for the faint echo of hooves that might never return.

You wrote letters you never sent.

Arthur— The snow melted yesterday. The ground’s soft again. I planted something near the fence line. I think you’d like it here, come spring.

Arthur— I felt the baby move today. Just a flutter. Like a heartbeat under my skin. It scared me. And then it made me smile.

Arthur— Where are you? Come home.

You’d fold them, tuck them into the drawer beside your bed. Your hope lived in that drawer now. Fragile, folded, waiting.

The days grew longer. The snow thinned. The creek behind the cabin started to run again. Still no word. You chopped your own wood. You rode into Strawberry for supplies once, just to hear voices, to remind yourself the world hadn’t gone quiet.

But it had.

At least the part that mattered most.

One night, as spring tried to take hold, you sat on the porch wrapped in Arthur’s coat he left behind for you to keep, watching the stars blink open in the purple dusk. The mountains were still capped in white, but the trees had begun to bud, reaching for something new.

Your hand rested on your belly—rounder now, unmistakable. The child was quiet, like they too were waiting for a father they’d never met.

You didn’t cry.

You’d done enough of that.

You just waited. Quiet and still.

Trusting that somehow, the man who’d kissed your hand and whispered I promise would find his way back through the darkness. That he'd return not just for the promise he made, but because—despite the blood, the gunpowder, and all the things he carried—he wanted to.

The snow had melted into slush and mud. Spring had clawed its way up the mountain at last, leaving a damp chill in its wake and a cabin steeped in silence. The trees were budding, the creek behind the house was alive again with the babble of meltwater, and the wind had lost its bitter edge.

But he didn’t come back.

Arthur Morgan had ridden out into the cold weeks ago, hat low over his brow, a man torn in two. And still, there was no sign of him.

Not until the letter came.

It arrived the way all heartbreak does—quietly. No fanfare, no warning. Just a knock at the door one late afternoon, as the sun spilled gold through the trees.

You opened it to find an unfamiliar man on your porch. Weathered face, neutral eyes. He didn’t say a word—just handed over a folded, sealed envelope and nodded once.

“For you,” he said, voice low, and then turned back to his horse without waiting for a response.

You closed the door behind you, hands trembling as you turned the letter over. Your name scrawled across the front in familiar, looping script. It looked rushed. Smudged, even. Dirt on the corners, a faint thumbprint near the seal.

Arthur’s handwriting.

Your heart plummeted.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, candlelight flickering beside you, and unfolded the single sheet.

The paper crackled. His scent clung to it faintly—gunpowder and pine. Your eyes moved across the words, each one a punch to the chest.

My girl,

I don’t have the right to call you that no more. But I reckon it’s the only way I know how to start this.

I’m alive. For now. The job in Blackwater went bad. Real bad. Dutch had it all wrong—we all did. Pinkertons were waitin’. There was shootin’. Screamin’. We barely got out. Some didn’t. I don’t even know how we made it north, but we did. We’re holed up now, somewhere cold and cruel, and Dutch is already talkin’ about what comes next.

I know I said I’d come back. I meant it. Every word. But if I come back now, they’ll follow me. And they’ll find you. You and the baby. And I can’t risk that. I won’t.

So I’m stayin’ away. For your safety. For the baby's. It ain’t what I want, but it’s the only way I can think to protect you now. I don’t know how long we’ll be runnin’. Maybe forever. Maybe not long at all.

I think about you every day. About the cabin. The way you looked at me that night by the fire, like I could be somethin’ better. I wish I’d held onto that longer.

I’m sorry.

If I find a way to make it right, I’ll come back. But don’t wait for me. Don’t put your life on hold. Raise that baby strong. Tell them I was a fool, but I loved them all the same.

Tell them I loved you.

— Arthur

You sat still long after you finished reading, the letter clenched in your fists, its paper crumpling under the weight of your grief.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Somewhere in the woods, a bird sang—lonely and far away.

You stood slowly and crossed to the fire, feeding a fresh log to the flames. The letter stayed in your hand.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To curse his name for leaving, even if it was for all the right reasons. You wanted to rip the letter in half.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you read it again.

And again.

Until the candle burned low and the light outside dimmed to blue and indigo.

That night, you lay in bed curled on your side, one hand resting on your stomach. The baby shifted beneath your touch—a quiet reminder that life, no matter how uncertain, still moved forward.

You thought about Arthur’s face the last time you saw it. The way he kissed your hand, the way his voice trembled when he made that promise.

He meant it. Of that, you had no doubt.

But the world had never been kind to men like Arthur Morgan. Men who tried to claw their way out of darkness for the sake of something gentle. The cruel truth was that he hadn’t broken his promise because he stopped loving you. He’d broken it because he loved you too much to bring his hell to your doorstep.

In the days that followed, you kept moving. You fixed the fence he started. You tended the garden he’d helped dig. You patched the leaking corner of the roof, your belly growing heavier with each passing week. Your back growing painful with the new weight of your baby.

But part of you had gone quiet again.

Not dead. Just waiting. Like the creek under frost.

The letter stayed in your drawer, folded neatly beside the others. You’d reach for it sometimes—never to read, only to hold. Like maybe, if you pressed it close enough to your chest, you could still feel the warmth of his hands. Still feel the echo of his voice, whispering words he may never get to say again.

Spring soon turned to the start of summer, and the green world bloomed around the cabin in quiet defiance of your solitude.

The trees stretched tall and full, the days long and golden. Bees danced through the lavender you’d planted by the front step. A pair of robins nested in the rafters beneath the porch roof, their soft chirps a constant reminder that life pressed on, regardless of heartbreak.

You moved slower now. The weight in your belly grew heavier by the day, until even simple tasks left you breathless. You’d catch your reflection in the small mirror hanging near the wash basin and barely recognize yourself—hair messy, face flushed, hands always cradling your swollen stomach like you were afraid to let go.

You talked to the baby sometimes. When the nights got too quiet. When the wind rattled the shutters and your back ached from tossing in bed.

You told them stories—about their father, about the cabin, about the fireflies that blinked like stars in the meadow after sundown. Sometimes you laughed. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you just pressed your hand to your belly and whispered,

"I hope you don’t feel as alone as I do."

Her name was May. You met her in Strawberry, during a rare trip to town in early June. A trip you’d put off too long, your supplies running low, your body already straining. She was older—widow-gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, hands like leather, eyes as sharp as flint. She saw you struggling to load a sack of flour into your wagon and took one look at your belly before she tutted under her breath and stepped in.

“You shouldn’t be liftin’ that. Not in your condition.”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she replied curtly, but not unkindly. “Come. I’ll help you finish your errands, and then you’ll come have tea with me. Unless you want to be one of those fools who gives birth in the dirt alone like some wild animal.”

Despite yourself, you chuckled. And then, unexpectedly, you went.

May lived in a small cottage at the edge of Strawberry, vines creeping up the stone walls, a garden teeming with color and smell. Her house was warm and full of clutter—books, candles, knitted blankets folded over chairs. She brewed strong tea. Gave you a bar of handmade soap and a pouch of dried herbs to help with your back. She asked no questions about the father of your child, and you were grateful. You visited her once a week after that.

She showed you how to ease swollen ankles in cold water. How to soothe your cramps with peppermint and lavender oil. How to listen to your body when the baby shifted and dropped. When you told her how far along you were, she nodded and began visiting you at the cabin, walking the half-mile trail from town with a wicker basket in hand and stories about her late husband on her lips.

“It’s not about pain,” she said one afternoon, as you sat on the porch with your feet soaking in a bucket. “It’s about power. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You stared at her, brow furrowed. “What if I’m not strong enough?”

May looked you dead in the eye.

“You already are.”

The first contraction came in the middle of the night.

You woke with a start, the pain twisting low and hard like a rope being pulled tight inside you. You doubled over, gasping, one hand on the wall to steady yourself. You lit the lantern. Counted the minutes between the waves. Each one stronger than the last. By dawn, you knew it was time.

You sent your loyal hound hurrying down the trail, tail tall, a note pinned to her collar: “It’s happening. Please come.”

May arrived before sun rise, already rolling up her sleeves.

What followed was a blur of breath and sweat and pain that reached down to the bone. Hours passed in a haze of heat and tears. May barked calm orders, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered encouragement like spells.

“You’re almost there. That’s it. You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

And you did.

Because there was no other choice.

Because you weren’t just giving birth to a child. You were giving birth to a future Arthur might never see, but that you would carry for him.

The baby arrived just after sunset, as the sky went soft and lilac beyond the trees. A scream—yours—and then a cry that split the air like thunder. May lifted the child, wrapped them in a soft linen blanket, and placed them gently in your arms. You stared down at the tiny face, flushed and squirming, their cries already fading to soft hiccups against your skin.

A boy.

You felt it then—all of it. Joy. Relief. Grief so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs.

You traced your fingers across his damp hair, whispered his name—a name you’d chosen weeks ago, when hope still burned a little brighter.

Arthur Alexander Morgan. You decided he’d go by his middle name.

The tears came fast and hot, slipping silently down your cheeks as you held your boy close. You wanted him there. You wanted his voice, his hands, his steady calm. You wanted him to see the way Alexander clung to your finger. The way his little chest rose and fell. The way he already had his father’s brow. But there was only the firelight, and May’s quiet footsteps, and your own sobs muffled into a blanket as you whispered through the ache in your chest,

"You should’ve been here."

The days came slowly after the birth.

Not gentle—never gentle—but steady, like the tide. Predictable in their routine. Wake. Feed. Rock. Change. Sleep, if you were lucky. Repeat.

Your world shrank to the size of your cabin and the woods beyond it. The creek, now swollen with summer rains, offered a lullaby for quiet nights when Alexander wouldn’t stop crying. You walked him up and down the porch, whispering lullabies against his tiny ear, pressing your lips to his soft scalp, breathing him in like he was the only real thing left in a world that had gone silent.

And in a way, he was.

You still whispered Arthur’s name sometimes. Quietly, like a sin. Like a prayer.

You still kept the letter tucked in your drawer, edges curled and worn soft from being unfolded so many times. You’d memorized it now. Every crooked word. The apology he’d poured into ink. You didn’t cry anymore when you read it. Not like you used to. But you still felt it, like a bruise under your ribs—tender when touched.

Alexander grew fast. Too fast. He had Arthur’s eyes. You saw it more every day. That dusky blue that sometimes looked gray in the shade, piercing and soft all at once. He furrowed his little brow when he was focused, just like his father. Made a low, thoughtful noise when he was frustrated. His hands—God, his hands—were already shaping to be big like Arthur’s, even in miniature. It was like living with a ghost. A sweet, smiling ghost who learned to crawl, then walk, then toddle across the porch to chase butterflies in the tall grass. And every time you looked at him, your heart broke just a little, pieced itself back together, and broke again.

Because Arthur wasn’t here. Because he was supposed to be.

You stopped expecting him around the six-month mark.

Not that you’d given up hope. Not entirely. But something inside you shifted the day you caught yourself leaving the front gate open. A habit you’d built after his letter came. A silent offering. A beacon. You stood at the edge of the trail that morning, Alexander on your hip, the wind stirring the hem of your skirt. The trees swayed overhead, and for a moment—just a single, stupid moment—you thought maybe you’d hear the thrum of hooves. The jingle of tack. The familiar silhouette riding up from the woods.

But there was nothing. Just wind and birdsong. The rustle of a squirrel darting up a trunk. And it hit you, then. He wasn’t coming back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d died somewhere out in the world, a bullet in the dark, no name on his grave. Or maybe he was still alive, running, hiding, surviving—whatever the gang had become now that Blackwater had blown them to pieces. You didn’t know what was worse: thinking he was gone forever, or thinking he was still out there… choosing not to return.

You started closing the gate again.

You packed the letter in a wooden box along with the first blanket Alexander had been swaddled in, a broken feather Arthur had tucked behind your ear once, and the silver ring he’d left on your nightstand before the Blackwater job. You stopped going into Strawberry as often. May still visited, sometimes bringing books or biscuits or idle gossip about some cattle rustler passing through. You smiled, nodded, listened. But your heart stayed quiet. The silence didn’t hurt as much anymore. It just… was.

You sat with him under the birch tree beside the creek when Alexander was 11 months old, planning his first birthday. The grass had grown wild around the large birch tree. He giggled, blue eyes sparkling, without any worries. And you laughed with him. Genuine. Loud. The kind of laugh that felt strange leaving your mouth after so long. You kissed his forehead and held him tight, even as he squirmed to chase a dragonfly. “I wish he could see you,” you whispered, not for the first time. But this time, your voice didn’t shake.

You didn’t stop loving Arthur. You knew you never would. But love—real love—wasn’t always enough to keep someone by your side. Not in the world you came from. Not with the choices you’d both made. So you loved him the only way you could now: by surviving. Like he asked of you. By raising the son he never got to meet. By building a life out of quiet mornings, muddy boots, and lullabies. You’d made peace with your grief. Not because it left, but because you learned to live beside it. Like a scar. Like a shadow. Like the memory of a man named Arthur Morgan, who once rode away with a promise on his lips… and left behind a piece of himself in your arms.

The air smelled like moss and the river, and the breeze carried just enough of the summer heat.

Alexander sat beside you, legs splayed in the grass, a small wooden horse clutched in one chubby fist. He was babbling to himself, brow furrowed in concentration as he dragged the toy through the dirt like it was galloping across plains only he could see. You leaned your head back against the tree, half listening, half dreaming. You hadn’t slept much the night before—he’d woken with a fever that thankfully passed by dawn, but the worry had left its mark. The days were long, and you carried all of them alone.

You didn’t hear the footsteps. Not at first. But you felt them. The weight in the air shifted—heavy, like a storm building behind clear skies. The hairs on your arms stood up. The silence bent around something.

Someone.

And when you opened your eyes—

He was there.

Arthur.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long, not believing what you saw. Not wanting to. Not daring. He stood at the edge of the clearing, hat in hand, shoulders sloped forward like the world had tried to crush him and nearly succeeded. His coat hung loose on him. His eyes were sunken. His skin—what you could see of it—was pale, waxy, like a candle burned down too low. His chest moved with short, shallow breaths. And even at this distance, you could tell he was struggling to stand upright.

You didn’t remember getting up. You just remember running. Across the grass, heart pounding in your ears. He flinched like he thought you might slap him—or worse. But you didn’t. You wrapped your arms around him, hard and fast, like the earth might steal him away again if you didn’t anchor him here. He tensed. Then, slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. One hand at your back. The other hovering, trembling. You felt the way he shook. The way he pressed his cheek to your hair, his breath catching in his throat like it hurt to hold on.

“I missed you,” you whispered, voice breaking, fighting back tears. “I thought—God, I thought you were dead.”

“I should be,” he rasped, the words barely there. “But I ain’t. Not yet.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were the same. Blue as ever. But there was a tiredness behind them now, so much deeper than before. Not just exhaustion—acceptance. Like he’d stopped fighting something he knew he couldn’t outrun.

You lifted a hand to his cheek and he leaned into it before stepping back, coughing once into his sleeve. He looked toward the tree where Alexander sat in the grass, blinking up at the new stranger. Arthur’s eyes softened. And then filled with something you hadn’t seen in them in a very long time.

Wonder.

“Is that…?” His voice faltered.

You nodded. “That’s your son.”

Arthur stared. The wind caught his coat, and he swayed where he stood, but his gaze never left the boy. Alexander tilted his head, curious, then clambered to his feet and toddled toward you with wide, bright eyes. Arthur watched every step like it might shatter him.

“He looks just like you,” you said quietly, voice as unsteady as ever.

Arthur took a shaking breath, his jaw working.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to… be gone so long. But after Blackwater… the Pinkertons… things went bad. I figured stayin’ away was the only way to keep you safe.”

You said nothing at first, letting the wind answer for you. Still, under all the pain and deterioration, he was as beautiful as the first day you saw him.

Then Alexander reached your side, grabbing the hem of your dress and peeking up at Arthur with the hesitant curiosity only small children possess. You picked him up, pressing his head to your shoulder. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists. His chest rose, fell, rose again, like he was fighting the urge to cry. Or collapse.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see him,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d see either of you again. But I—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t go without meetin’ my boy. I had to see him. See you.”

You stepped toward him, slowly.

“You’re sick,” you said. Not accusing. Just truth. Your heart ached for him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Dyin’?”

He hesitated. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Not long now. I don’t reckon.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He looked so tired. So hollowed out. Like something had been burned away in him, but the ember still smoldered.

Alexander squirmed in your arms, reaching a hand toward Arthur, fingers outstretched like he knew—like he felt the tether. Arthur looked down at his son’s hand like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. And then he broke. Not loud. Not messy. Just a single tear slipping down his cheek, his voice thick with sorrow and awe.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “For not bein’ here. For missin’ everything. You didn’t deserve that. He didn’t either.”

You reached out, pressing Alexander’s tiny hand into Arthur’s. It finally felt like your family was complete, even if it was on borrowed time.

The days that followed blurred into a soft, dreamlike haze — too tender, too precious, and too fragile to fully hold.

Arthur stayed.

He didn’t ask if he could. He didn’t need to. You made up the bed with shaking hands that first night and watched him fall asleep beside the fire, bundled in blankets that barely kept his trembling at bay. His breath came rough, rattling in the quiet hours when you couldn’t sleep, and each cough that shook his body tore something from your chest.

But still, he stayed.

And you cherished him in ways that didn’t need words.

You cooked for him, quietly setting small bowls of stew or porridge beside his chair. You laid Alexander in his arms when the boy reached out with chubby fingers and babbled “Dada” like it had always been part of his world. You didn’t flinch when Arthur staggered, when he had to lean against the table just to catch his breath. You held his hand as he sat out on the porch in the evenings, watching the summer’s light sink behind the trees.

Sometimes, you pretended he wasn’t dying.

Sometimes, you let yourself believe he might stay.

But at night, when he coughed into his pillow and curled inward like he could hide the sickness in his bones, reality clawed its way back in.

You were losing him.

Piece by piece.

And there was nothing you could do.

It was the fourth night when he finally told you how it all happened.

You sat together by the fire. Alexander was asleep in the back room, his little body wrapped in quilts, one thumb in his mouth. The house was quiet. So quiet.

Arthur stirred the mug in his hand, not drinking. His eyes were far away, like he was watching ghosts.

“It was down in Valentine,” he said finally. His voice was rough. Worn thin. “Had to collect some debt from a fella… Thomas, his name was. Died not long after I beat him half to death. And I—” He paused, coughed into his fist, then kept going. “I started feelin’ bad not long after. Sick. Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t ride long without spittin’ blood. Guess that’s what I get for hurtin’ a family that needed help.”

You turned toward him, heart caught in your throat.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Doctor told me it was tuberculosis down in Saint Denis. Said there weren’t nothin’ to be done. Just… wait it out. Die slow.”

The words hit like cold steel in your gut. You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes brimming.

“I’m sorry,” he added, and it shattered something in you.

“Stop,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t apologize. Don’t—don’t do that.”

But he did. Again and again, like a man trying to confess every sin before the reaper came knocking.

You broke then, curling into yourself, sobbing in a way you hadn’t since the night he’d left for Blackwater. Arthur reached for you, gently, his arms weak but still familiar. You buried your face in his chest, careful of his breathing, and let yourself fall apart.

“I thought I was ready,” you choked. “To raise Alexander alone. To let go. But now you’re here and I’m not ready. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want it to end like this. I want us to be a family.”

Arthur’s hand moved slowly up your back.

“I want that too,” he said softly. “More than anything. I’ve dreamed about it, y’know? Every night, since I left. You. Him. This little place in the woods. No Dutch. No runnin’. Just peace.” He kissed your hair. “But the truth is, I’m runnin’ outta time. I came back 'cause I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave this world without seein’ you again. Without meetin’ my son. But I can’t give you what you deserve. Not for long.”

You pulled back to look at him, your face wet, your hands trembling as they held his.

“Then give me what you can,” you said. “Just… whatever time we have. Don’t spend it apologizing. Don’t pull away. Just be here. With us.” You nearly begged.

Arthur smiled, tired but warm. “You always were better than me,” he whispered. “Knew how to love when I was too scared to.”

You leaned in and kissed him. Gentle, aching. A kiss filled with every unspoken promise, every memory, every dream you’d built in the quiet spaces of your heart. No fear.

And he kissed you back.

That night, Arthur held Alexander in his lap by the fire, humming a soft song you didn’t recognize. His voice was rough, but steady. The baby stared up at him, transfixed, one hand curled around his father’s finger.

You stood in the doorway and watched them, trying to memorize the moment. The shape of Arthur’s face in the firelight. The curve of his smile. The way his thumb stroked slow circles against Alexander’s tiny hand.

You wanted to bottle it. Bury it. Keep it forever.

But time wasn’t kind.

Time was never kind.

You could feel it before he said the words.

The distance in his eyes, the quiet grief he tried to bury behind soft smiles and trembling hands. The way he lingered outside in the evenings, staring out at the tree line long after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. He was still here — in body — but you could feel him slipping away, like water through your fingers.

The sixth morning, you found him on the porch before the sky had turned gray with dawn. His coat was drawn tight across his hunched shoulders, his hat low, the air around him heavy with the scent of dew and woodsmoke. He didn’t turn when you stepped out beside him.

“I have to go,” he said. Quiet. Like the trees were listening.

You didn’t answer at first. Just let the words sink in.

“I’ve thought on it,” he went on, his voice rougher than usual, laced with that familiar rasp. “Long and hard. And I don’t wanna leave. God knows I don’t. But I’ve got… responsibilities. Loose ends with the gang. Things I gotta try and make right.”

You folded your arms around yourself, the morning air biting through your thin sleeves. “Arthur, you’re dying.”

“I know.” He nodded, still not looking at you. “And that’s just it. I ain’t got much time left. But if I stay here… if I get you or Alex sick—if I bring the Pinkertons to your door—I won’t be able to live with myself. I’ve seen what they’re capable of. And I ain’t about to risk either of you for my own comfort.”

You felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwelcome. You swallowed them down. “You promised you’d come back,” you said.

He turned then.

There was something shattering in his expression. Not just guilt — grief. The kind that lives deep in a man’s bones, where no apology can reach.

“I meant it,” he said. “And I’m here now, ain’t I? But I also promised to keep you safe. And I can’t do that if I’m dyin’ under your roof. Or if I lead them bastards here. They’re still after us. After Dutch. After me.”

You stepped forward, clutching his coat lapels in trembling fists. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’re leaving… again?”

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice.”

You looked up at him — at the man who had returned to you broken, thinner than he’d ever been, but still him. The man who had made your son smile. The man you still loved.

“I want more time,” you said, voice shaking. “I know that’s selfish. But I want another morning. Another day. I want him to remember you.”

Arthur cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that finally fell.

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured. “I want that too.”

That evening, the sky bled orange and violet across the ridgeline. A storm brewed on the far horizon, thunder rumbling low like the growl of some distant animal. You watched it come in from the porch, Arthur sitting beside you, legs stretched out, a blanket across his lap to keep off the creeping cold.

Alexander curled against his father’s side, giggling softly as Arthur lifted his toy horse in slow, deliberate swoops, making tired, wheezing horse noises.

You made supper — rabbit stew and cornbread, just the way he liked it — and Arthur ate what little he could, forcing it down between ragged breaths. He winced every so often, pressing a hand to his ribs, but he smiled when you offered him more tea, when you ran your fingers through his hair.

You tucked Alexander into bed together that night.

Arthur sat on the edge of the mattress, calloused hands brushing back your son’s hair, eyes shining in the candlelight. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead, lingering there a moment longer than needed.

“Be good for your ma, alright?” he whispered, voice thick.

Alexander didn’t understand. Not fully. But something in your silence must have spoken for you, because he clung to Arthur’s shirt for a long time before sleep finally took him.

Later, when the house had gone still and the rain tapped gently against the windows, you sat together in front of the dying fire, wrapped in silence and the weight of goodbye.

Arthur reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small — a folded scrap of paper, worn at the edges. He handed it to you.

You opened it slowly.

A sketch. You recognized his hand immediately. Charcoal lines, soft and smudged: a small cabin under the trees. A porch. A swing. A family.

You. Him. Alexander.

A dream he’d never stopped carrying.

“I drew that in camp,” he said softly. “Kept it in my pocket. Every time things got bad, I’d pull it out. Remember what I was fightin’ for.”

You pressed the paper to your chest, eyes burning. “Why can’t it be real?”

He looked at you then — really looked. With everything in him.

“It is real,” he whispered. “Just… not forever. But I had it. I had you. I had my boy. Even if it was only for a few days… I’ll carry that with me. Always.”

You climbed into his lap then, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too hard against his ribs. He held you there, breathing you in like you were the last thing on earth that felt right.

And you stayed that way for a long time, wrapped in each other and the quiet hum of a life that could have been.

The goodbye didn’t come easy.

You’d both known it was coming, had been dancing around the edges of it since that morning on the porch. But the hours passed too quickly, slipping through your fingers like river water. No matter how tight you held on, you couldn’t stop the sun from rising again. Couldn’t stop Arthur from saddling his horse in the dark before dawn.

He moved slowly, not from hesitation but from the weight of his own bones. Each breath came labored now, his coughs quieter but deeper, rattling in his chest like something shaking loose. His skin had taken on a paler shade, lips thinner, the hollows under his eyes darker with exhaustion he could no longer outrun.

You stood on the porch barefoot, holding Alexander, wrapped in one of Arthur’s old flannel shirts — the one that still smelled like him, like leather and campfire smoke. The baby shifted against you, blinking sleepily, unaware of what was being taken from him.

Arthur stepped forward, reins in one hand, the other clenched at his side like it hurt to let go.

You didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t.

Instead, you stared at each other — memorizing. Burning every inch of him into your mind: the curve of his nose, the gray in his beard, the sadness behind those blue eyes. He was still the man you loved. Still the man who had held your hand during the hard nights, who had returned against all odds just to meet his son. But you could see the farewell in the way he stood, chest rising slow and uneven, lips pressed into a thin line to keep from trembling.

“I ain’t gonna make it back,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

You felt it then — your throat closing, your breath catching. “Don’t say that.”

Arthur’s jaw tensed. He looked away, toward the line of trees beyond the fence.

“If I could stay,” he said, quieter now, “you know I would. If I didn’t have this… thing rottin’ me from the inside out—if the Pinkertons weren’t huntin’ us—I’d be here. With you. With him.”

You stepped forward, voice cracking. “Then stay anyway. We’ll hide. We’ll disappear. I don’t care where we go. Just… don’t leave, Arthur.”

His breath hitched. You saw it in the way he blinked too fast, looked up at the sky like maybe it could give him strength. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. His thumb caught a tear before it slipped down.

“I want that,” he said, his voice so low you barely heard it. “More than anything. But I can’t live with myself if I run and leave John behind. He’s got Abigail. Jack. They still got a chance. And Dutch… he’s lost. I can’t save him, but I can help the ones who still got hope.”

You shook your head, tears falling fast now, shoulders beginning to shake. “What about us? Don’t we get hope?”

He looked at you then, eyes glassy, rimmed red with unshed tears.“You and Alex… you gave me somethin’ to come back for. You gave me peace. For a little while, I felt like I had a home.”

Your knees buckled, and he caught you before you could fall, wrapping you into him.

You sobbed into his chest, clinging so tightly to his coat that your knuckles ached. The tears came in waves — all the fear, the sorrow, the heartbreak you’d buried these last days spilling out like floodwaters. He held you through it, his own shoulders trembling as he buried his face into your hair. You felt the warmth of a few tears against your scalp — hot, silent — and it shattered you all over again.

“I can’t do this alone,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You already have. And you’ll do it again. For him.”

You looked down at Alexander — now awake, squirming in your arms, reaching toward Arthur with tiny hands.

Arthur reached out and took him, arms shaking but sure. The baby nestled into his chest immediately, resting his head right over Arthur’s heart like he knew exactly where he belonged.

“I’m sorry, little man,” Arthur choked out, holding his son tight. “I’m so damn sorry I couldn’t be more for you.”

Alexander whimpered softly, then began to cry, sensing the shift, the pull of something coming undone. Arthur blinked rapidly, brushing his nose against his boy’s soft hair, cradling him like porcelain.

It took everything you had to take Alexander back, the child clawing at Arthur’s shirt, not understanding why he was being pulled away. He reached for him again and again, and Arthur turned his face away, biting his lip to keep from sobbing.

You stepped forward, once more, and cupped his face.

“If you survive this,” you whispered, “come home to me.”

He nodded. “If I can… I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said, lips brushing your forehead. You nodded through your tears, though your heart screamed otherwise.

Then he pulled you in, one last time, and kissed you like he’d never kissed you before — full of everything he hadn’t said, everything he couldn’t. It was desperate and slow and full of pain, the kind of kiss you never forget. One you feel for the rest of your life.

When he pulled away, he left part of himself with you.

Arthur mounted his horse slowly, glancing back once, twice.

And then he rode off into the trees, the early morning mist swallowing him whole.

And you stood there in the doorway, clutching your crying child to your chest, the last of your heart galloping into the forest.

Time passed in quiet, uneven measures.

Morning became your anchor. The rhythm of the stove crackling to life, of Alexander’s little footsteps echoing through the cabin like music. You marked the days by his growth. The first time he said dog, then cat, then horse. The first day he ran off at full speed down the beaten path-hair blowing through his curls, you in a frenzy to catch the wild boy. Each moment carved into your memory like tally marks on the wall. But Arthur didn’t return.

Every sunrise without the sound of hooves on the path chipped away at your hope, just a little more. You tried to tell yourself he was still out there. Still breathing. Still fighting. That he had kept his promise, and one day you’d see his shadow cast long across the porch again.

But deep down — in the aching, wordless place inside your chest — you knew.

He was gone.

You mourned him slowly, the way women do when they have no grave to stand over. No final words. No body to bury. Just an old flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair, worn edges and all. Just a drawing of a cabin and a dream tucked safely in your nightstand drawer. Just the echo of his voice in the way your son laughed.

And even still… you waited.

Autumn came gently.

The trees flamed in shades of gold and rust, their leaves spiraling down from the canopy like bits of sun. You harvested what you could from the small garden out back, chopped firewood until your hands blistered, and kept the cabin warm with extra quilts as the days grew shorter.

Alexander was a well over a year old now — wide-eyed and wild-haired, with Arthur’s smile stamped plainly across his little face, proud as can be. He liked to toddle over to the fence line and stare out into the woods, as if he was waiting for something.

Like he remembered.

Like he knew.

It was late afternoon when it happened. The sky was pale and streaked with thinning clouds, the scent of damp earth and dying leaves thick in the air.

You were outside, hanging a blanket on the line, Alexander crawling at your feet. The wind stirred just enough to carry the soft crunch of hooves from down the path.

Your head snapped up.

Your breath caught in your chest.

There — beyond the trees — a figure on horseback. Alone. Moving slow, as if weary from long travel.

You stood still, squinting, heart hammering in your ribs. You knew Arthur’s gait on a horse. The curve of his shoulders. The way he leaned forward like he was always chasing something.

This man… wasn’t him.

He rode different. Straighter. Leaner. And as he got closer, you saw a wide-brimmed hat and the worn duster of a younger man. His horse was familiar, though — dark, with a white blaze down the nose.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

John.

He stopped a few feet from the porch, tipping his hat, his face somber beneath the shadow of the brim.

“Miss,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t.

He dismounted slowly, walking forward with that signature limp, eyes flicking to Alexander — who had gone still in the grass, staring up at the stranger like he understood too much for his age.

“Thought I’d check in,” John said quietly. “Been a long time.”

You swallowed. “You came alone.”

He nodded. “Ain’t nobody left to come with.

The world went quiet. The wind shifted. Your throat tightened. You looked at him, there was something heavy in his gaze. Something final.

And you knew.

He didn’t have to say it. He didn’t want to say it. But you saw the truth in the sorrow that pooled in his eyes.

Arthur was gone.

You don’t remember falling, but you must have, because your knees hit the earth and the cold bled up through your skin like water through cloth. You doubled forward, hands gripping your skirt, trying to pull breath into lungs that didn’t want to work.

John dropped beside you, catching your arm with rough fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking in a way you hadn’t expected.

You shook your head, tears spilling freely now. You didn’t care. You couldn’t. The pain came in waves — thick and violent, laced with every night you’d spent staring out the window, hoping to see him coming back to you.

“He—he said he’d come home,” you managed to whisper, choking on the words. “He promised.”

John’s jaw tightened. “He wanted to. He fought for that. ‘Til the end.”

You turned your face into your hands, trying to muffle the sob that tore free from your chest.

John sat with you. He didn’t try to tell you it would be alright. He didn’t offer hollow comforts. He just sat there, his hand on your shoulder, the only witness to the breaking of a heart that had been holding out far too long.

Alexander wobbled forward, confused by your crying, small hands reaching for you. You pulled him into your lap and buried your face in his curls, breathing him in.

“He looks like him,” John said after a moment. “Spittin’ image.”

You nodded against your son’s soft hair. “He deserved to meet him like this. Healthy. Whole.” You managed.

“I think he was,” John murmured. “For a while. With you. You gave him peace… more than most of us ever got.”

You sat there until the sun slipped lower, until the light turned gold behind the trees and the wind grew colder.

John stayed beside you.

And though it wasn’t the man you’d prayed to see again… he brought the weight of Arthur’s love in his silence. A shared grief that lived between them, now passed on to you. A reminder that Arthur Morgan had lived. And that he had come back — even if it was only once.

John stood there for a long moment, glancing between you and the boy cradled against your chest. His face was solemn, weathered from too much death, too much running, too many goodbyes. Then, slowly, he turned his attention to the small child. Alexander looked up from your arms, curious but cautious. He was too young to know the full meaning of grief, but he felt the tension, the silence, the way your body trembled when you held him.

John crouched low in the grass in front of him. “Hey, little man,” he said gently, voice cracking just slightly. “You don’t know me, but… I’m your uncle John. I used to ride with your pa. We were family, him and me.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled something out — something you hadn’t expected, something you weren’t prepared to see.

Arthur’s hat.

Worn, dusty, wide-brimmed and familiar. The sight of it knocked the air out of your lungs. You bit down on a sob, knuckles white where you clutched the hem of Alexander’s shirt.

John held it out and gently placed it over the boy’s head. It was far too big — it fell over his eyes and nearly swallowed his whole head — but Alexander laughed, a pure little sound, and tugged at the brim with both hands.

John smiled, though there was something deeply mournful behind his eyes. “That was your pa’s,” he said. “He wore it every damn day. Through rain, snow, blood, and fire. Reckon it’s yours now. You keep it safe, alright?”

Alexander blinked up at him, then babbled something unintelligible — some mix of sound and joy — and carefully walked toward John with his arms open.

You covered your mouth with your hand and turned away, the grief swelling in your chest like a storm surge. It hurt — God, it hurt — to see something of Arthur in your son that wasn’t just a smile or a freckle. It was a piece of him, worn and passed on, a legacy held in cotton and sweat and old leather.

You didn’t realize you were crying again until the taste of salt hit your lips.

Eventually, you stood.

“Come inside,” you said, your voice hoarse from tears. “Please.”

John nodded and helped you gather Alexander. The hat stayed perched clumsily on the boy’s head as the three of you stepped into the warm cabin, where the hearth still glowed from the morning’s fire.

You sat down in the chair by the fire, holding Alexander against your chest. He was growing heavy now, his head drooping against your shoulder as sleep pulled at him.

John stood for a moment, glancing around the cabin. His gaze lingered on the little details: the hand-carved crib, the boots tucked by the door, the rifle resting above the mantle. Then, with careful hands, he pulled something from his satchel and stepped forward.

“I brought you this,” he said. “It’s his. Was his. He always kept it close.”

He handed you Arthur’s journal.

The leather was worn smooth from years of travel. You recognized it — you’d seen him scribble in it late at night, hunched over by firelight, mumbling half-formed thoughts and drawing pictures of birds and bison and flowers and distant mountains. The very last thing he ever owned that was truly his.

Your hands trembled as you took it.

John cleared his throat. “Last few pages… they were about you. And the kid. Didn’t mean to look but…”

You opened it slowly, carefully, afraid the moment might shatter if you breathed too loud.

There — in Arthur’s unmistakable, scratchy handwriting — were the final entries.

You traced his words with your fingers.

“I saw her again today. She had the boy in her arms, sittin’ under a tree. Looked like sunlight caught in her hair. Never seen anything so beautiful. I wanted to run to her, but I knew I shouldn’t… not right away. I’m sick. Didn’t want to bring danger to their door. But I needed to see ‘em. Needed to know they were alright.

Alexander’s got my eyes and he smiles like me — poor kid. He’s got a wild spirit. I can tell, even now. He’ll be strong. I hope he remembers me kindly, even if I ain’t there to teach him right from wrong.”

The tears came harder now, falling in thick, silent rivers. You turned the page and found the last entry.

“I ain’t got much time. Breathin’s hard. Nights are worse. But I’m glad I came back home. Glad I saw her. If there’s any justice in this world, maybe she’ll find peace. Maybe she’ll tell the boy about me — maybe not who I was, but who I tried to be in the end. It’s all I want.”

“I love her. More than I ever said. I hope she loved me too.”

That broke you.

You doubled forward, journal pressed against your chest like you could absorb the words, like they could bring him back if you held them tightly enough.

John stood quietly, letting you fall apart. When you looked up, his eyes were wet too — not sobbing, but heavy. Heavy with shared loss.

“He was a good man,” you whispered. “Flawed, stubborn… but good.”

John nodded. “The best of us, in the end.”

Eventually, the sun began to dip behind the hills, painting the walls of the cabin in gold.

John walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame.

“I’ll check in from time to time,” he said. “Make sure you’re both alright. Arthur… he asked me to. Said if he didn’t make it, I was to look after you. Best I can.”

You nodded slowly, your voice caught in your throat.

“Thank you, John.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then tipped his hat and stepped outside, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood in the middle of the room, Alexander asleep on your shoulder, Arthur’s journal pressed to your heart, the fire crackling low beside you.

The cabin was warm. Safe. But it felt emptier now than it ever had before.

You walked to the window and watched as John mounted his horse and disappeared down the path, swallowed up by the trees and the growing dusk.

And then, you were alone again.

You stared at the empty chair across from you. The one where Arthur had sat just months ago, brushing his fingers through your hair, telling you he’d do better. That he’d try.

You pressed your lips to Alexander’s head and whispered, “He did, baby. He really did.”

And though your heart was broken — shattered in places you didn’t know existed — you knew you would carry him. In memory. In love. In your son’s every breath.

It was late spring when you finally made the journey. The snow had melted from the hills, leaving behind rolling green meadows speckled with wildflowers and the early buzz of bees. The sun hung warm and low in the sky, stretching gold across the horizon as you followed the narrow trail winding through the trees, your son nestled on your hip.

Alexander had grown since John’s visit. His legs were longer, his eyes sharper, his laughter louder. Every day he looked more like Arthur. Every crooked smile, every tilt of his head, every stubborn little stomp of his feet when he didn’t get his way — it was all him.

You couldn’t stop seeing him in the boy. And it hurt.

You reached the ridge by mid-afternoon. The trail had thinned out, roots knotted beneath your boots and ferns brushing your skirt. You remembered the spot — John had marked it on a crumpled piece of paper, his handwriting rough and direct: Look for the overlook above the valley. Near the old pine, the one with the lightning scar.

You saw it before you even stepped clear of the trees.

The grave.

Modest. Quiet. Just as he would’ve wanted.

There was a cross, its planks hand-written and uneven, but with his name etched into it clear and clean: Arthur Morgan.

You stood still for a long while, heart hammering as though he might rise up from beneath the earth just to greet you.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

You let out a shaking breath and stepped forward, the weight of your son grounding you.

Alexander, curious, reached toward the cross. His fingers brushed the top of it gently, almost reverently, as if some part of him knew.

“This is your pa’,” you whispered to him. “He was a good man. The best man I ever knew.”

The wind stirred through the trees above, soft and steady. You lowered yourself to the ground, settling on your knees beside the grave, and let Alexander sit in your lap. He leaned his head against your chest, blinking slowly, the brim of his too-big hat — Arthur’s hat — dipping low over his brow.

You reached out and touched the stones that sat underneath the cross.

“I miss you,” you said softly, throat closing around the words. “Every single day.”

Your eyes stung, but you kept going.

“You should see him, Arthur. Our son. He’s smart. Brave. A little reckless, like you. He makes me laugh. Drives me crazy sometimes, too. But he’s… he’s everything.”

You drew in a trembling breath.

“He has your eyes. Your smile. Your soul. I see you in him more and more with each passing day. And God, Arthur… it hurts. It hurts so bad not having you here. I wanted you to be part of this. To see him grow up. To hold him, to teach him how to ride and track and… just be his father.”

The words cracked in your throat.

You reached into your satchel and pulled out a bundle of wildflowers — lupine and yarrow and tiny white daisies Alexander had helped you pick along the trail. With gentle fingers, you laid them on the grave, brushing away a few stray leaves that had gathered near the stones.

“I still love you,” you whispered. “I never stopped. Even when I told myself I should let go. Even when I knew you weren’t coming back… I still held on to you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the breeze move through your hair.

“I hope you found peace. I hope wherever you are, you're free of pain. I hope you know how hard you tried… and that you didn’t fail. Not with me. Not with Alexander. You gave us something worth carrying. And I’m thankful for the time we had, even if it wasn’t enough.”

Alexander stirred, glancing up at you, then at the stones. He pressed his tiny hand against them, and you couldn’t help but sob softly at the gesture.

“I love you,” you whispered again, your voice barely audible now. “Always.”

You stayed a while longer, sitting in the soft grass beneath the trees. The sun slipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance. And for a fleeting moment, you imagined he was there — just over your shoulder, watching the two of you with that quiet half-smile he wore when he thought no one was looking.

Eventually, you stood.

You adjusted Alexander in your arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and gave the grave one last glance.

One last goodbye.

And then you turned away and walked back toward the trail, your son holding tight to your shirt, the brim of Arthur’s hat bobbing slightly as you disappeared into the golden light of late spring.

Arthur Morgan was gone. But what he left behind — the love, the strength, the memory — lived on.

In you. In Alexander. In every step you took forward.

And the wind carried your final words back to the ridge:

"You’ll always be with us. No matter how far."

760 notes · View notes

frenchkisstheabyss · 1 month ago

Text

☆ ａｌｗａｙｓ，ｆｏｒｅｖｅｒ ☆

☆ Pairing: rockstar!boyfriend!wooyoung x chubby!fem!reader

☆ Genre: rocker au/smut/fluff

☆ Word Count: 3.3k

☆ Summary: You and your boyfriend are infamous for being the wildest couple on the rock scene. You do what you want, when you want. You live to raise hell and neither of you are showing any signs of stopping. At least not until you miss your period and it becomes abundantly clear that the party's about to end. So far you've done well keeping it a secret from Woo but the truth has to come out some day and when it does, will he still be standing by you?

☆ Warnings: you're 100% pregnant, reader has a lot of worries about it, breeding kink, mommy/daddy kink, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation, pain kink, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, pet names (baby, princess, mommy, daddy), a smidge of angst, a lil man handling, body worship undertones, wooyoung in a crop top (❤️), gets real lovey dovey.

☆ A/N: I'm on a rocker boyfriend thing lately. It's my soft spot. I can't help it. I just wanted some sweet rocker boyfriend Woo being all soft for his girlfriend so here we are. As always, I hope you enjoy reading, my loves.

All that make up,

But it couldn’t hide her fears.

All that beauty,

But it couldn’t stop the tears…

The lyrics to one of your boyfriend’s songs. They loop in your head like a broken record as you lean into the bathroom mirror, swiping another layer of mascara across your lash.

The curtain’s up,

They’re all waiting for you now…

Perform. That’s all you ever do anymore. Your friends think it’s cool dating a rockstar. Sex. Drugs. Rock N Roll. It’s exciting, it’s glamorous, it’s exhausting, and—courtesy of the plus sign on that little test tucked away in your makeup bag—it could all be over.

You and Wooyoung have never talked about living a traditional life together. Marriage, kids, white picket fence. PTA meetings and Sunday dinners. You partied. You got wasted. You wrecked shit and loved every minute of it. So does everyone else.

Wooyoung's friends compliment you on the regular for your ability to keep up with him. “No other girl’s ever matched his crazy the way that you do” they say, “He usually chases them all off by now.”

But you? You stay. Not for the money or for the fame, simply because you love him more than words can express. No man’s ever been so sweet to you, so endlessly passionate. Late at night when you’re all alone he whispers to you that you’re his world. That he could never do any of this without having you by his side.

But what about the baby growing inside of you? Would he love that too or would it be a threat to the lifestyle he’s accustomed to? The thought twists your stomach in knots. There’s no time for this now. The album release party for Wooyoung’s band is in an hour and everyone will expect you to be there with bells on, ready to be the source of another wild story they can tell over breakfast in the morning.

Turning the music up on your phone, you pluck a tube of red lipstick from your bag, puckering your lips to dab it on. If you can’t silence the voices in your head, the least you can do is drown them out.

“You plan on getting dressed anytime soon or you going to the party in a towel?” Wooyoung teases, leaning in the doorway to watch you.

You roll your eyes, too busy putting on the finishing touches to spare him a glance. In truth you can’t bear to look at him. It’s sorta like how Wonder Woman has her lasso of truth. Wooyoung has this way of looking at you—into you—and your lies crumble every single time.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “Maybe. I might be trying something new.”

Wooyoung sneaks up behind you, lacing his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, softly kissing your neck. “Whatever you wanna do, babe. You know I think you look gorgeous in anything. Plus it’ll be easier to take off later.” Flashing you a playful grin, he eases your towel up, squeezing the lush meat of your thigh.

“Woo, stop it!” you snap, pushing his hand away, “I need to get ready so can you just not?”

You watch his smile drop, your words cutting him like knives. That rumor that artists are sensitive? It’s more than a rumor, it’s a fact, and exhibit A is your boyfriend. You never reject his affection. All he’s ever known from you is warmth but tonight you’re ice cold, your body tensing rather than giving into his touch.

Wooyoung backs away, studying you the way a detective might a suspect. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. You’re just paranoid.”

He clicks his tongue, observing the subtle clues in your reflection. Your bottom lip’s quivering, tears gathered in the corners of your eyes. You keep looking up…down…away. You’re running from him without taking a step.

“Can you just look at me for a second?” he asks, the sweetness of his voice betraying the sharpness of his gaze.

You take a deep breath, tossing the lipstick aside. Gripping the edge of the counter, you do as he asks and stare into the mirror, your eyes locking in an instant. Your beautiful boy. You’ve always admired how he can manage to be so masculine and feminine at the same time.

And it’s not just in the way that he can make a crop top and a pair of jeans look like the toughest fit on earth. It’s in the way he carries himself. Rugged yet gentle. Vulnerable yet strong. You wonder if your baby would take after him in that way. Would he want it to? That’s the question that really eats you up inside. Would he want it? Would he want you?

Tears roll down your cheeks, streaking through the foundation you so painstakingly applied. A sound leaves you that you’ve never heard before. A slow, pained whine that comes from somewhere deep in your chest. You turn to face him and he takes you into his arms, making you feel safe in a way that only he can.

“I’m sorry” you sob, face buried in his chest, “Everything’s fucked now and it’s all my fault.”

Wooyoung has only seen you cry a handful of times and he swears it breaks him everytime. “Hey, don’t say that. Nothing’s fucked. If something’s wrong we can fix it but I need you to talk to me.” He cradles your cheeks, tilting your head up to get a good look at you. “You know you can never do anything wrong in my eyes, don’t you? If you needed me to help you bury a body I’d ask for a shovel. I need you to understand that.”

He means what he says, you feel it in your heart, but you can’t bring yourself to utter the words. They form on your tongue and die there as if by not saying it you can stop this from being real. Grabbing your makeup bag, you shuffle through the contents until you find it—the secret your lips can’t fix themselves to bear. The bag falls to the floor, contents scattering at your feet, and all that’s left is a test that you hold with the fragility of a bomb.

Wooyoung squints down at it, unsure what it is you’re holding at first. When reality hits him it knocks the air from his lungs. He’s jumped off of stages, hung upside down from ceilings, but none of it ever came close to this.

“Are you telling me you’re…”

“Pregnant” you sigh, “I missed my period so I thought I’d check and, yeah, according to six different tests I am.”

A tense silence dances between the two of you and a part of you wishes that he’d get it over with already. Reject you. Say he doesn’t want it. That he didn’t sign up for any of this. It’ll tear you apart but at least you’ll know.

Wooyoung rests a hand on your belly, rubbing it through your towel. His expression’s unreadable at first but ever so slowly his lips curve into a smile, “So there’s a little me in there? A little us? And you thought I’d be upset?”

“Aren’t you?” you sniffle, fingers trembling around the test. “You have the tour and your promotions. You’re in a different city every week. How does this fit into that?”

Wooyoung takes it from your hand, setting it aside, “Give me one second. Don’t move.”

“Woo…”

“Don’t move!” he shouts, disappearing down the hallway. You hear a door open and the faint sounds of shuffling. “You always say how impulsive I am and you’re right, I guess there’s some things I could think about more, but I’m not impulsive with everything.” He rushes back into the bathroom, arms hidden behind his back. “Some things I think about a lot and this is one of them.” He drops to his knees in front of you, revealing a small black velvet box in the palm of his hand. “I was gonna do this onstage this summer but the bathroom floor’s just as good, isn’t it?”

You wipe the tears from your eyes just in time to get a crystal clear view of him popping the box open. Inside sits a pear shaped diamond ring on a silver band sized perfectly to fit your finger. It’s the shiniest, prettiest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on and you can’t even begin to process that it’s for you.

“You’re right” he says, removing the ring from the box, “I do have the tour and the promotions. I am in a different city every week but when you’re with me it always feels like I’m home and I want that for the rest of my life…with both of you. So would you maybe, possibly think about marrying me?”

The tears are falling again but this time from an overwhelming sense of joy. One that blooms somewhere deep inside and spreads to every corner of your body. From the end of the world to the rest of your life? It’s enough to give you whiplash.

“I’ll marry you” you manage through the tears. You hold your hand out and Wooyoung slips it into your finger. It slides into place like it was destined to be there. The missing piece to a puzzle that’s slowly been coming together since the day you met.

Never in a million years did Wooyoung imagine you’d say yes. At the same time, he couldn’t even begin to picture a world where you didn’t. How could you ever think that he wouldn’t want a life with you? The man who has a stack of notebooks filled with songs about you. Crowds of thousands scream his name every night but the only voice he hears is yours. Your smiling face always waits for him at the edge of the stage and he looks at you now the same way he did then. Like the whole world centers on you.

You blink and his lips are at yours, your body pressed against the edge of the sink as his tongue intertwines with yours, deepening the kiss. He kisses you patiently…carefully, reveling in the taste of you as if for the first time. His fingertips skim your exposed thigh and this time you don’t dare push him away, a hum of pleasure leaving you as he ventures further inward.

“I look insane right now” you say, your awareness suddenly brought back to the wrecked state of your makeup.

Wooyoung laughs, trailing lipstick stained kisses down your chin, “I don’t know, I kinda like this whole Joker thing you’ve got going on.”

You gasp at his audacity but crack a smile despite yourself. “Oh, fuck you” you say, swinging your knee up to hit him right where it hurts.

Catching it just in time, he holds your leg at his waist, spreading you open to stroke your pussy beneath your towel. A hushed moan flows out of you and his mouth is right back at yours, eager to catch it.

“I’m just messing with you. You’re beautiful” he whispers, his tongue peeking out to lick your lips. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

His fingers slip between your velvet folds, closing around your clit until you make that one special noise that lets him know he has you. It’s not quite a moan, not quite a whine. Some melodic combination of the two that’s music to his ears when it finally breaks from you.

Heat pricks at your skin like you’ve stepped too close to a fire and you melt for him, all over his fingers. In a matter of seconds you’re dripping wet, painting his fingers in your glistening arousal. You shiver at the sensation of his knuckles dragging along your entrance, teasing you by pressing in the slightest bit before pulling away.

Wooyoung leans in, breath skimming your neck to give you goosebumps. “You’ll make the prettiest mommy. I’ve always thought that about you. How absolutely radiant you’d look with my baby inside you.”

His confession turns you on. You don’t need to admit it. Your body speaks for itself. Walls clenching around the tips of his knuckles. Nipples stiffening against the soft cotton. Your heart’s beating like a hammer and it only worsens when his fingers ease into you.

“I wanna hear you say it. Say, ‘I’m gonna make the prettiest mommy’” he instructs, the smooth rotation of his wrist too hypnotizing to resist.

“I…I’m gonna make the p-p-prettiest mommy” you stutter, grasping at the marble counter behind you to keep from falling.

Wooyoung pushes his fingers deep into you, guiding you up onto the counter as the pad of his thumb circles your sensitive clit. Resting his forehead against yours, he pumps his fingers in and out of you, soaking your thighs in your essence.

“Hmm, I don’t think you mean it. Make me believe you, baby.”

Your nails tear at the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto, “I’ll be the prettiest mommy. The prettiest…mmph…mommy.”

Your back hits the mirror, lashes fluttering away stars as he takes you by the neck, drawing you into another breathless kiss. Wooyoung drags his fingertips across your sweet spot, the muscles of his toned arm flexing the faster he pumps your needy core.

“Can you be a doll and do me a favor?” he asks, making it sound like any old request.

“Honey, pass the salt.”

“Can you hand me the remote please?”

You nod, it’s the only thing you can do when your walls are sucking the nail polish off his fingers. Sliding his hand down to the top of your towel, he gathers the material in his fist, tugging it away from you.

“Hold my hair.”

It’s the last thing he says before his tongue’s at your clit, his free hand reaching up to palm one of your supple breasts. He pinches your nipple—tugging, rolling—all with the perfect amount of pressure to make you clench even tighter. You push the hair back from his face, loose strands framing his sharp features as he leans his head back to gaze up at you.

His tongue’s flicking and curling, a grin painting his face at the bliss radiating from yours. He blows a cool breath against your pussy and a chill skates up your spine. Your fingers knot in his hair, tugging it right from the scalp.

“Pull it harder, mommy” Wooyoung groans, slurping at your cunt between every word. “I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

You pull as hard as you can, nothing held back. You’ve all but scratched your name into this man’s back before. You know better than anyone else how devastatingly hard pain gets him. His cock is throbbing, the need to have you invading every thought that creeps its way into his mind.

Having you but not having you. Tasting you on his tongue but not having you wrapped around his cock. It’s heaven and hell but it’s worth every conflicting feeling to see you hit your peak, hips rocking into his face for more as you come down his hand.

Rushing back to his feet, he undoes his pants with one hand—the other still occupied by your spasming walls. You claw at his wrist, fighting to push him back. He’s far too deep. The pleasure’s too much. You’re falling apart and you can feel it, piece by beautiful piece. Wooyoung drags you to the edge, his cock springing free to replace his soaked fingers. You’re still coming when it slams into you, every thick, hard inch pulsing in all those places his fingers couldn’t reach.

“Woo, too much. I can’t…” you whine, the added stretch dragging your orgasm out even further.

He pouts, feigning sympathy, “But princess, look how good you’re coming for daddy. It’s a wonder how I didn’t get you pregnant sooner when you take my cock so well.”

“You’re supposed to be a nice daddy.”

Cupping your cheek, he brushes his thumb along your bottom lip making it shine with your arousal. “I am a nice daddy. Don’t you feel nice right now?”

Nice is not the word for what this feels like. Ice cream cones are nice. Walks on the beach are nice. Wooyoung bouncing you on his cock until your ears ring isn’t nice. It’s fucking earth shattering.

“Feels so nice, daddy. So…mmph…so nice.”

His hands find your sides, massaging the contours of your figure, and he can’t help but dream of all the ways your body’s about to change. He’s already in love with your body. Every stretch mark. Every curve. But to see you swell up with his baby? To feel how much softer you’ll get—how you’ll glow—it makes him feral.

Every thrust into your plush walls is amplified by a thousand. Warm pearls of precum meld with the remnants of your last orgasm making it slicker. Juicer. The sound of your bodies meeting is borderline filthy and you couldn’t pay him to stop.

“I want you forever” he says, fingertips ghosting your belly, “I want this forever.”

You take his hand, kissing his palm. He’s doing that thing where his eyebrow twitches. His eyes go glossy and he looks so lost, in you to be specific.

“You’ll make a very handsome daddy and a good one too.”

It’s not the dirtiest thing you’ve ever said to him during sex but it’s the sweetest. It hits all the same notes, emotion spreading through him until heat consumes his body. He knows what you mean now about it being too much. His knees are weak, a sheen of sweat forming on his skin as the tip of his cock swells, ropes of white decorating your insides. You rock your hips against his, maintaining the rhythm as he loses it.

“Fill me up, Woo” you beg, pulling him in for a kiss. “Need all of you.”

Tucking his hands behind your knees, he pushes your legs back, bottoming out to give you all of him. If he weren’t kissing you, you’d be drooling. You’re intoxicated by the fullness, no corner of you left unclaimed by him.

You exist in this moment as one. Pulses racing, hearts thumping. You’ve never belonged to each other so completely. You never want this moment to end. Never want this high to fade. Even as it does you stay tied to each other, lips moving weakly as the tension in your bodies softens.

“I love you” he says, giving you a hug that’s adorably innocent for a man who’s still inside of you.

You settle into his arms, smiling to yourself, “Love you too, Youngie.”

Catching a quick glimpse at his reflection he notices that half of your makeup has transferred onto him. “Guess I look like Joker too now. Don’t think I can go to the party like this.”

“Shit, the party!” You grab him by the face, giggling when you notice. “Low key? You’re kinda right. Come here.”

Opening the pack of wipes by your side, you pull one out to clean him up but when you bring it to his face he pushes your hand down.

“Actually, fuck the party. I just wanna stay here with the two of you for a little bit if that’s okay?”

Wooyoung lays his head on your shoulder and you pet his cheek, your earlier worries so far away now that you can hardly recall them. Late night beers are about to turn into baby bottles, all those parties are about to become bedtime stories, and Wooyoung would trade it all in every lifetime to have this with you.

All that make up,

But it couldn’t hide her fears.

And with the three of you together, it’ll never have to.

#ateez x reader #ateez x female reader #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung x you #wooyoung x y/n #wooyoung smut #ateez x y/n #ateez x you #ateez smut #ateez fluff #wooyoung fluff #chubby reader

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tatawire · 7 months ago

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Anatomy of Knotted Fence

Material: Typically made from galvanized steel or high-tensile wires for durability and rust resistance.

Knots: The interlocking knots, like hinge joint or fixed knot, provide superior strength and flexibility.

Wire Gauge: The thickness of the wire, often measured in gauge, impacts the fence’s sturdiness.

Mesh Size: Varying mesh sizes accommodate different applications, from small livestock to wildlife barriers.

Coating: Galvanization or PVC coating enhances resistance to weather and corrosion.

https://www.tatawiron.com/segments/agriculture#knotted-fence

#knotted fence #knotted fence for fencing #agriculture knotted fence

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uncuredturkeybacon · 2 months ago

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𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚝 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you and paige made a promise to each other

There’s something about summer air in Minnesota that makes everything feel bigger than it is. The stars. The spaces between conversations. The ache in your chest when you look at someone a second too long and they don’t notice. Or maybe they do, and they don’t say anything.

You’re lying on your back on a trampoline in someone's backyard. Paige Bueckers is beside you, a little too close for comfort, a little too far to do anything about it.

The night smells like fresh cut grass and burnt marshmallows. The air’s sticky with warmth, the kind that doesn’t ask for a hoodie. There’s a party still going on inside the house, faint music filtering through the screen door—Drake, probably, or SZA. But out here, it’s just you and Paige, staring up at a sky that’s trying its best to impress you.

Paige sighs dramatically, the kind of breath that says “I’m about to say something stupid” before it even happens.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence, “what if we just... suck at dating forever?”

You turn your head toward her slowly, narrowing your eyes. “Are we starting the night with existential dread already?”

She laughs. “No, I’m serious. What if we just never find someone? What if this is it?”

You raise a brow. “You mean this as in... us lying on a trampoline hiding from people drinking warm White Claws?”

“Yeah.” She’s smirking now. “Like, this is peak romance and we didn’t even know it.”

You roll your eyes. “Speak for yourself. I’m still waiting for my movie moment.”

Paige grins, eyes catching the glint of the string lights that line the fence. “Okay, fine. But what if thirty rolls around, and you’re still single, and I’m still single—what then?”

“Then we cry about it on FaceTime and watch The Notebook in separate time zones?”

“No,” she says, voice dipping lower, almost hesitant now. “Then we marry each other.”

You blink.

She keeps her eyes on the stars like she didn’t just drop a loaded sentence between you. Like this is just a casual idea.

You shift, propping yourself up on your elbow so you can see her better. “Wait. Are you saying we make a pact?”

She nods without looking at you. “Yeah. A real one. If we’re both single at thirty, we just... do it. Tie the knot. Easy.”

You scoff. “Easy?”

“Easiest decision ever,” she says, finally turning to face you. “I already know your weird habits. You already know I leave two sips of everything because I have commitment issues.”

“You do.”

“You eat the same three things for lunch and have a playlist for literally every emotion.”

You smile despite yourself. “And?”

“And I like you better than I’ve ever liked anyone I’ve dated,” she says, softer now. “Not like, like like. Just... you’re my favorite person.”

Your heart beats louder than it should.

You mask it with sarcasm. “Aw, Bueckers. Is this your way of asking me to prom?”

“Prom’s next week,” she says with a smirk. “It’s too late. But thirty’s wide open.”

You laugh, pushing her shoulder gently. She exaggerates the motion like you tackled her. You’re both giggling now, bodies still bouncing slightly with the motion of the trampoline.

Then she quiets again. Voice small. Real.

“I’m serious, though. You and me. If it doesn’t happen with anyone else… why not?”

You stare at her.

She’s seventeen and golden and brilliant and so much more sure of herself than she should be. But there’s something in the way she says it. Not flippant. Not a joke.

Hopeful.

You take a breath. Hold out your pinky.

“Alright. If we’re both single at thirty…”

She links her pinky with yours instantly.

“We get married,” she finishes.

You nod. “Deal.”

And then, because you can’t help yourself, you whisper, “You’ll probably forget.”

She looks at you like you just insulted her entire bloodline. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I won’t,” she insists.

“You’ll be off winning WNBA championships and crossing people over or whatever.”

She grins, cocky. “Okay, true. But I’ll still remember.”

You shrug, like you’re not secretly hoping she means it.

“Alright then. It’s a deal,” you repeat, letting your pinkies fall apart, but not the moment.

She stares at you a second longer than necessary.

Then she rolls onto her back again, hands behind her head, eyes on the stars like nothing just shifted between you.

But it did.

You feel it.

You don't realize until much later that this was the night Paige decided what forever looked like.

And it was you.

Years have a funny way of moving fast when you're not looking. One minute you're seventeen on a trampoline. The next, you're twenty-one at a graduation party with someone else's lipstick on your cheek and your phone buzzing in your back pocket.

It’s a picture from Paige — her in cap and gown, beaming, with “UConn Legend” written in white marker across her mortarboard.

Paige: Made it. No torn ACL could stop me. Just the terrifying future ahead. Also I miss your dumb face.

You grin. Your heart squeezes a little, like it always does when she says something unexpectedly sweet.

You: Your dumb face graduated? Unbelievable. When’s the parade? I’ll bring confetti and judgment.

Paige: Confetti welcome. Judgment expected. You still owe me a post-college road trip btw.

You: You still remember that?

Paige: I remember everything.

You let that one sit too long before you respond. You always do.

You’re in Chicago by now. Paige is in Dallas, bouncing between WNBA training camp and events she’s been invited to. You FaceTime late at night — her hair in a messy bun, hoodie drawn up to her chin, bags under her eyes from practice.

“Tell me something good,” she says.

You’re curled on your couch, legs tucked under a blanket, nursing your third glass of boxed wine. “I got ghosted by a woman who said I was ‘too emotionally literate.’ So, that’s something.”

Paige groans. “God, that’s actually a compliment.”

“You’d think. Apparently knowing my attachment style is a red flag.”

She smiles. “Well, for the record, I like that you’re emotionally literate.”

You glance at her through the screen. “What about you? Any secret girlfriends I should hate on sight?”

She hesitates for just a second too long. Then shrugs.

“Nothing that stuck,” she says. “People get weird about the schedule. The travel. The fame thing.”

You nod. “Yeah. That makes sense.” There’s a pause. “Sometimes I feel like everyone I date wants a version of me that doesn’t really exist.”

She hums. “I don’t want a version of you.”

You look up.

She’s watching you through the screen.

“I just want you.”

Your breath hitches.

She catches herself. Backpedals fast. “As a friend! Like—obviously. Duh. I mean. Yeah.”

You laugh, covering your heart with sarcasm. “Smooth.”

She blushes. “Shut up.”

But later, as the call ends and you set your phone down, the echo of her voice lingers like something you should’ve held tighter.

You visit her. Not for any special reason — you just needed to get out of the city, and she said “Come over.” That was enough.

It’s late. You’re two drinks in on her couch, legs tangled under a shared blanket, watching reruns of The Office for the thousandth time. She throws popcorn at you every time you quote a line wrong.

“I swear, your memory’s gotten worse,” she says, chucking another kernel.

You catch it in your mouth. “And yours is terrifyingly accurate.”

She shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you. “I remember everything. Seriously.”

You turn to her. “Everything?”

She nods.

There’s a lull.

And then she says, without looking at you, “I still remember the trampoline.”

You freeze.

“…What?”

She keeps her eyes on the screen. “That night. The pact. I meant it.”

Your throat goes dry. “Paige…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she rushes. “I just — I think about it sometimes. How easy it felt, you know? Being with you. Like maybe we already had something people spend years looking for.”

You don’t know what to say.

She finally glances at you. “You ever think about it?”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Sometimes.”

It hangs in the space between you.

You don’t kiss her. You don’t move closer. You both just sit there, holding the maybe of it.

And then the episode ends. The next one starts. Neither of you speaks again.

But she remembers that night too.

Your birthday. You’re in a new apartment in a new city. A new job. A new almost-girlfriend who doesn’t quite understand why your smile falters when Paige’s name pops up on your phone.

12:01 a.m.

Time’s almost up.

That’s all it says.

You stare at it.

Your almost-girlfriend is asleep beside you, breathing softly.

You don’t reply right away.

You lock your phone and turn toward the wall.

But your heart? Your heart answers back immediately.

You forget. You really do. With everything else going on — deadlines, bills, the mess of a half-put-together life — the pact feels like a dream from a different version of yourself.

You assume she forgot too.

It’s late.

Most of your birthday texts have come and gone. A few phone calls. One coworker sent a meme of a gravestone with “RIP your twenties” etched into it. You laughed politely. You don’t feel old, exactly. Just… removed. Like the years built a soft blur around who you used to be, and you're not sure which version of you today is the most true.

You spent the day with a few friends. Drinks. Takeout. Laughter that didn’t always reach your chest. Now, the apartment is quiet. Everyone’s gone. You’re in sweatpants, hoodie half-zipped, makeup long wiped away. You don’t feel particularly 30. You just feel… still.

The knock on the door is unexpected.

You glance at the time. 9:07 p.m.

Cautious, curious, you open it.

There she is.

Paige Bueckers.

In a jean jacket over a hoodie, hair pulled into a loose braid, cheeks a little pink from the cold. One hand holds a bouquet of tulips—white, your favorite. The other hand holds something small. Square. Velvet.

Your stomach drops.

“Hi,” she says.

You blink. “Are you—did I forget we were—?”

“No,” she says. “But I didn’t.”

You stare.

She shifts her weight like she might flee if you blink too hard. “I know this is a little insane. I know. I just… I didn’t want to let today pass.”

You glance at the ring box.

“Paige.”

“It’s not pressure,” she blurts. “It’s not—I’m not trying to, like, ambush you. I just remembered what we said. That night. On the trampoline. And I guess I’ve just… remembered it ever since.”

You step aside, nodding slowly. “Come in.”

She does. The air around her carries something familiar, a little wind, a little warmth, a lot of nerves.

You close the door. “You remembered.”

“Every year,” she says softly. “Every birthday. Yours, mine. I never forgot.”

You lean against the back of your couch. Your legs feel like they might give.

“And now that we’re here?” you ask.

She breathes out. Sets the tulips down on your kitchen counter. Still holds the ring box. Doesn’t open it.

“I didn’t know if I’d actually come,” she admits. “I’ve had it in my drawer for three months.”

“The ring?”

She nods. “I got it engraved. Dumb maybe, but…”

She flicks it open and shows you.

Since 17.

It knocks something loose in your chest.

“Paige…”

“You don’t have to say yes,” she says, voice quick now, scared of the silence. “I don’t even know what this is. Maybe you don’t feel the same. Maybe it’s just me still stuck in a night we barely remember the same way. But I couldn’t not come. I couldn’t—if there was even a chance, I had to try.”

You walk over slowly.

Her eyes track you like you might disappear.

You reach for the ring box, closing it gently with your fingers still over hers.

“I didn’t forget the pact,” you say.

She looks up, startled.

You laugh under your breath. “I didn’t let myself think about it. That’s different. I buried it under jobs and people and cities and time. But I remembered.”

Her voice wavers. “Then why didn’t you ever bring it up?”

“Because I didn’t think you meant it.”

She steps back like you hit her.

“I always meant it,” she says, almost breathless. “God. You think I kept texting you on every birthday because I was joking? You think I came to your city every chance I could just to hang out casually? You think I called you during every off-season just because I was bored?”

Your eyes sting.

“I thought I was the backup plan,” you whisper.

“No,” she says firmly, taking a step closer. “You were the plan. You were always the plan.”

You let the silence bloom.

There’s no music. No outside noise. Just your apartment and the hum of everything that never got said until now.

Finally, you speak.

“I’m not ready to say yes.”

She flinches. “Okay.”

“But I’m not saying no either.”

Her eyes dart to yours.

You take the ring box from her hands. “I want to say… give me tonight.”

“Just tonight?”

You smile softly. “Let me remember how it feels. Being around you. You. Not the past, not the pact. Just... this.”

She nods.

And then—almost like muscle memory—she moves to the kitchen to grab two glasses.

“You still drink that dumb hibiscus tea?”

You laugh. “Only when I want to feel mysterious.”

She pours the water. Boils it. Sits beside you on the couch like she never left.

And for the first time in years, nothing feels far away.

It’s barely morning when you wake.

Sunlight filters in through your kitchen window in faint, forgiving strokes. You’re curled up on the couch with a blanket around your shoulders and the faintest ache in your neck — a leftover from staying still too long in a moment that didn’t feel real.

Paige is sitting at the kitchen table.

She’s in the same hoodie from last night, her legs pulled up into the chair like she always did in college when she was trying to disappear. A mug of tea cradled in both hands, steam rising slowly into the soft quiet.

You watch her for a minute.

She doesn’t know you’re awake yet.

Her eyes are on the small velvet ring box sitting on the table.

Still closed. Still waiting.

Like her.

You shift, and the couch creaks slightly. She turns.

“Oh,” she says, voice low, careful. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you reply, stretching slowly. “Been up long?”

“Not really.” She hesitates. “Didn’t sleep much.”

You sit up, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders like armor. “Too many thoughts?”

She smiles gently. “Something like that.”

You nod, rubbing your hands over your face. “Want breakfast?”

She shakes her head. “I can get something on the way out.”

You look at her. “You’re leaving?”

“Well…” She looks down at the ring box again. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

“I didn’t say no,” you remind her.

She nods. “I know. But you didn’t say yes either.”

You get up, feet padding softly on the wood floor, and walk to the table. You don’t sit yet. You just stand behind the empty chair across from her and look down at the ring box too.

It looks so small from up here. Insignificant almost. But you know better. There’s a lifetime tucked into that hinge.

“I wasn’t ready to say anything last night,” you say softly.

“I know,” she replies.

“I didn’t know how I felt. Still don’t, exactly. But…” You pause. “You stayed.”

She meets your eyes. “Of course I did.”

“And you didn’t ask for anything.”

“I didn’t come to ask,” she says. “I came to remind.”

You sit down slowly. Your fingers hover over the velvet box but don’t touch it. “Remind me of what?”

She swallows. “Of what we were. Of what we still might be. Of what I’ve been holding onto every time I said your name out loud like it meant more than just ‘friend.’”

You’re quiet for a long time.

She doesn’t fill the silence. That’s always been one of her best qualities—Paige knows how to wait without making it feel like pressure.

You glance at the box.

“You really bought this three months ago?”

She nods. “Didn’t know if I’d use it. But I couldn’t not have it.”

You press your palm flat on the table. Not touching her, not yet. Just there.

“It wasn’t a joke,” she says. “It never was. Even at seventeen. I meant it. Every birthday, every text. Every time I saw you with someone else and thought, ‘God, she deserves better.’ Every year we didn’t talk for a while and I still saved your number just in case.”

You lift your eyes slowly.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

She breathes in. Steady. Strong. “You were always the plan.”

Your throat tightens.

You nod once. Just once. Then you open the box.

The ring catches the light in the most unassuming way — not flashy, not grand. Just simple. Solid. Familiar.

You slide it out, turn it in your fingers, read the engraving again.

Since 17.

You set it gently down beside your tea. And finally, finally, you reach across the table and take her hand.

“I want to figure this out,” you say. “Not out of obligation. Not because of some promise made under the stars and trampoline nets. I want this because you showed up.”

Her eyes shine, lips parting in the tiniest smile.

“And because,” you add, “you’re the only one who ever waited without asking me to hurry.”

She exhales, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “So what now?”

You squeeze her hand. “Now we don’t rush.”

She smiles, wide and quiet and a little shaky. “So… I keep the ring?”

“For now,” you grin. “Don’t get cocky, Bueckers.”

She lets out a breathless laugh. “God, I missed that.”

You lean in. Just a little. “Then stay.”

“I will,” she whispers, squeezing your hand like it’s the only thing holding her together.

And maybe it is.

The house is loud.

Your daughter is singing the Bluey theme song at full volume from somewhere in the hallway. Your son is crying because the waffle you gave him broke in half. And the dog — all seventy pounds of golden retriever joy — is sprinting back and forth with a half-eaten stuffed duck in his mouth like it’s his job to personally raise the decibel level.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen, cradling a lukewarm mug of coffee in both hands like it might save your life.

There’s crayon on the fridge.

Your daughter added a rainbow to the corner of the calendar and signed her name in uneven block letters.

It’s a mess.

It’s perfect.

And in the middle of it all is Paige.

She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt that used to be yours and a pair of shorts that are barely hanging on. Her hair is pulled into a half-bun, and she’s got a pink hair tie looped around her wrist because Jayda insists they match every morning.

She’s kneeling on the floor with your son in her lap, holding him and whispering something that makes him hiccup through his tears. Slowly. Gently. The same way she used to talk you down from a spiral when the world felt too big.

“Hey,” you say from the doorway.

She looks up. Smiles.

It still hits you. Every single time.

“Crisis averted,” she says, rubbing your son’s back. “The Waffle Tragedy will not go down in history.”

“Are you sure? I think he’s already drafting a memoir.”

Your son sniffles.

Paige whispers, “Tell Mama you’re okay now.”

He nods into her shoulder.

You walk over and crouch beside them, brushing his curls back gently. “Good job, little man.”

He reaches for you with chubby arms and mumbles, “Wuv you.”

“I love you too.”

Paige stands up slowly and stretches, arms high, groaning like she’s eighty. “I need like... six more hours of sleep and a coffee the size of my head.”

You hand her your mug. “You can have mine. I only drank half.”

She takes it and sips. “Lukewarm. Just how I like it.”

You grin. “Liar.”

She leans in and kisses you. It’s quick. Familiar. Soft. The kind of kiss that comes with a hundred other ones before it.

From the hallway, your daughter yells, “MAMA! MOMMY! THE DOG STOLE MY HEADBAND AGAIN!”

You both groan.

Paige mumbles against your mouth, “Your child.”

You pull back with a raised brow. “She’s literally your clone.”

“Emotionally. But the drama? That’s all you.”

You chuckle, standing with her now, arms brushing as you head toward the hallway chaos together. But then you pause.

She notices and turns.

You’re watching her.

The kitchen. The kids. The crayon art. The ring still on her finger, older now, a little scratched, a little worn, but still there.

“I was just thinking,” you say.

“Uh-oh,” she teases. “That’s dangerous.”

You smile. “You really did mean it.”

She tilts her head. “The pact?”

You nod. “All of it.”

Paige steps closer and takes your hand. The same way she did on your 30th birthday. Like no time has passed at all.

“I still do,” she says.

Your son tugs on your pant leg.

Your daughter runs in with the dog trailing behind her, headband around his neck like a crown.

And you?

You laugh.

You press your forehead to Paige’s and say, “God, I’m so glad you showed up that night.”

She smiles.

And you both turn, hand in hand, back into the storm you built together.

Because this?

This is forever.

And she always meant it.

#paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #paige buckets #paige x reader #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh #wnba x reader #dallas wings

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flux1563 · 3 months ago

Text

Something New ft tzuyu

Tags : NTR, first time squirting, creampie, male reader

Words : 8K

On a quiet morning, Tzuyu could be found in her garden, tending to her blossoming flowers with meticulous care. The warmth of the sun and the gentle hum of bees painted a serene picture of suburban tranquility. The scent of lavender and roses filled the air, creating a soothing melody that seemed to resonate with her soul. As she plucked a stray weed, a sudden rustle in the bushes by the fence snapped her out of her reverie.

Her neighbor, y/n, emerged, looking slightly flustered. Tzuyu offered a friendly smile, but his eyes lingered on her in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. She had noticed his glances before, but had always brushed them off as harmless admiration for her gardening skills. However, today there was something different about his gaze, something more intense, almost hungry.

Tzuyu's husband was often away for work, leaving her alone in the house during the week. Their marriage was a bastion of love and trust, a bond that had only grown stronger with the passing of time. Whenever she felt lonely, she would take solace in the company of her plants, the only confidants that truly understood the silent poetry of her heart.

He cleared his throat, interrupting the symphony of her thoughts. "Your flowers are looking beautiful, as always," he said, his voice thick with unspoken intentions. Tzuyu felt a knot form in her stomach, her smile stiffening as she replied, "Thank you, y/n. I enjoy taking care of them." She tried to keep her tone light, hoping that her unease wasn't too apparent.

"Where is your husband?" he asked, his eyes never leaving hers. The question was simple, yet it hung in the air, loaded with a meaning that made her heart race. Tzuyu swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his gaze. "Oh, he's at work," she replied, her voice a little too high-pitched. "He won't be back until this night."

The invitation came suddenly, as unexpected as the first drops of rain in a storm. "Would you want to have breakfast with me inside my house?" His smile was charming, but it didn't reach his eyes, which remained focused on her with an intensity that made her feel like a butterfly pinned to a board. "Thank you, y/n," she began, her mind racing to find the right words. "But I've already had my breakfast. Maybe another time?"

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But it's just a simple meal, I promise. Nothing too heavy. I just baked some cookies. They're your favorite, aren't they?" His words were sweet, but they left a bitter taste in her mouth. Tzuyu felt a bead of sweat form on her forehead as she tried to find a polite way to decline. "That's very kind of you," she said, her voice steady despite her racing thoughts.

After a moment of tension, she relented. "Alright, I'll have a quick bite." She hoped that by accepting, she could put an end to the persistent tension that had been building between them. As she followed him into his house, the air grew heavier, the scent of his cologne suffocating the floral notes she had carried with her from the garden. The walls of his kitchen were lined with pictures of his family, and she felt a pang of guilt for even considering his offer. Yet, she couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that had wrapped around her like a tightening noose.

The kitchen was meticulously clean, but it was the sight of the cookies on the table that made her pause. They were indeed her favorite, a recipe she had shared with him during one of their casual chats over the fence. The buttery aroma filled the room, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to be swayed by the gesture. They sat across from each other, the silence thick enough to cut with a knife. She picked one up, its warmth seeping into her fingertips, and took a bite. The sweetness exploded on her tongue, a stark contrast to the bitter taste that still lingered from their interaction.

"Where is your family?" she asked, her eyes lingering on the smiling faces in the photos. She needed to remind herself that she was just being neighborly, that she had nothing to fear from a man who was, after all, just lonely.

"I haven't married, Tzuyu," he replied with a sad smile, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's just me here, alone."

The simple statement sent a chill down her spine. She had always assumed that his flirtatiousness was harmless, a way to pass the time, but now she wasn't so sure. He leaned back in his chair, watching her intently as she nibbled on the cookie. The click of the lock echoed through the house like a gunshot in the stillness of the night, and she looked up to see him close the kitchen door, a smug expression on his face.

Tzuyu felt the room close in around her. She had made a mistake coming here, she realized with a sinking feeling. The walls of his house suddenly seemed like the bars of a cage, and she was the unsuspecting animal trapped within. The photos of happy families now seemed like taunts, a stark contrast to the reality she found herself in.

With the cookie still in her hand, she tried to keep her voice calm. "What are you doing?" she asked, her eyes flicking to the locked door.

He's smile grew wider, revealing a hint of something darker. "I just wanted some privacy, Tzuyu," he said, his tone casual.

Before she could react, y/n leaned across the table, his hand snaking around her waist. His lips met hers, and she felt his desperation in the way he kissed her, a desperation that made her stomach churn. She pushed against him with all her might, but his grip was like steel, his mouth unyielding. Panic flooded her, and she fought back with all the strength she could muster.

"U can't escape from here, Tzuyu," he murmured against her lips, his breath hot and heavy. "My house is soundproof." His voice was low, a dark promise that sent a cold shiver down her spine. She could hear the triumph in his tone, and it fueled her struggle. Tzuyu's hands flew to his face, her nails digging into his skin as she tried to push him away. His eyes narrowed at the resistance, but his smile remained, twisted and sinister.

"Just accept what I'm going to give you, so you'll feel good instead of hurt," he said, his voice a slick whisper that made her skin crawl. Tzuyu's mind raced, her heart hammering in her chest. "I can't," she said firmly, pushing against him again. "I'm married, y/n."

He pulled back slightly, his grip loosening. "But you're so beautiful," he murmured, his eyes tracing the contours of her face. "I've watched you for so long, and I can't help but want to be close to you." His words were a seduction, but they held no charm for Tzuyu. She felt the weight of his desire like a leaden cloak, suffocating her.

"I promise, only this time," he said, his voice a sweet lie that made her stomach clench. "Let me show you how much I care for you." His hand slid up to cup her cheek, and she flinched at his touch.

She took a deep breath and nodded, playing along for the moment. "Okay," she whispered, her voice shaking. "After this, I can come back to my home, and we will keep it as a secret."

Y/n's eyes lit up at her submission, his smile widening. He leaned back in his chair, releasing her waist. "Of course," he said, his voice dripping with sweetness. "It will be our little secret."

He was speaking to himself "When I start using Tzuyu, she will crave for my 10 inches BWC. Then she'll come back to me willingly.".

He leaned in for another kiss, and this time, Tzuyu didn't resist. Instead, she wrapped her hand around his neck, drawing him closer. His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of hesitation, but all he saw was a quiet determination. He took her acceptance as a victory and deepened the kiss, his hands moving to encircle her waist.

"Ahh," she gasped, when he start to kiss her neck.

Her heart was racing, but not with fear anymore. An unexpected warmth spread through her body, and she found herself leaning into his touch. His kisses grew more insistent, and she felt a strange thrill at his passion. His hands roamed over her, igniting a fire within her that she had not felt in a long time. She closed her eyes, letting the moment wash over her, trying to drown out the voice of doubt that whispered in the back of her mind.

The sound of fabric ripping brought her back to reality with a jolt. She opened her eyes to find y/n tearing her clothes off, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that was both terrifying and exhilarating. He had her pinned against the kitchen counter, his hands moving with a surprising gentleness that belied the desperation of his actions.

Tzuyu's shirt lay in shreds at her feet, and she felt the cool air kiss her bare skin as he revealed her lacy bra. He traced the outline of her breasts with his thumbs, his eyes never leaving hers. With a flick of his wrists, he unclipped the clasp, and her breasts spilled out, her hard pink nipples standing at attention.

Y/n leaned in, his breath hot against her chest as he took in the sight before him. His mouth watered, and without any further preamble, he captured one of her nipples between his teeth, giving it a gentle tug before flicking his tongue across it. Tzuyu couldn't help but let out a soft moan, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body. His hands were everywhere, cupping and squeezing, his touch both firm and tender.

Her own hands found his belt, fumbling with the buckle as she felt the pressure building inside her. His eyes grew darker, and she could feel his arousal pressing against her thigh. He groaned, the sound deep and primal, and she knew that he was as lost in the moment as she was. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her pants, and with a swift movement, pulled them down along with her underwear. She stepped out of them, leaving a pool of fabric at her feet.

Tzuyu was now fully exposed to y/n's gaze, her shaved pink pussy glistening with arousal. He stood before her, his eyes feasting on every inch of her body as if it were the most exquisite work of art he had ever seen.

"Don't stare at me like that," she murmured, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red.

But y/n couldn't help it. He had never seen a woman more beautiful than Tzuyu, especially not when she was naked and trembling with desire. He stood up from the chair, his eyes never leaving hers, and began to strip away his own clothes. His shirt came off first, revealing the taut muscles of his chest and abs, each one sculpted from years of hard work and discipline. Tzuyu's eyes widened as she took in the sight, her breath hitching in her throat. He knew she liked what she saw. His pants followed, revealing the bulge that had been straining against the fabric for what felt like an eternity. He stepped out of them, his boxers the last barrier to fall. His cock sprang free, long and thick, standing proud and erect.

"I didn't know you have a very big white dick," Tzuyu murmured, her voice a mix of awe and trepidation. The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she felt her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. But y/n didn't seem to mind. If anything, the admission only made him more aroused.

He stepped closer to her, his cock swaying with each step. "It's 10 inches long," he said with a smug smile. "And the girth is 3 inches." His hand wrapped around it, giving it a slow stroke. "Even your husband's doesn't come close, does it?"

Tzuyu nodded, unable to take her eyes off the monstrous cock before her. It was true, her husband was not this big. But she had never felt the need for anything more than what they shared. Until now. The thought of his thick member sliding into her made her pussy throb with need. She nodded again, more to herself than to him. "You are right," she murmured, her voice a mere whisper.

Without another word, y/n scooped her into his arms, her naked body fitting against his like they were two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as he carried her through the hallway, her bare skin brushing against his, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She could feel his heart beating against her chest, the rhythm matching the tempo of her own.

The couch in the living room beckoned, and he laid her down upon it with surprising care. The plush cushions molded to her body, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the heat that radiated from within her. His hands remained on her hips, holding her in place as he stepped back to admire her. Tzuyu felt vulnerable, exposed under his gaze, but she couldn't deny the thrill that coursed through her veins.

"Now," his voice low and commanding. "Take me inside your mouth."

Tzuyu stared at the massive cock standing before her, the tip glistening with precum. She felt a mix of fear and excitement, the thought of his size making her mouth water and her pussy clench. "I don't know if I can take it," she whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation.

"Don't worry," y/n said with a smirk, his grip on her hips tightening. "You'll get used to it. Just open your mouth and let me guide you."

Tzuyu swallowed hard and leaned forward, her eyes locked on the tip of his cock. She parted her lips and felt the heat of his erection against her skin. He leaned in closer, his hand guiding her head to take him in. His cock slid into her mouth, and she tasted the saltiness of his precum. It was strange, but not entirely unpleasant. He began to move, pushing deeper with each stroke, and she had to fight the urge to gag.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through her entire body. "Take it all."

Her cheeks hollowed as she took more and more of him, his hand gently pressing the back of her head. He was so thick that she could feel herself stretching around him, and the sensation was both terrifying and thrilling. She had never been with a man this size before, and she had no idea how she would handle it when the time came for him to enter her.

"Just relax, Tzuyu," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to her nerves. "Breath through your nose, baby."

Tzuyu did as he said, her eyes watering slightly as she took him deeper. Her tongue danced around his shaft, tasting every inch of his manhood.

Suddenly, y/n's gentle guidance turned to a firm grip, and he started to thrust his hips, his dick sliding in and out of her mouth with increasing roughness. She gagged, but he didn't stop, his eyes locked on hers, the pleasure etched on his face unmistakable. She could feel her throat stretching, the sensation of being filled so completely both overwhelming and exhilarating.

"Fuck, you're so tight and warm," he grunted, his grip on her hair tightening. The words sent a jolt of pleasure through Tzuyu's body, and she felt her pussy clench around the emptiness. Despite the fear and the guilt, she found herself getting wetter, her body responding to the raw power and dominance he exuded.

Tzuyu's eyes watered as he pushed himself further into her mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, but he didn't relent. His eyes were closed, his face a mask of pure ecstasy as he fucked her mouth.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groaned, his hips jerking erratically. "Your throat is so fucking good."

Tzuyu braced herself, her eyes wide as he pulled out of her mouth, the tip of his cock pulsing with the promise of release. He didn't give her time to react as he painted her face with ropes of white hot cum, the thick liquid spurting over her cheeks and nose, landing in her eyes and mouth. She squealed in surprise and pleasure, the sensation of his warm seed on her skin sending a shiver down her spine.

He stared down at her, his eyes dark with desire as she sat there, panting and covered in his cum. His chest heaved with the effort of his orgasm, his cock still twitching in his hand. The sight of her like this, vulnerable and debased, made him feel more powerful than he had ever felt before.

Tzuyu's eyes fluttered closed as she felt the warmth spread over her face, the sticky liquid clinging to her lashes and trickling down her neck. She licked her lips, tasting the saltiness of his seed, and felt an unexpected surge of arousal. She had never been treated this way before, never been so thoroughly claimed, and it was intoxicating.

"Open your eyes," he said, his voice a low growl. "I want you to see what you do to me."

Tzuyu's eyes snapped open, her vision blurred by the cum that had spattered across her face. She watched as y/n's gaze fell to her chest, his eyes lingering on her breasts, which were heaving with every shallow breath she took. His hand moved down to her stomach, tracing the soft curves before coming to rest between her thighs.

"Now it's my time to make you feel good," he murmured, his voice a dark promise that sent a shiver down her spine. Without waiting for a response, he knelt before her, his mouth descending to her shaved pink pussy. The first touch of his tongue was like a bolt of lightning, sending a shock of pleasure through her core. He licked her slowly, savoring the taste of her arousal, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Ahhh... So good," Tzuyu gasped, her body arching off the couch. She had never felt anything quite like this before. His tongue was a masterful tool, tracing her folds and teasing her clit in a way that had her toes curling. Her hands found his hair, tangling in the soft strands as she held him to her, urging him on. She could feel the tension building, the coil of desire tightening with each flick and suck.

"Fuck," she moaned, the word slipping from her lips without thought. Her eyes rolled back in her head as he added a finger, pushing into her wetness with ease. "Keep it going," she begged, the need for release a physical ache. His pace didn't falter, the steady rhythm of his tongue and finger driving her closer and closer to the edge.

The world around them disappeared, leaving only the sound of their ragged breaths and the slick wetness of their intimate dance. Tzuyu's hips began to buck, her body moving of its own accord to meet his touch. The pressure grew, a delicious agony that made her nails dig into the couch cushions.

"Fuck, y/n, I'm gonna cum," she panted, her voice a desperate plea. His eyes never left hers as he increased his pace, his two fingers curling inside her, hitting a spot that had her back bowing off the couch. His tongue danced around her clit, the sensation so intense she could feel her orgasm building like a wave ready to crest.

Her leg shot up, trembling in the air as her toes curled. The muscles in her thigh quivered with the effort of holding herself in place, her whole body tightening with each pulse of pleasure that shot through her. Her breathing grew heavier, her chest heaving as she chased the release that was just out of reach.

Then, it hit her. Like a tidal wave, her orgasm crashed over her, sending her body into spasms of pleasure. "Fuck, y/n, I'm cumming so hard!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the quiet house. Her back arched off the couch, her nails digging into the fabric as she rode the wave of ecstasy. Her pussy clamped down on his fingers, her walls pulsing as she came, her juices spilling onto his hand.

Y/n watched with a smug smile, his own arousal reaching new heights as he felt her tighten around his digits. He didn't stop, his tongue flicking and licking, eager to taste every drop of her sweetness. He knew she couldn't squirt, but the way her body responded to him, the way she writhed and screamed, was more than enough. It was power, pure and simple, and he reveled in it.

Her climax seemed to go on forever, her body shaking and quivering as the pleasure consumed her. Tzuyu had never felt anything so intense before, and she was both scared and exhilarated by it. Her eyes squeezed shut, she focused on the feeling of his mouth on her, the pressure of his fingers inside her.

Y/n was relentless, his tongue swirling and flicking against her sensitive clit, even as she bucked and thrashed beneath him. He could feel her pussy tighten around his digits, her juices flowing more freely with each wave of pleasure that crashed over her. Despite her protests, he didn't stop, eager to test her limits and push her further than she had ever been before.

"I want to know if you can squirt," he murmured against her clit, his voice muffled by her flesh. His words were a challenge, a declaration of his intent to claim her in every way possible. His fingers curled inside her, hitting that special spot that made her eyes roll back in her head.

"I'm not a squirter," she gasped, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Y/n paused, his fingers still buried inside her, his tongue lingering against her sensitive bud. He studied her flushed face, the sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breaths coming in pants. He knew she was telling the truth, but that didn't deter him. If he couldn't make her squirt, he would settle for something else. He wanted to hear her scream his name in pleasure, to see the look of utter abandon on her face when she climaxed again.

"If you say so, Tzuyu," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. He withdrew his fingers, watching the way she shivered with the loss of his touch.

Tzuyu's voice was barely above a whisper as she spoke. "Is okay, y/n," she said, her voice trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. "You've already given me the best orgasms I've ever had." Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotion.

Y/n's eyes darkened, his pupils dilating at the admission. He knew he had her now, and he was eager to show her just how much more he could give her. He stood, his cock still rock hard from her mouth and her tight pussy. "You're so sweet, Tzuyu," he murmured, his voice a caress. "But we're not done yet."

With surprising agility, he turned her over, her ass in the air, her breasts pressed against the couch. He positioned himself behind her, his cock nudging against her wetness. She tensed, feeling the sheer size of him, but she didn't protest. She wanted this, she wanted him to fill her completely, to stretch her in ways she had never been stretched before.

"Now," she whispered, her voice shaking with anticipation. "Fuck me, y/n. I want to feel your 10 inches inside me."

His eyes glinted with excitement as he positioned himself at her entrance. He knew she was ready for him, her pussy slick and inviting, begging to be filled. But instead of pushing into her, he decided to tease her a little more. He rubbed the tip of his cock up and down her slit, watching as she squirmed and gasped beneath him.

"Beg for it, Tzuyu," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her entire body. "Tell me you need more."

"Please," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Fuck me already." "Fuck me like a dirty whore who craving for big dick, just wrecked my little pussy"

He's grin grew wider as he listened to her desperate pleas. He could feel his cock throb at the sound of her voice, the way she begged for it. He positioned himself at her entrance, the tip of his cock nudging against her swollen folds. She was so wet, so ready for him, and he could feel her pussy quivering with anticipation.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed forward, watching as her eyes went wide with shock and pleasure. Her tight walls stretched around his girth, the feeling of her warmth enveloping him almost too much to bear. He groaned as he sank deeper, feeling every inch of her, the heat of her body surrounding him like a velvet vice.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he grunted, his voice strained with the effort of not giving in to his own desires. He held still for a moment, letting her adjust to his size. He could feel her muscles tense around him, and he knew that she was fighting the urge to push him out. But she didn't. Instead, she took a deep breath and pushed back, taking him in even further.

Tzuyu's eyes squeezed shut as he began to move, his hips thrusting in a steady rhythm that had her panting and gripping the couch. She could feel the pressure of his cock against her stomach with each deep stroke, and she knew that he was holding back. He was too big for her to handle all at once.

"Fuckk," she screamed, the sound echoing through the room. "I can feel it, it's bulging under my stomach."

He didn't respond with words, instead, his hips picked up the pace, driving into her with a ferocity that made her toes curl. She was so tight, so warm, and the way she was taking him, inch by inch, was driving him wild. He gripped her hips, his knuckles white with the effort of holding back. He knew he could take her harder, faster, but he didn't want to hurt her.

"Just fuck me as hard as you can," Tzuyu begged again, her voice raw with need.

He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his cock still buried deep inside her. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "Once I start, I won't be able to stop."

"Yes," she panted, her voice urgent. "Fuck me, y/n. Make me scream."

With a low growl, y/n gave in to her pleas. His grip on her hips tightened, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he began to pound into her with everything he had. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through her body, her pussy stretching to accommodate his massive girth. Her cries filled the room, a mix of pain and pleasure as he claimed her completely. She could feel her walls stretching around him, the sensation so intense it was almost too much to bear.

"Yes, yes, yes," she chanted, her voice growing louder with each thrust. The couch beneath her creaked with the force of their lovemaking, the fabric scratching at her bare skin. Her hands clutched at the cushions, her nails leaving little half-moons in the fabric. The world around her narrowed to the feeling of his cock filling her, the sound of their bodies slapping together.

Y/n's grip on her hips grew bruising, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. "Fuck, Tzuyu," he groaned, his hips pumping harder. "You're so tight. So wet." His words only served to spur her on, her pussy clenching around him like a vice. She could feel the orgasm building, the pressure growing with each stroke.

"Yeah, don't you dare to stop," she gasped, her voice a desperate whine. "I'm gonna cum, y/n. Make me cum with your big white cock." The words sent him over the edge, and he picked up the pace, driving into her with a ferocity that had her seeing stars. She was so close, so close to that sweet release. Her nails dug into the couch, the fabric tearing under the force of her grip.

"Fuck, yes," she screamed as her orgasm hit her like a freight train, her body convulsing around his cock. Her pussy clamped down on him, pulsing with the intensity of her climax. Y/n felt her tighten around him and knew she was close, so close to the edge.

He gripped her hips harder, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he felt his own release approaching. "Come for me, Tzuyu," he grunted, his voice thick with lust. "I want to feel you come all over my cock."

Her walls tightened around him, the sensation like nothing he had ever felt before. "I'm cumming," she screamed, her voice raw and unbridled. "I'm cumming so much!" Her orgasm washed over her, her entire body shaking with the intensity of it. Her pussy clamped down on him, her juices flooding out and soaking the couch beneath her.

For a moment, he stilled, his cock buried deep inside her as he watched her come apart. He could feel the tremors of her release, the way her body spasmed around him. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he felt a strange mix of pride and possessiveness. She was his, now and forever.

"U have a stamina of a monster, y/n," Tzuyu panted, her voice filled with amazement and a hint of challenge.

Y/n chuckled, his strokes never faltering as he continued to pound into her. "I've had plenty of practice," he said, his voice filled with a dark amusement that sent shivers down her spine. "But you, my dear, are something special."

Tzuyu's body was a maelstrom of sensation, each of her nerve endings singing with pleasure. She had never felt so alive, so consumed by the need for another's touch. Each time he filled her completely, she felt herself shattering into a million little pieces, only to be reassembled by the next stroke.

The couch groaned beneath them, a testament to their frenzied passion. She could feel the fabric of the couch cushions digging into her knees as she was pushed further and further into the furniture, her body taking all of him with surprising ease. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, and she bit her bottom lip to muffle the cries that kept escaping her mouth.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a rhythmic crescendo that seemed to crescendo with each pulse of her heart. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she could feel her body tighten around him once more. He was relentless, his hips never stopping as he fucked her with a passion that seemed to be fueled by an endless well of desire.

Y/n's grunts grew louder, his breaths ragged in her ear as he whispered dark promises of never-ending pleasure. His hand snaked around her waist to play with her clit, the added sensation making her toes curl. "I'm going to fill you up, Tzuyu," he groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and possessiveness. "You're going to feel me deep inside you, my seed claiming you."

Tzuyu's eyes snapped open, the reality of his words hitting her like a sledgehammer. But instead of fear, she felt a strange thrill, a yearning to be claimed by this man who had so thoroughly taken her over. "Do it,"

she whispered, her voice hoarse with need. "Make a baby to me."

Y/n's eyes widened with shock at her words, but the desire in her voice was unmistakable. He didn't need any more encouragement. He slammed into her one last time, his cock reaching depths she never knew existed. With a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house, he came deep inside her, filling her womb with his hot, thick seed.

Tzuyu's body tensed around him, her own orgasm hitting her like a tsunami. Her pussy clenched and spasmed, milking him for every last drop. She felt the warmth of his cum filling her up, the sensation so intense it was almost painful. But she didn't care. She wanted this, needed this, to feel alive in a way she never had before.

As their bodies stilled, he collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting warmth against her back. He could feel her heart racing beneath his chest, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. He kissed the back of her neck, his tongue tracing a slow, lazy pattern along her skin.

"Are you sure?" he whispered in her ear, his voice filled with a hint of doubt. "Just this one time?"

Tzuyu turned her head to look at him, her eyes glazed over with lust. "I think I can't get enough of you," she said, her voice a seductive purr that sent a shiver down his spine. Her hand reached back to cup his cheek, pulling his face closer to hers. "I want you to fuck me every day, y/n. Make me scream your name until I can't even remember my own."

He's cock twitched at her words, his desire for her still raging like a wildfire. He pulled out slowly, watching as her pussy clung to him, desperate to keep him inside. Her juices coated his shaft, making it slick and shiny with need. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, but he wasn't about to argue with a goddess in the throes of passion. He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

As he pulled away, she gasped, the sudden emptiness making her pussy spasm. He watched with fascination as a geyser of squirt shot out, drenching the floor beneath them. Her body trembled with the force of it, her legs shaking as she tried to remain upright. Tzuyu's eyes were wide with shock, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

"Fuck," she whimpered, her voice a mix of amazement and need. "I've never done that before."

Y/n's eyes widened, his cock jumping in response to the sight. "You're a natural," he said, his voice filled with awe. "Now, let's see how much more you can take."

Without warning, he slammed back into her, his cock hitting her G-spot with precision. Tzuyu screamed, her body bucking against his. She could feel the pressure building again, a pressure that was unlike anything she had ever felt before. It was as if her pussy had a mind of its own, demanding more of him, more of his thick cock filling her to the brim.

His strokes grew shorter, faster, his hips snapping against her ass as he pounded into her. The sound of their skin slapping together filled the room, a symphony of passion that seemed to crescendo with each thrust. She could feel herself tightening around him, her body preparing for another explosive release.

"I'm going to make you squirt again," he growled, his hands gripping her hips with a bruising force. "You're going to soak this couch with your cum, and I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight."

Tzuyu's eyes rolled back in her head, the pleasure overwhelming her senses. She had never felt so alive, so consumed by desire. Her pussy clenched around him, her walls spasming as another orgasm built. She could feel the warmth spreading through her, the pressure growing more intense with each stroke.

"Oh, god," she moaned, her voice a desperate plea. "I'm gonna cum again."

Y/n's eyes blazed with triumph as he watched her come undone before him. He increased his pace, his cock plunging in and out of her with a ferocity that seemed to defy human endurance. He knew she was close, could feel her pussy fluttering around him like a trapped bird.

Her climax hit her like a freight train, her pussy spurting out a torrent of cum that soaked the couch and the floor. She screamed his name, her body shaking with the force of it. Her nails dug into the cushions, leaving deep gouges in the fabric as she tried to hold on to something, anything, to ground herself in the face of such intense pleasure.

Y/n didn't let up, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting deeper with each thrust. He could feel his own orgasm approaching, the pressure in his balls becoming unbearable. He reached around her, his thumb circling her clit, and she screamed, her body tightening around him. He watched in amazement as another gush of squirt spurted from her pussy, soaking the couch and pooling on the floor.

"You're so fucking perfect," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "So wet, so tight." He could feel himself growing even harder, the sight and feel of her squirting pushing him closer to the edge. His hand moved to her hip, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he held her in place.

The sensation was indescribable, the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of her, the sound of her wetness filling the room. He knew she was close again, could see it in the way her back arched, her breasts jiggling with each thrust. He leaned down, his mouth claiming hers in a bruising kiss as he pushed into her one last time.

Her body convulsed around him, her pussy clenching down so tight he could feel the head of his cock pulsing inside her. With a final grunt, he pulled out, watching as her pussy spasmed, desperately trying to keep him inside. He stroked himself, his cock a blur as he watched the last of her squirt spurt out, painting the floor with her desire.

Tzuyu's eyes rolled back in her head, her body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. She had never felt so alive, so wanted, so...used. And she loved every second of it. She could feel the sticky wetness on her thighs, her pussy still pulsing with need. She opened her legs wider, inviting him back in, her voice a desperate plea.

"More," she begged, her voice a whimper. "I need more."

He didn't need any further encouragement. He plunged back into her, his cock sinking into her warm depths with ease. He could feel her tightening around him once more, her pussy greedy for his cum. His strokes grew more urgent, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet sound that seemed to echo through the room.

"I'm gonna fill you up, Tzuyu," he groaned, his voice a harsh whisper. "You're going to feel me deep inside you once more."

The pressure grew, the room spinning as she felt herself climbing towards another peak. Her walls tightened around him, her body begging for release. "Do it," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I want to feel it again."

With a roar that seemed to shake the house, y/n erupted, his cock pumping ropes of hot cum into her waiting pussy. Tzuyu's body tightened around him, her own orgasm hitting like a tidal wave. She could feel him filling her, his warmth spreading through her body as she came one final time.

Their bodies remained connected for a moment, both panting and trembling with the aftermath of their passion. He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he pulled out. She whimpered at the loss, but the feeling of his cum spilling out of her was almost as delicious as the sensation of him being inside her.

"How many times did I make you cum?" he asked, his voice a smug whisper against her ear.

"Countless," Tzuyu murmured, her body still trembling from the intensity of their encounter. She felt both satisfied and insatiable, her pussy still throbbing from the pounding he had given her.

"How many times did your husband make you orgasm?" y/n questioned, his tone playful yet possessive. He knew he had taken her to heights she had never experienced before, and it filled him with a dark sense of pride.

Tzuyu's voice was a breathless whisper as she replied, "Around five, usually." Her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and arousal as she admitted it. Despite the bliss she felt in the aftermath of her recent orgasms, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. Her husband had always been attentive and loving in bed, but there was something primal and overwhelming about the way y/n had claimed her body.

"So I win," He said proudly, his chest puffing out with triumph. His eyes gleamed with victory as he looked down at her, his cock still semi-erect and glistening with their combined juices. He knew he had taken her to heights she had never experienced before, and it filled him with a dark, possessive satisfaction.

Tzuyu could only nod, her body still quivering with the aftershocks of her last orgasm. The guilt was there, but it was overshadowed by the intensity of the pleasure he had given her. She had never felt so alive, so desired. His words echoed in her mind: "How many squirt is your husband's gift? Zero." The truth of it stung, but in that moment, she didn't care. She had never been able to achieve a squirting orgasm with her husband, and the fact that y/n had brought it out of her so easily was intoxicating.

Her pussy was still quivering when she felt a new sensation, a wetness that seemed to come from within. She looked down, eyes widening in amazement as another gush of squirt spurted from her, soaking the already drenched couch cushion beneath her. "What's happening?" she gasped, her voice filled with a mix of shock and arousal.

Y/n chuckled darkly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He reached down, his fingers tracing the line of her soaking slit. "Looks like you enjoyed that," he said, his voice filled with a smug satisfaction. "Your body can't get enough of me."

Tzuyu's cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she couldn't deny the truth in his words. She had squirted again, a sensation that was both foreign and incredibly arousing. Her pussy was still quivering, her walls clenching and unclenching around the emptiness left by his departure. "What... what did you do to me?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Ask your pussy, not me," he said with a smirk, watching as she squirmed on the couch. He knew he had pushed her to new limits, and the power rush was intoxicating. Her hair was a tangled mess, her makeup smeared from their earlier kisses, and her body was covered in a sheen of sweat. She had never looked more beautiful.

"I need to go to my house before my husband comes," Tzuyu said again, her voice stronger this time.

Y/n chuckled and stood up, his cock still hard and covered in their mixed fluids. He walked to the door and unlocked it, swinging it open with a flourish. "Fine," he said with a wicked smirk. "But do it naked."

Tzuyu's eyes went wide with horror, but she knew arguing would be futile. She slowly rose from the couch, her legs wobbly from the intensity of her orgasms. Her body was covered in sweat, her breasts heaving with each breath she took. She felt more exposed than she ever had before, but there was also a strange sense of liberation in her nakedness.

Her first attempt to stand was a failure, her legs giving out beneath her. She stumbled, catching herself on the arm of the couch. Y/n chuckled, watching her with a predatory gaze. "Looks like my little slut can't even walk straight," he teased, his cock twitching with renewed interest.

With a grimace of determination, Tzuyu pushed herself off the couch, her legs trembling as she took one step and then another. She felt like she was walking on jelly, each step sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body. She was a mess, her hair in disarray and her makeup smeared, but she walked with a strange sense of pride. Each step was a declaration of the power she had found in her own sexuality.

As she approached the door, she felt the cool breeze from outside caress her sweat-drenched body, sending goosebumps across her skin. The stark contrast from the heat of their passion made her even more aware of her nakedness, her nipples tightening with every gust of wind. The reality of her situation slammed into her, but instead of fear, she felt excitement. The thrill of the forbidden was like a drug, and she was utterly addicted.

"Just walk slowly," he said with a laugh, his eyes never leaving her. She knew he enjoyed her vulnerability, the way she was forced to move with careful steps to avoid stumbling. Each movement was a testament to his dominance over her, and she found it oddly thrilling. Her legs felt like jelly, but she managed to make it to the door, her hand shaking as she gripped the handle.

The moment she stepped out into the sunlight, the reality of what had just happened hit her like a slap in the face. She was naked, her body a canvas of sweat and sperm, and her pussy was still pulsing with the aftermath of her intense orgasms. The breeze outside was cool against her skin, making her nipples tighten even further. She looked around nervously, hoping that no one would see her in this state of utter exposure.

Her house was indeed close, a mere few steps away, but it felt like an eternity as she forced her trembling legs to carry her across the short expanse of lawn that separated them. Her pussy was still flooding with a mix of his cum and her squirt, leaving a trail of wetness behind her. She felt like a slut, used and discarded, but the feeling only served to excite her further. Her mind was racing with thoughts of what her husband would say if he knew, but she pushed them aside. For now, all that mattered was getting back to the safety of her own home.

As she reached her doorstep, she fumbled with the lock, her hands slippery with their combined fluids. The key slipped from her grasp, and she had to bend over to retrieve it, giving him a clear view of her dripping pussy, which was still red from his relentless pounding. She could feel his eyes on her, and the knowledge that he was watching made her even wetter. She managed to get the key in the lock and stumbled inside, her legs giving way beneath her.

Her heart was racing as she collapsed onto the floor, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. She looked down at herself, at the mess that was her body, and couldn't believe what she had just done. But even as the guilt began to set in, she couldn't deny the thrill of it all. The way he had made her feel, the power he had over her, it was like nothing she had ever experienced before.

With shaking hands, she made her way to the shower, the warm water washing away the evidence of her infidelity. She stood there for what felt like hours, her mind racing with thoughts of y/n, his touch, his cock, his dominance. She knew she shouldn't want him, that it was wrong, but she couldn't help the way her body responded to the memory of their encounter. Her pussy clenched around the emptiness, and she found herself reaching down to touch herself, the water mixing with her arousal.

As she cleaned herself off, she felt a strange mix of emotions: guilt, fear, excitement, and desire. She knew she had to keep this a secret, that she couldn't let anyone know about her neighbor's dark gift. But as she stepped out of the shower, the scent of him still lingering on her skin, she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever be able to resist the temptation to feel his cock inside her again, to let him claim her in the most primal way possible. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, and she realized with a start that she was already planning their next rendezvous.

The sound of the door opening snapped her out of her reverie, and she rushed to dry off and put on her robe. Her husband's footsteps grew louder as he made his way to the living room, where she was hastily trying to clean up the evidence of her tryst. "Tzuyu, why is the floor wet?" he called out, his voice filled with confusion.

"I'm so sorry," she replied, her voice a mix of embarrassment and arousal as she stepped into the room. "I spilled some water from the garden hose when I was watering the plants." She hoped her lie was convincing enough to cover the reality of the situation.

Her husband looked at her with concern, noticing the flustered state she was in. "Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes scanning her from head to toe.

Tzuyu forced a smile, her heart racing. "Yes, I'm fine," she lied, her voice quivering slightly. She bent down to wipe the floor, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. The wetness she had hoped was just water was unmistakable. It was y/n's cum, mixed with her squirt, a glaring reminder of the passionate encounter she had just experienced. She had to think quickly.

Ready for part 2? Just share ur ideas to me

#tzuyu smut #kpop smut #male reader #twice smut #gg smut #girl group smut

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