#not sure if i can pull it off but i want his clothes

[luvcaleb]

SHH... WE CAN'T GET CAUGHT.

nsfw (18+). includes fingering, breast play, dirty talk, huge cock, unprotected sex, creampie, fwb relationship (it's pretty obvious you like each other tho), mentions of your first time experience with caleb (and other times after that), having sex when another person is just a few rooms away, too much cum, slight praise kink. filthy, filthy, filthy smut from top to bottom. likes and reblogs will be very helpful !!

“Shh... you don't want Gran hearing us, do you?”

You're covering your mouth to stifle your whimpers, but there's no hiding the wet squelches beneath the blanket. You wrap your hand around Caleb's flicking wrist, his fingers buried deep inside your cunt. When he adds another digit, a loud cry of his name is pulled out of you.

Caleb presses a soft kiss against your nape. You're both turned on your sides, your back against his solid chest. “As much as I like hearing you say my name, it'd be a problem if someone came to interrupt us. Remember the last time?”

The last time he's referring to is your risky tryst from a few days back; Caleb joined you in your bath, claiming he wants to “wash your back” for you. As expected, 20% of your time was spent in a relaxing soak where he massaged your shoulders and washed your hair, and the remaining 80% was spent with his head between your legs, coaxing out wave after wave of cum with his fingers and tongue.

The tip of his cock was already inside you when a knock on your door interrupted you, your grandmother asking if you knew where Caleb went because he wasn't in his room. Needless to say, you had to stop what you were doing and Caleb had a difficult time sneaking out of the bathroom.

“That... mmph... and this... is all your fault...” you struggle to say while biting back your moans as he grinds his fingers against a good spot, his thumb flicking at your clit. Caleb has always been too good with his hands. “You always—ah!—do this even when there are other people around...!”

“You wanna know why?” Chuckling, Caleb leans closer to whisper to your ear, lips brushing over your soft skin. “You squeeze me so fucking tight when we're about to get caught.”

You gush around his fingers as he mouths on the shell of your ear, moaning into the palm of your hand. He hums in satisfaction, pulling out his hand from your panties to admire the stringy release between his fingers. “You always cum too fast, pipsqueak. You pent up these days?”

How on earth could you possibly be pent up when you've been fucking Caleb at every opportunity? Every time you're left alone at the house, he fucks you against any flat surface he can find—the door when he's too impatient to go to your room, the bathroom sink because he likes making you watch yourself in the mirror when he's fucking you stupid, and even ate you out on the kitchen countertop at some point.

But the thing is, Caleb is undaunted by the possibility of being caught. So even when your Gran is around, he sneaks into your bedroom to fool around, just like what he's doing now under the pretense of “we watched a horror movie today, aren't you scared to sleep alone?”

Evidently, Caleb has no intention of letting you sleep tonight. He fondles your tits beneath your shirt, the tent in his sweatpants grinding against your clothed ass. “Don't pretend like you're innocent,” he mutters, making you yelp when he pinches your nipple. “You strutted around all day wearing my shirt without a bra, bending down in front of me on purpose... Did you know how hard it was to hold back from fucking you on the spot?”

“T-that was...!” Your cheeks flush with warmth. Sure, you were kind of riling him up on purpose, but that was under the assumption you'd be alone tonight.

“This ass...” he rubs you above your shorts, groaning as he palms at the soft flesh. “...was in my mind the entire fucking day. I held myself back until now, but I can't hold back anymore, fuck.”

He strips you off of your clothes, only leaving his shirt scrunched up above your breasts. He pulls down his sweatpants, and you feel his huge cock slap against your lower back, his pre-cum smearing across your skin. He holds the back of your knee to raise your leg, positioning his cock to your soaked pussy.

“Been waiting for this for so fucking long... Oh, shiiit,” he moans, long and drawn out and dirty as he slides right home, the tip of his dick pounding at your cervix. You squeal into your hand, your cunt clamping down on his cock so tightly but it doesn't deter his fast pace at all.

He reaches so deep like this, hitting spots he normally couldn't when you're in missionary. His huge cock feels like it's carving its own space into your body, coring you out from the inside, and it feels so good that you can't hold back your voice at all.

“Nn... Don't do that,” Caleb pulls away your hand from your mouth when he notices you biting down on your skin to hide your moans. He replaces it by putting his fingers in your mouth, cooing softly to your ear, “Suck. You're going to hurt yourself.”

You suck on his fingers, eyes rolling back to your head as he continues to pound you, fucking your pussy so good. Only Caleb knows how to make you feel so much pleasure to the point you can't think properly anymore. Your fingers could never hope to reach the places his cock touches.

It's how this twisted relationship started in the first place, Caleb catching you touching yourself when you forgot to lock your door. He taught you how to make yourself cum because you didn't know anything, until all you knew was him and his cock. But he was too big the first time you took him in that he had to fuck you loose with four fingers, sucking and licking at your pussy to make you wet enough to accept his thick girth and length. Now, he could slide inside you easily, your body having taken his shape.

Caleb stares at your messy face, utterly endeared. “Fuck, you're so fucking cute...” He takes out his fingers from your mouth, using them to tilt your jaw to meet his lips. He kisses you sloppy, no finesse as you slide your tongue against his, moaning into each other's mouths.  “Mm... open your mouth more... yeah, that's it, baby... good fucking girl...”

“Ah, fuck, Caleb!” you sob, desperately rocking against his cock. “I'm gonna cum, cumming, I can't anymore...!”

“You're gonna cum?” Caleb stops thrusting, making you whine and attempt to move yourself, but he holds onto your hips and pushes you into the mattress, laying you flat on the sheets on your front. He settles behind you, using his weight to pound you to the mattress harder. “Then fucking cum.”

You moan uncontrollably into the pillows, completely forgetting you're meant to stay quiet. Caleb fucks his cock harder, faster, deeper, failing to hold back his own grunts as you tighten up around him, wet heat melting around his dick. “Shit, I'm gonna cum too... I'm gonna cum hard in your slutty fucking pussy... fuck, I'm cumming!”

You squirt around his cock as he fills you up with cum, your fluids making a mess between your bodies and the sheets. You don't realize you're crying out up until Caleb grabs your chin and kisses you once more, muffling the lewd moans you're letting out while he's still cumming inside you, hot and thick. He gives you tiny, slowing thrusts, cock still spurting out semen. “Oh, baby, you did so good...” he sucks on your bottom lip, staring intently at your orgasm face. “Such a good fucking girl for me...”

“So... full...” is the only thing you can say, feeling the sheer volume of one load of his cum in your pussy, warming you from the inside.

“Not full enough, baby.” Caleb peppers your face with kisses. It is then that you realize—with no small amount of fear and arousal—his cock hasn't softened at all. “I still have a lot to give you.”

[caffieneaddictt18]

little idea: poly!141 caring for a chubby reader who doesnt understand what its like to have someone care for them

like, Price makes sure that you eat, especially on the days where your body dysmorphia hits harder than normal. You always look confused while pulling out your own lunch, saying you brought it with you. Its a salad with no nutritional value other than barely any calories. John takes it and gives you the lunch that he got for you: a filling lunch with plenty of calories, carbs, and protein to keep you going for the day. Just listen to him. Trust me.

Simon who likes to workout with you: doing push-ups with you on his back, hip thrusts (😉) as you sit on his lap, etc. “Luv, I do my cardio at home” as he winks at you from behind the mask type shi

Gaz who loves to go shopping with you and will actually pay attention to the clothes you try on, complimenting you and even picking stuff out that he likes and wants to see on you. You blush from not having the same attention from exes and tell him that he doesnt have to be here while you try your stuff on. That you can find him if he wants to go look at stuff. He VEHEMENTLY denies leaving. “Why would I leave when I have a pretty darling to look at?”

Johnny who cannot get enough of your soft skin. His hands are always on you, always on the plush parts of your body. If you have hip dips, his hands like to rest there. He claims thats theres no better place for his hands to rest when he’s not groping at your tummy, thighs, rolls, tits- You blush every time his hands rest on the plusher parts of your hips or on your tummy, pushing his hands off just for him to put them back on. “Johnny, you dont need to touch that.”

“‘N why no’?”

“I know it can be-“

“Bonnie, Im keepin my ‘ands on ya until yer understand that I don’ want em off ya.”

Just a poly!141 taking care of you by also doing simple things around that house like chores when its your chore day, dishes when you cook, etc. JUST POLY!141 TAKING CARE OF YOUR STUPIDLY INDEPENDENT AND SLIGHTLY INSECURE SELF

[syoddeye]

cygnet, plucked | price x reader | part one part one cw: clothes stealing, forced transformation, coercion, familial abandonment, non-consensual touching/manhandling, restraints, masturbation mention, forced marriage forthcoming cw: dubcon, forced marriage, blood, mild injury a/n: reader is a swan shapeshifter. she retains some feathers as a human. based off this request, obvs influenced by swan-maidens, swan lake.

The first time he touches you, it's your wrist. A firm grip, just below the joint. Testing. Feeling the few feathers that sprout there, thumbing over the delicate, individual rachis.

You don't move. Don't speak. Torn between the instinct to flee and the paralyzing fear that you cannot. You watch his face. The thick brows, the kempt beard. The wrinkles that pull at his forehead when he frowns.

He is older than you—older than you look, at least. His arms are burly, heavy with muscle and hair, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows like he means to get his hands dirty at any moment. Willing to. Blue eyes, your favorite color until this second, framed by crow's feet and speak to experience.

He looks at you with expectations you wish you didn't understand.

"Can't leave without this, can you?"

Your dress, spun from feathers and thread, drapes over his shoulder like a pelt. As if it were a thing he hunted, caught, claimed—that he did not simply steal it from the lakeshore when you were distracted. It doesn't belong there. It doesn't belong anywhere but on you.

"Come along. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Your sisters are gone. Fled, shrieking into the oncoming sunrise. You do not blame them. But it hurts. 

The lake is still. Empty.

He lets the silence stretch, patient. He has all the time in the world. You don't.

You've watched human men before, from a safe distance, tucked among the reeds with your sisters. You've seen what they do when they think no one is watching. The way their faces shift at the sight of a woman. The way their hands reach, take, ruin.

You are a flightless bird, exposed. Not much of a swan. A sitting duck.

What choice do you have?

You follow.

You learn his name is John. That he has lived in this cabin for almost a year. That he built it himself. That he traps and skins, chops wood, salts fish, keeps a gun out of reach, hidden like your dress.

He tells you these things in pieces, the same way he feeds you. A bowl of soup set down in front of you with no ceremony. A tin cup of well water. A torn hunk of bread.

He talks a little, asks a little.

"Never seen anything like you," he says on the second night while you cower behind his chair by the fire. Where you slept after tearing out of his arms and screaming yourself hoarse. "Wish you'd talk to me. Awfully shy, aren't you?"

It galls you. Shy. As if he is not keeping you here, naked. Vulnerable. You ache for your wings. The sky.

You say nothing.

He exhales through his nose, it sounds like a laugh. "I suppose it's not an easy thing, coming from a life like yours."

You want to ask him what he thinks your life was. But you don't want to know what he would say.

He keeps the dress in a chest under his bed.

You desperately search and find it while he is outside splitting wood. The latch is loose. Stupidly unlocked. You lift the lid and your breath catches. There it is. Your feathers, your escape, the lifeline that made you you.

Your fingers graze the fabric. It should be soft, but it feels wrong, foreign and unfamiliar under your hands. You wonder if it is altered. If it will still fit. If it's too late, tainted by his handling.

"Looking for something?"

You slam the lid shut.

John stands in the doorway, hands on his hips. Forehead slick with sweat. The axe is outside, leaning against the chopping block, but his knife is at his belt.

He'd hurt you if you tried to run, maybe kill you. You are not so sure you want to die.

You don't answer.

He crosses the room. He doesn't look angry. He looks—wry. Pleased. Like he had been waiting for this.

He kneels beside you, one arm resting on his knee, and tilts his head. Reeking of pine and tobacco smoke. "That's not for you anymore, darling."

You swallow. This is the closest you've been since he entrapped you. "It is mine."

He nods, as if conceding the point. "And what would you do with it?" he asks. "Go back? To what?"

He reaches out, wiping away a single, hot tear. The fireplace pops, and you feel the warmth of his skin before you feel the roughness of his fingers. You hate it.

"The lake is still empty. They've not come back."

You think of your sisters. You think of the wind under your wings and streaming over your back, the open sky. You think of the sound of John reviving the hearth in the morning, how he dropped a blanket over you the first night, and said, You'll freeze like that.

Of course, he thinks nothing of the fact that he's the reason why you're naked. Blind to it or willfully ignorant.

"It's just you and me now. I'll take care of you, Shy."

Shy. That isn't your name. But you'll be dead before you give your real one to him. At least something will remain yours.

You look at him. He is a big man. Broad shoulders and palms. Thick, hairy arms and a barrel chest. You've seen the thing between his legs—he's made no efforts to hide himself or alter his routine with you hiding in the corner. He touches himself in the dark when he thinks you're sleeping.

He could break you easily. But he hasn't.

Not yet.

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek.

"Can't believe I found you," he says. "A pretty wife, fished from the lake. Or the sky, I suppose." He smiles, chuckling as if you're both in on the joke. "Mm. Wife." He presses his thumb to your bottom lip. "Yeah, like the sound of that. I'll make you a proper wife."

The way he says it is careful. Thoughtful. It is a promise, or a threat. You cannot tell which. 

You look at the chest.

You look at John.

And you do not answer.

John returns at dusk, the door creaking wide to let in the last slant of daylight, and finds you trussed up where he left you. Your wrists are raw, delicate skin rubbed angry beneath the ropes that tightened with your struggling. 

His shadow spills over you, and a sigh slips from him, edged with disappointment. He crouches. Fingers press into your skin, prodding where the rope bit deepest.

"Damn near hurt yourself, honey," he scolds, massaging the worst of the raw spots. He touches you in the way you've seen him care for his axe. Slow, reverent, making sure nothing is too damaged. Unusable. 

A hand settles over the soft, feathery patch above your rump, fingers carding through it appreciatively, lingering before he unravels the last knot. He ignores your hissing.

The moment you're free, you scramble away, body aching. You tuck yourself behind his chair, peeking out with sharp, distrustful eyes. He lets you go, lets you think you've won some small mercy. 

Then he turns his back, shaking out his coat, unpacking the sack he carried in, setting out each item on the table. Dull, practical offerings—salt, flour, needles, twine. Things for a life you don't want. Things for a home you will never call yours. And last, draped over his forearm, a dress. Mundane. Plain, homespun, the color of stone.

But you are distracted. Staring at the chest.

He only addresses your fixation when he's finished, and hauls it out from under the bed. 

"Take a look."

You do. You don't want to, but you do. Your gaze flicks to him first, wary, waiting for the trap. You open it, and your stomach drops.

Your head snaps up, stuttering, eyes glossing over with hot, helpless rage. 

His smile stretches, knowing. Then, he produces the last item from his trip and draws a bundle from the sack.

He explains it's the reason why he's later than expected. A special order that took hours and a bit of coin, but was well worth it. The seamstress did fine work.

Isn't it pretty?

See the little wing pattern she stitched in?

They're the only wings you'll have now.

He holds it out, delicate feathers and lace draping over his hand, the ruined remnants of your freedom reshaped into something grotesque. A wedding veil.

"Try it on for me, darling," he murmurs, offering it with one hand and adjusting himself with the other. "Let me see my bride."

[subshine-thoughts]

"It'll be fun," he said. "A relaxing day by the lake, making sure we soak up the summer sun. I'll even pack us a picnic."

So you went, because why wouldn't you? He's your childhood best friend, after all. Of course you trust him. And spending a day away from civilization sounds like just the thing to relieve your stress.

So you go, spending the drive to the lake laughing and listening to the joint playlist you two have been building for years. You're having such a good time that it doesn't occur to you how far out in the middle of nowhere this lake is.

The morning is perfect. You both read under the sun, camped out on an oversized blanket. When your stomach growls, he reaches inside the picnic basket and pulls out your favorite type of sandwich and a bottle of water.

You think it's thoughtful. He even thought to open up the cap on the bottle so you wouldn't have to struggle with it.

Everything is going fine, and you're about to suggest doing this again before summer ends when a sudden wave of sleepiness hits you.

Must be from the sun, you think tiredly as you lay back down and close your eyes.

"Tired already?" your friend asks teasingly.

You can barely manage to nod in response. Just so tired.

You drift off to the odd sensation of breath against your ear and your friend whispering, "Don't worry. I'm gonna take care of you."

When you come to, still drugged and only half-conscious, almost all your clothes are off. You feel wet in between your legs, and your nipples feel sensitive, like they do after you've played with them for a long time.

Your best friend is dragging his lips down your thigh. You try to reach for him, but your hand is too heavy.

You drift off again.

This time, you wake to the sensation of being filled. You're a little more aware now, but still too sleepy to put together a coherent thought.

All you know is you're fully naked now, laying on your back with your legs spread, and your best friend is slowly sliding in and out of you.

When you moan, a sound of confusion mixed with pleasure, he smiles down at you.

"I'm sorry, princess. I just couldn't help myself."

His voice pulls you back to a more wakeful state, and you realize with horror what's happening. You try to struggle, but you're still so weak. He pins you down easily and picks up the pace of his thrusts.

"No, don't do that. I know you want this. Can't you feel how wet you are for me? How perfectly I fit inside you?"

To prove his point, he pushes deep inside you and holds himself there. You whimper and shake your head. All those years of trust, broken in a single afternoon.

"It's okay. You'll see it soon enough."

You should kick, or cry, or do anything to get him to stop. You should scream, even though there's no one around for miles.

But all you do is lay there while he continues thrusting inside you.

He leans down and kisses you, and despite your fear and your hurt, you kiss him back. You spread your legs open more for him so he has even better access to you.

They're automatic actions, your body responding to the stimulation.

At least, that's what you tell yourself as he comes inside you and then flips you onto your stomach for another round.

And when he nudges your legs open, you let him, lifting your ass into the air so he'll have an easier time violating you.

[lov3darlings]

darlings thoughts, figureskater!reader (18+)

cw: jealous!lando, creampie, multiple orgasms, age gap (6 years), exhibitionism (ig), this is just a more of an expanded version of figureskater!reader. also do watch kamila valieva's bolero because i've referenced her signature spin (at the end of the program) and the start of the program.

lando norris is one hell of a jealous and possessive man. he hates seeing others looking at his beloved like they want to have a piece of her. as if they can, in his humble opinion some should be grateful to be even breathing the same air as his beloved.

he watched you talking to the reporter who was asking mundane questions. the report wasn't the problem, it was one of the mclaren reserve driver who was filling the seat while oscar was injured. he watched with such a gaze that only be described as lustful. the pleasant weather of Netherlands seemed off suddenly.

"hey lovie," lando warapped his arms around your waist, walking into the frame. "oh and we have lando norris here," the reporter laughed before wandering off to bother someone else.

"who?" you questioned. "i know you're jealous, you're gripping me too tight," you said. lando mumbled a quick apology and loosened his grip, moving both of you away from the pit lane. "i can't help it," he said, pressing you against the wall in his garage

"you're too pretty. why are you so pretty huh?" he said while prepping butterfly kisses all over your face as you giggled. "ahh you make me feel like such a bad boyfriend for being jealous. but how can i not be when everyone want my darling?" he squished your cheeks.

"lando norris and a bad boyfriend don't belong in the same sentence," you scrunched your nose. he smriked, feeling proud. if he knew the way to your cunt and your heart then you knew how to stroke his already huge ego and dick. "my smart and pretty girl. you're my favorite."

was the pda too much? in his opinion, it was enough for the cameras and fans to call him a sweet boyfriend. and enough of a signal for the reserve driver to back the fuck off.

he won the race with almost half a minute lead. his teammate was down in 19th, lando lapped him fucking twice.

if there's something that lando doesn't credit you enough for was your flexibility. despite being a professional figure skater, you were more flexible than an average skater. some demonstrations of your flexibility was your ability to do the heart pull move, move your arms to the back and conjoine them and bring it forward over your head. even your signature needle spin was tough to replicate. all in you current program, bolero.

lando groaned into your mouth. one hand on your face and the other roaming all over your body as he pressed you against his driver's room door. he leaned in again, kissing you harder. you could practically taste the washed away residue of champagne in his mouth. he stripped you down, moving your clothes aside.

he shoved his middle and ring finger into your needy cunt. you threw your head back with a moan as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. his fingers curling all in the right places. your hands reached to pull your darling boyfriend even closer, if possible. you were practically a puddle in the palm of his hands, spasming as he increased his speed.

was there a bed in his driver's room? obviously but where's the fun in fucking you that way. plus that bastard would hear it clearly anywhere lando fucked you because of how loud you were being.

"are you gonna come?" he hummed when your moans got louder making you nod pathetically. lando clearly instructed his team to not let anyone come near the driver's room. not that they had any stuff to do there as they were busy in wrapping up things.

he wanted his temporary team mate to hear it all. he wanted the other guy to know that only lando can make sounds out of you like that. sure, it makes him sound like a jealous bastard but how could he not be when some random guy has the audacity to look at his pretty girl so lustfully.

"oh my god," you gasped, cursing under your breathe as you came on his fingers. "you good princess?" lando asks placing gentle kisses on your face. "yeah," you whispered. "think you got a few more?" he leans down, placing tender kisses over your shoulder. lando starts fingering you again as soon he gets a positive sign from you.

he takes out two more orgasms out of you. "just a few more," he mutters as he goes down on his knees. lando laps up at your juices. he lets you be as loud as you wanted to.

"yeah baby be loud. let that fucker hear," he whispered against your clit. his tongue tracing his name on your cunt. your moans grew louder, louder, and louder. "oh gosh i'm gonna──" your words were cut short as you came all over his face. lando wipes you clean, letting you ride out your high.

he gets up, holding you by his own muscles and strengths. "you think you got a last one?" lando asks. you whine into his hold, too tired from the four orgasms. "please baby" he guides your hand to his clothed, hard cock. "feel this? It's just for you." you'd be cruel to deny your precious boyfriend this. plus you were still hungry for his cock. sure his fingers and tongue was great but nothing compared to his cock. "yeah," you nodded making him smile. "thankyou darling," he kissed your forehead.

you squealed when he lifted your leg and threw it over his shoulder, similar to your signature spin you do on ice. the hand on your waist moving to your inner thigh to hold you up. lando got his cock out of his sweatpants and sank it into your cunt making you both moan simultaneously. "that's it, fuck, that's a good girl," he mumbled into your neck, slowly rocking in you. "I'm going to show you how much I love you."

"don't close your eyes, baby. look at me," he orders when your eyes are about to close. "good girl," he praised when you look into his watercoloured eyes. "please mark me, i want everyone to know i'm yours." your words make him smirk. the older man wasted no time in do as you asked him to do.

lando faced you after he was done leaving hickeys on you collarbones. his fingers tipping your chin up, caressing your jaw and his thumb slowly parts your lips, dipping it into your mouth. "that pretty little mouth of yours," he humms. after it was wet enough, he trails his thumb, drowning in your saliva to your clit and starts toying with it making you moan louder. you felt the ache in your legs, not only because of the how good he was fucking you but also from the position he held you in.

despite being a sweet dom, lando surely was a tease. ghosting his lips against yours before pulling back with a smug smirk, making you chase him desperately. when your lips finally met it felt like pure bliss. lando chuckled, fucking you so good that that you were struggling to kiss him back.

your walls clenched against him, breath hitching with his every thrust. "i don’t— i don’t think i can last any longer, fuck, please—" you whimpered. "gonna cum? go ahead, cum all over me baby," he ordered. and you did just that, your cum splattering all over his dick. lando gave in a few thrusts, chasing his high before finishing inside of you.

he lets your leg down. "you did so good for me darling," he says as curled up into you. he rubbed your back, placing soft and tender kisses to your collarbones and face. he lifted your chin to make you look at him. "let's get you all cleaned up?" he hummed before placing small pecks on your lips.

lando quickly washed you up, helping you get dressed into the same clothes he stripped you out of. finally, getting out of his driver's room you still clung to his side. you were too busy talking about what you wanted to eat to notice lando swiftly unlocking his temporary team mates driver's room from the outside. letting the trapped man out. "sounds good honey," he replied when you said you wanted a cheesecake.

[ckret2]

Chapter 84 of human Bill Cipher getting a day pass out of being the Mystery Shack's prisoner: so it turns out Bill and Pacifica have a lot in common! And it's not weird at all! It's—it's very normal. Their childhoods were so normal.

(Since this entire chapter is from the point of view of a character who doesn't know the person she's talking to is Bill, a PSA for those of y'all who missed it. Thanks.)

####

"Okay, that's as much as I can do to help your hair without deep conditioning it," Pacifica said. "Now let's talk about styling it."

They were back in Pacifica's office, with Goldie seated in his folding chair and Mabel sitting in Pacifica's desk chair (slowly spinning it back and forth) as Pacifica lectured them. Pacifica had given Goldie a spare t-shirt to dry his hair with (you could never have too much spare clothing on hand when you were dealing with farm animals), but he'd just loosely wrapped it around his hair and promptly ignored it.

Pacifica said, "You've got this issue where the weight of your curls pulls the top of your hair down and makes it flatten out near your scalp—but your hair's all the same length, so it really flares out near your shoulders. It's called triangle hair and it is not a cute look."

Goldie and Mabel bit their lips and exchanged a look, and Pacifica got the distinct impression that she'd accidentally reminded them about some inside joke she wasn't part of.

Trying to ignore the feeling that she was being left out of something, Pacifica cleared her throat and went on. "So, uh—you can fix it with like, layering your haircut and stuff? But. I don't actually... know how to do that." All her knowledge of curly hair and its care—much less fashionable haircuts—came from fashion and beauty magazines, which covered things like shampoo and flattering styles but assumed you'd leave the actual hair-cutting to the professionals. "So. I can get your curls presentable, and I guess we can figure out a way to pin it that looks nice? But that's the best I can do without an emergency salon trip."

"You sure we can't leave the triangle hair?" Goldie asked innocently. "I think it's cute. It really feels like me." Mabel clapped a hand over her mouth and snorted.

Pacifica raised her brows. "Do you want to feel like you, or do you want to get the guy?"

"Right, of course," Goldie said. "I almost forgot what's��really important!"

Pacifica passed Goldie her phone. "Here—I wasn't sure what kind of look you were going for so I saved a few pictures of curly hair styles, let me know if you like any of these." She searched through the collection of makeup on her desk for the bobby pins and hair ties she'd picked up earlier. "The trend this year is for slicked-back styles, braids, and buns—but your curls are so pretty, I'd hate to hide them." 

Mabel leaned halfway across the desk to try to see the pictures too; Goldie's held out the phone to meet her halfway as as he scrolled—and scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled. He said, "Good job narrowing down the list to a modest two hundred pictures."

Pacifica said, "Excuse me for wanting you to have options."

Mabel pointed. "Awww, look at that one with all the little butterfly hair clips!"

"It's like butterflies are eating her brain."

"And they look adorable doing it."

"Too juvenile for me. It looks like something Prisma the fairy would wear," Goldie said. "You should wear it."

Mabel's eyes lit up. "You've got to help me make fifty butterfly hair clips."

"You got it." He closed out of Pacifica's pictures, opened up the browser, and awkwardly typed in a search. "Hey, Alpaca, look at this one."

That was the second time he'd called her that. "Do you actually know my name?"

"Rapunzel." He held up a picture of some seventies movie star with thick, feathery hair that fluffed out around her face like the wings of a panicked swan trying to take off. "Think you can pull this one off?"

Pacifica grimaced. "You'd look like my mom." Except even worse and more old fashioned. (She kept that part to herself.)

Flatly, he said, "Oh no, how will I ever convince a male that I'm a prize worth winning if I literally look like a trophy wife."

That would be just about the only part of Goldie that looked like a trophy wife. (She kept that part to herself too.) "And we'd have to give you bangs."

As she suspected, Goldie grimaced and flipped to another image. At least he knew bang weren't for him. "How 'bout this one?"

It looked like a solid helmet of hair, with the ends uniformly curled outward like the embarrassing forced-whimsical hairstyle of the minions of an insane chocolatier. "Ew. That's about the only thing that could make you look even worse than you already do."

"Pacifica," Mabel said sharply. "Be nice!"

"Sorry!" She'd kept so many parts to herself that she didn't have any spare room to keep that part. "I can't do it, anyway. It would need a flat iron and a curling iron, and I don't have either."

"Can't we get some?" Goldie asked. "Any drug store should have 'em, it's a fifteen minute walk to—"

"I don't use them," Pacifica said sharply.

Goldie's stare was like a heat lamp—or maybe that was just self-consciousness heating up Pacifica's face as he scrutinized her. But after several long seconds, Goldie's gaze turned off her face. She quietly sighed in relief.

"Okay," he said. "Then this one." He showed her another picture. It had curly shoulder-length bangs, which wasn't really in style but fine, but behind them was a bouffant shaped like a deflating basketball with a wilting palm tree sprouting out of it.

Pacifica cringed. It was, unfortunately, doable. A note of pleading in her voice, she asked, "Are you really into this look? Really?"

("I think it's pretty," Mabel muttered.)

"Oh, no way!" Goldie said. "Look at that mess! That's way too much effort for a 'do that looks like she did it drunk in the dark in under two minutes."

(Mabel looked at Goldie like he'd personally betrayed her.)

"But," he went on, "it's what our guy is into, and that's what matters here. Right?"

Pacifica studied the picture dubiously. "You're sure?"

"He went through puberty in the 70s! When his libido opened its eyes for the first time, this is what it imprinted on."

Pacifica bit her lip. Well. At least Goldie didn't think it looked good, but. "Can I at least improve it a little?"

"Oh, please!"

She picked up the comb again and grabbed a couple of bobby pins. "No promises, but I'll do what I can."

Pacifica talked a big game, but in truth, she knew a lot more about the theory of hairstyles than she did about actually styling hair. You don't have to film a blockbuster to be a film critic. So at that point, all she could do was experiment with Goldie's hair as she attempted to approximate the picture he'd shown her. She circled around him as she worked—putting in pins, taking them out, occasionally asking him his opinion.

But although Goldie had previously been a non-stop chatterer, the moment she'd started working on his hair, he'd fallen silent.

He only glanced in the hand mirror she'd given him when she prompted him, and then only to give one-word answers—usually "fine." His shoulders were as tense and his mouth as tight as Pacifica's had been the first time she had to wash alpaca poop off the bottom of a boot. And Pacifica had nearly vommed, so, that was pretty serious.

Why? It couldn't be pain. Pacifica had gotten all the knots out of his hair earlier—and even when she wasn't using the comb, it was like she couldn't even move a lock of his hair without him wincing. She kept wanting to apologize even though she was just doing what he wanted her to.

There was something going on here. It wasn't just how uncomfortable he was with being touched. There was also the way he did an awful job of washing his hair even though he knew how to perfectly well. And how he'd rather let Mabel brush his hair into a frizzy mess than comb it out himself. And beyond all that, the first thing Pacifica had ever learned about him was that he'd gotten his hair melted off and needed emergency help to grow it back. "You... really don't like your hair, do you?"

"I like it fine. It's gorgeous." He was speaking through gritted teeth, and he had his legs crossed with his feet under his thighs, palms up in lap, eyes fixed on the blanket Mabel had made, as though having a staring contest with the triangle creep would help him endure the torture without flinching. "I just—don't like messing with it."

"Which is fine," Mabel cut in. "Because I like brushing it!" She quickly amended herself: "Combing it. We've got like a symbiotic relationship going on."

"Yeah! Star girl's my personal stylist! She does my hair and makeup. I wouldn't deprive her of that honor!"

Pacifica nodded slowly. Right—all that, and he was defensive about not taking care of it.

Not embarrassed because he didn't take care of it, it dawned on her; embarrassed because he couldn't take care of it. She had a sense for those sorts of things—a middle school queen bee had to develop that sense—because that was what you targeted if you really wanted to humiliate someone: something that they couldn't help. That was it, wasn't it? He'd said he was apathetic about his body; he didn't care that his hair was messy. Because if he did care that it was messy, he would have done something about it. Unless he couldn't. Like, a mental block.

As she tried for the eighth time to gather the bulk of his hair into an updo that looked sorta fun and casual without looking stupid, she turned over everything she knew about him—about his hair, his apathy, his shame... the things he'd said to her the moment they met, before they even got started.

It wasn't a logical deduction so much as it was an instinct, and just looking at Goldie it seemed impossible; but still she said, hesitantly, "Your mom made you do pageants as a kid, didn't she?"

Mabel sat up a little straighter, confused; but Goldie turned around to stare at her, dumbfounded. "How— What—makes you think that?"

Oh please. He wasn't fooling anyone, it was all over his face. "You're so weird about your hair. It's obviously trauma from your mom."

Beneath his sunburn, Goldie's burned cheeks somehow managed to flush even darker. He gaped at her, wide-eyed and terrified, like she was a psychic who had just told him how his own parents had died. He croaked, "What?"

Pacifica burst out laughing. "Oh my gosh, you should see your face! Listen, you're clearly familiar with pageant life. And I saw so many curly girls getting their hair mauled by their moms half an hour before going on stage. I don't blame you for being weird about touching it! I had it easy—" she flipped her naturally straight hair, "—but even at that, I can't stand using a flat iron to this day."

Goldie relaxed, apparently reassured that Pacifica hadn't read his mind. He settled back in his seat. "Oh, I dunno, I find the smell of burning hair comforting! It reminds me of home!"

"Ha! Okay, yeah, you do get used to it after a while." She started attempt number nine to gather up his curls. "I wouldn't have guessed when you came in. You don't look like a... I mean... you know. No offense."

"Well, duh, you can't tell now." He gestured at himself, "I lost my good looks. What I wouldn't give to have my old body back..." He sighed wistfully.

Pacifica held back a snort. Oh yeah. More than anything else he'd said so far, that convinced her he really was a former pageant kid. In her experience, every single pageant mom trying to relive her own beauty queen glory days through her daughter said things exactly like that.

Mabel said, "Aww..." She stretched a hand out toward Goldie, couldn't reach him across Pacifica's enormous desk, and with a grunt heaved herself up to lay across the top—knocking over a couple of the cosmetic supplies Pacifica had set up in the process—so she could pat his shoulder. "There, there."

"Thanks."

She slid back into her seat. "Did you really do pageants? You didn't tell me that." A note of betrayal crept into her voice.

"I didn't tell her either—" he jabbed a thumb at Pacifica, "—but here we are!" (Pacifica shrugged unapologetically.) "I've got a lotta backstory you're still catching up on."

"Well, yeah, but—you said you just did..." She grasped for the right words, and settled on, "build-y stuff with pageants."

"I didn't say that," he said breezily. Mabel scowled at him; but shot a look at Pacifica, and just sat back without saying anything, arms crossed, her feet audibly kicking at the inside of the desk. 

He didn't seem as stressed about his hair while he was talking, Pacifica noticed. (Maybe that was why hairdressers were so chatty? Or maybe just because it was kind of weird to stick your hands in someone's hair for an hour in total silence.) She asked, "Which pageant systems did you compete in?"

"None you'd have heard about," Goldie said. "They weren't on this continent and it was like a trillion years ago." Before Pacifica could pry about which continent, he added, "Hey, fun fact! Didja know that the first beauty contest in Oregon was established here in Gravity Falls?"

"Pff, duh, of course I know that," Pacifica said. "It was established by the town founder, my great-great grandpa."

"Close, but no," he said gleefully. "It was established by the real town founder."

Pacifica grimaced. "Him? The crazy undead guy without pants? Ugh, no wonder we're the only pageant with a mandatory bird calls category."

"The first three competitions were actually won by birds! They only added a fashion category to balance out the birds' unfair advantage at birdsong. Quentin resigned from the judges' panel in protest."

"He should've taken the dumb birdsong requirement with him," Pacifica muttered. "They make the kids pageant do it too. I had to get a private tutor to learn how to whistle."

"That sounds fun, though," Mabel said. "I can do bird song! Grunkle Ford taught me some. Listen to this!" She let out an admittedly impressive moo.

"Not a bad cowl call," Goldie said. "You woulda killed it at the accompanying bird costume requirement."

Mabel gasped. "I can make feather wings. Hey, do you think I could compete?"

"Not unless you move to Oregon."

"Aww."

"We can still make wings, though," Goldie said.

Pacifica had never had to deal with the dumb bird costume requirement, thank goodness. That only started in the teen brackets. Which made her wonder—"How old were you when you quit? Pretty young, right? Like, no offense, but if you need teenagers to do your makeup..." If Goldie was living as a guy now, it'd make sense if he didn't wear makeup day-to-day; but if he'd stuck with pageants past like age ten, he would have at least learned how to do his own makeup.

"Ha! You're right. I started when I was young enough that my mom could dust glitter on my butt without getting weird looks! I quit around... equivalent to third or fourth grade in the States? She wanted me to keep going—so I said, 'You want me to perform? Fine then—I'll put on the best performance you've ever seen.' And that's exactly what I did!" Thoughtfully, he added, "But for some reason I didn't win the talent portion. I guess the judges weren't impressed that I could play the piano and set it on fire at the same time."

Pacifica cracked up. "Okay wow—I retired during the talent portion too, but how you did it is way more exciting. The year I was aging out of the 9-11 bracket, I kinda had a meltdown on stage over losing to some girl with a hula hoop? Yeah, I did not win supreme that year."

"You shoulda won talent just for that scream! You hit some impressively high notes." At Pacifica's odd look, Goldie said, "Saw it online."

Figured. That was probably coming back to haunt her in ten years. "It's weird. There's like... two ways pageant girls go—er, girls or guys or... whatever."

"Whatever," Goldie agreed.

"Yeah. Either they make it part of their identity? And keep up the makeup and fashion and everything, sometimes stick with pageants as teens or start modeling professionally? Which is what I did. Or they totally burn out, don't want anythingto do with the beauty industry, and just, like, wear sweats forever."

With a faint air of wounded pride, Goldie said, "It's the bedsheet sarong, isn't it."

"No offense! I'm just saying."

"I'll have you know it's laundry day and Jesús stole my clean clothes instead of my dirty laundry." (Pacifica decided to forgive him for the weird fish smell.) "You're looking at me at a low point, kid. I was actually a pretty snappy dresser up until... lllast summer."

Hearing Goldie call her kid gave Pacifica a little jolt of surprise. For a moment, she'd forgotten she was talking to somebody with an age; she'd started to feel like she was being visited by the immortal Spirit of Washed-Up Former Pageant Children. As if he'd died and stopped aging the same time he retired. "What happened last summer?"

Goldie looked at Mabel. "Yeah, what did happen last summer?"

"Um." Mabel froze. "He... lost it all in a... um... overseas parrot circus venture! Yeah—all the trained parrots escaped before the opening night of the circus and he lost all his money."

Goldie let out a shrill cackle. "I like that, I'm keeping that."

Okay, got it, it wasn't any of Pacifica's business. "I think... this is the best I can do with your hair." She stepped back. "Unless you want to pick a style that doesn't suck."

He gave himself a cursory glance in the hand mirror, immediately lowered it, and said, "Sucky style's fine!"

"Don't say that, you look so beautiful," Mabel said. "You look like a babysitter!"

"Well, it doesn't get much better than that." He dropped the mirror on the desk. "What's next?"

####

Next—finally—was the part they'd actually come here for: the makeup.

"Okay, I tried to get around the eyepatch while I was doing your hair, but you've got to take it off for this part," Pacifica said.

He groaned, but muttered, "Fine, I've put up with this tyranny so far," removed it, and looked at her with his previously-covered eye squinted against the light—which was the point at which Pacifica realized that he had eyepatch tan lines... around his other eye. How???

There was no fixing that before tomorrow. She bit her lips, shut her eyes, pressed her hands together, and took in a deep breath. Okay. She could handle this.

"Why do you even wear this?" She tossed the eyepatch to Mabel—it was one of those cheap costume pirate-y looking patches. "Is this one of the Mystery Shack's gimmicky touristy things? Both your eyes work! And wearing an eyepatch when you obviously don't need it is just tacky."

"I've got a neurological condition! Seeing through two eyes messes up my depth perception," Goldie said. "I get migraines if I don't keep one covered! Which is admittedly the most fun thing you can do to your brain without involving narcotics, but it makes it hard to keep down lunch!"

"Oh," Pacifica mumbled. Maybe she should just get to work before she shoved her foot any deeper in her mouth.

She started by slapping aloe vera on as much sunburned skin as she could reach, handed over the jar with strict instructions to apply more in the morning, and gave him an emphatic lecture on sunburns and sunscreen and skin damage that petered out when he cheerfully started telling her about skin cancer statistics. She changed the topic when he started listing his favorite kinds of skin cancer.

She stripped off the nail polish that Goldie had apparently gotten during one of Mabel's sleepovers, and repainted it with, at Pacifica's insistence, something more "mature." (She vetoed Mabel's suggestion to paint little hearts. She vetoed Goldie's request for gold. She gave him the choice between white French tips, pale pink, or solid red. He chose red.)

She hadn't anticipated that her customer would be in such dire straits that she'd need to shave him, so she didn't have any supplies for that; but she also ordered him to get his legs as smooth as the surface of a balloon as soon as he got home—"And do you think there's any chance this guy you're after will see your pits?" "He already has!" "Hm. Okay. Yeah, uh, get those anyway."—and informed him that she would report him to the police for vandalism if he "shaved" using whatever depilatory cream he'd previously used on his hair.

As she finished plucking his brows, she said, "Okay, I think you're finally in decent enough condition for actual makeup." She stepped back, took in his face, and said, "Barely." She grimaced. "I wish I'd bought a concealer with better coverage. I didn't know the situation was so bad."

To his credit, Goldie had taken her criticism (and occasional looks of horror) like a champ. He simply drawled, amused, "The body rituals of the Nacirema are as elaborate as they are bizarre."

She picked up a couple of the foundations she'd bought and held them up next to the eye that had been protected by the eyepatch tan line, trying to determine which one was a closer match for whatever his skin tone was when he wasn't burned. "Who're the Nacirema? One of the tribes that used to live around here?"

"They're still in the area. Look 'em up."

Pacifica thought the darker foundation was closer; she tested it on his inner arm to be sure. "So, how much makeup do you already know how to apply? Any?"

"I can do mascara, eyeliner, and mascara."

"Riiight. Okay, both of you pay attention to what I'm doing." She evicted Mabel from her desk chair and dragged it around in front of Goldie's folding chair. "Because I will not be coming over to do this tomorrow, so the two of you will have to repeat this yourself. Here." She handed Goldie a mirror so he could watch her work.

Mabel hopped up to sit on the desk next to Goldie. "You have one hundred percent of my attention!" She immediately looked away from Pacifica at the makeup brushes laid out on the desk, picked up a fan brush curiously, and started dragging it up and down her arm. "Ooh. Tickly." 

"Emphasize my eyes," Goldie said. "They're my best feature. You can forget about everything else, but my eyes have to look good."

Pacifica looked at his eyes. Pacifica really looked at his eyes.

There was something wrong with his eyes.

She decided to stop looking at his eyes. "Okaaay, great great great, you've got suuuper long lashes, that's fantastic. We can totally draw attention there. You don't even need fake lashes. And you've got nice big prominent eyes. Kinda bulgy, but that should be easy to hide with eyeshadow. I'm thinking maybe a smokey eye?"

"What about metallics? Like gold?" Goldie asked innocently. "Kind of a retro 'secret agent villainess' look, don't you think! It'd bring out the yellow in my eyes!"

Pacifica said, "You do not want to bring out your jaundice."

"Don't tell me what I want."

"No gold eyeshadow," Pacifica said. "Period. If you want to experiment with color, we can try a smoky eye in burgundy. Burgundy is hot this year."

Goldie muttered something about welcoming a bottle of burgundy right now, then said, "Fine! Burgundy."

(As Pacifica looked through her makeup palettes for the burgundy, Bill leaned over to Mabel and whispered, "Do we have any leftover gold eyeshadow?" Mabel nodded and winked. Bill winked back.)

"What about the rest of your face?"

"Skip it."

"I'm not letting you go bare-faced aside from your eyes," Pacifica said. "But we can do a natural makeup look."

"That's so boring," Mabel said. She was dragging the fan brush over her lips now. "If it looks natural why's he wearing any makeup at all?"

Goldie said, "Because humans are insane about the most uninteresting things."

As Pacifica worked her way through the foundation, concealer—she decided his sunburned skin had enough of a sun-kissed glow that she could skip bronzer—and contouring, she said, "You are... really good at holding still when you try." He'd gone completely still, like a statue. A statue that was making direct eye contact with her soul. She felt a bead of sweat slide down her neck. She wasn't sure he was breathing.

"He's super good," Mabel agreed. "It's kinda creepy."

"Thanks!" And just like that, he was smiling and alive again. "I do a lot of meditating! Gimme a focal point to watch and I can go like two billion years!"

"You didn't learn from...?"

"Pageants? Ha! No way, I was the wiggliest little demon you've ever seen. It drove my mom nuts when she was trying to do my lashes. She used to say 'If you love me, hold still' to keep me in place—but you know how contrary kids are when they're mad! Eventually I got fed up and said, 'Well then, maybe I don't love you!' And she didn't speak to me for three days." Goldie laughed. "Ahh, I had the most dramatic mom."

"Wow, my mom would kill me if I ever tried something like that—especially if it was in public where people could see us," Pacifica said. "She hired makeup artists so I'd struggle against them instead of her. Your mom did your makeup? Did she ever hire anyone?"

"Nooo way. We ran our operation on a razor-thin budget to maximize the profits from my winnings. The name of the game was efficiency!"

"My mom's sure wasn't," Pacifica said. "(Shut your right eye, I've got to get your eyeshadow.) We went through like, fifty makeup artists or something. Sometimes more than one while prepping for the same pageant." She lowered her voice a tad, "A couple times when the makeup artist was a creep, I messed up my own makeup just so Mom would fire them."

"Ha! Suckers. Yeah, that's probably how it woulda gone if my mom had handed me off to a makeup artist. I was not afraid to sic her on adults! We didn't have any hired help when I was that age, but the principal was terrified of her. And if another kid at a competition was getting on my nerves, I'd go crying to her that they pushed me and oh, man, she'd come down on their parents like the asteroid on Chicxulub."

"Me too! There was this girl in third grade who was so... I don't know, just—" she pulled a face, "eugh, you know? I complained to mom about her and got her family blacklisted by the whole town. They had to move out of the state just to get a job."

Goldie laughed loudly. "Now that is impressive!"

Pacifica's gut shifted uncomfortably. Was it? "Other eye now." She didn't speak for a moment as she tried to get both eyes matching. "Actually... it was... kinda scary?"

She'd asked her mom if she could puh-lease get this girl out of Pacifica's class. She'd just expected the girl to be switched to another teacher.

Instead, over the next few weeks, she heard about the girl's mother losing her job, then her father. Her older brother got kicked out of the local Future Lumberjacks of America chapter. One day the girl came to school in tears after being cut from the softball team. A couple months later, the girl's friends—the two that hadn't drifted away from her as her family became pariahs—threw her a tearful goodbye party during lunch with a mall-bought cookie cake; and the next day, she was gone forever.

After that first time Pacifica had complained about her classmate, her mom had never once mentioned the girl or her family. She never asked if Pacifica had any more trouble with her. Not even when they left town. It was as though, after her mom ground them under her heel, they were beneath her notice. Just four crushed ants.

But Goldie was staring at her, frowning in confusion, like she didn't make any sense. "What—scary for the other kid?" he asked. "Sure. It's supposed to be, isn't it?"

Pacifica didn't reply for a second. I'm afraid of how good she was at doing exactly what I asked her to do without realizing I was asking for it—that sounded stupid. Finally, she said, "Don't wrinkle your face like that, I haven't set your foundation yet. It'll make it cake up."

"Your moms sound insane," Mabel said. While they'd been swapping stories about their childhoods, she'd been staring at them, chin in one hand, chewing on the fan brush's bristles. "Were you guys tortured growing up?"

"Pfff, what? No, of course not!" Pacifica said. "My parents would never. You've only seen my mom's worst side, she's not really that bad. I mean—not to me. She's horrible to poor people, but that's different."

Goldie said, "Yeah, my mom was my biggest defender! If anyone tried to hold me back, she'd rip them a new one."

"But—forcing you to do pageants until you have a breakdown?" Mabel said, glancing between Goldie and Pacifica, mouth twisting up like the words tasted sour. "Guilting you into wearing makeup and attacking other parents and stuff? That's nuts."

"It's not like that," Pacifica said automatically, then tried to figure out what it was like.

"Now we're calling a kid's temper tantrum a breakdown? You've got a future career in propaganda, star girl," Goldie said wryly. "It's a mom's job to bring out a kid's potential, right? Sure, it drove me nuts at the time—but kids don't want their potential brought out, kids are lazy!" He shrugged, "Yeah, my parents weren't perfect—they didn't really 'get' me, they held me back from reaching my full potential because they couldn't see what it was—but I'd never have gotten on the road to unlocking my potential myself if they hadn't put me on the right path as a kid."

Pacifica nodded. "Totally! That's just normal mom stuff! My parents are exactly the same—they don't get my alpaca business at all—but there's no way I'd be running a business at thirteen if my mom hadn't pushed me to be the best I can be. Or supporting my alpacas through modeling if I hadn't learned how to present myself in the pageant system. Even mini-golf was just a hobby until my parents got me a coach and started taking me to competitions."

"And I wouldn't be the huge success I am today without those early lessons in public speaking!"

Mabel shot Goldie a meaningful look. He pointed at her. "Don't say a word. I've had a bad year, you can't judge me by that. Anyone could've lost their parrots in a freak accident."

"And some kids had it way worse," Pacifica said. "Some parents would hit their kids or scream at them for messing up their routines or getting distracted? Those girls never lasted long, you can tell if a contestant's just going through the motions because she's scared. I was never treated like that. My pageant coach taught my parents to use a 'warning bell,' when they rang it that was my warning to stop goofing off and focus on practicing or listen to them or whatever. They'd pay me in chocolate if I got back in line."

"Ha!" Goldie smacked the desk, "Oh wow, that's hilarious! Pageant coach Pavlov. My parents would have loved that when I was in the toddler competitions."

"Right?!" Pacifica laughed. "Now I'm like, wow, I used to be bribable with a piece of chocolate? Kids are sooo easy to manipulate."

"But hey, it's a good life lesson: the occasional reward and the fear of punishment is a lot more effective at keeping people in line than actual punishments."

Pacifica nodded thoughtfully. "Wow. That's so insightful."

"See?" Goldie beamed at Mabel. "Pageants teach kids all kinds of useful things! Ambition, poise, charisma, self-confidence, social skills..."

She grimaced. "Yeah, but... all the restrictions and pressure and trauma and stuff? That really sounds bad."

"I think you're just bitter that you can't enter the birdsong contest."

She kicked his arm. "I'm serious!"

He pushed back her shoe and waved her off dismissively. "It only sounds bad to you because you were never in the pageant world! It's got its own rituals and expectations, of course it looks weird to outsiders."

"And everyone judges pageants so much more harshly than other competitive sports—which is what pageants basically are," Pacifica said. "Like, pageants and competitive mini-golf took just as much practice, just as much coaching, just as much time and money—but in real life, knowing how to make myself look presentable and talk to adults has helped me way more often than knowing how to knock a ball into a hole. Mini-golf only saved my life once."

"Charisma will get you everywhere," Goldie agreed. "It's the most effective form of mind-control you can do without psychically rewiring someone's neurons."

"Basically! But getting a medal at the Sportlympics has everyone talk about how skilled and hard-working and dedicated you are, and getting a tiara in a national pageant gets people who have never even watched a pageant calling you a bimbo. Like, what?"

"Blatant double standards!" To Mabel, Goldie said, "Both your parents work in Silicon Valley. Their priority is intelligence and grades instead of looks and charisma, so that's why you and your brother get pushed in school—but it's all the same! Parents push their kids to be successful whatever way they know how."

Mabel stared into space. "Huh." She fell silent, gnawing on the fan brush's handle—pondering whether her parents worrying about her so-so grades was comparable to the pageant moms desperate for their daughters' straight hair to be straighter and curly hair to be curlier.

Smugly, Goldie went on, "If anything, the pageant circuit was more useful than school. I—"

"(Stop moving around, I've got to do your other eye.)"

Goldie obediently leaned forward and shut his other eye. "I went from pageants straight into public speaking. I had an entire career before I was out of school. Everyone loved me! I was a natural in the spotlight!"

"Really?" Pacifica said dubiously. She could buy that he might have been a competitor as a kid, but honestly, he seemed pretty creepy to her. Enough confidence could carry you pretty far, but...

He rolled his open eye. "Don't take that tone with me. It was before you were born! And like I said—I've lost my looks. I used to be..."

He trailed off, staring down at his nail polished hands like he didn't recognize them.

He muttered, "I used to be so much better than this."

Mabel reached out and rubbed his upper arm comfortingly.

Sometimes Pacifica caught her mom staring in a mirror, studying her face with an expression somewhere between nervous and depressed, gently touching her fingertips to the thin lines beginning to appear around her eyes and mouth as though she were examining gruesome wounds. Her mother had always said that looks are everything; and even though she didn't talk about her feelings directly, from the way she sometimes snapped at Pacifica to keep up her skincare—moisturizer, sunscreen, hydration, don't frown too hard—Pacifica thought maybe she wasn't worried about Pacifica's face so much as her own.

Goldie only had the faintest traces of the start of wrinkles, unnoticeable if Pacifica hadn't just spent the past few minutes plastering foundation on his face. She wondered how old he was. She wondered whether he had the same fear her mother did: that his body was letting him down, slowly dying all around him.

You don't go through the child pageant world without learning two things: everyone wants you to look and act older than you are; and the older you get, the less anyone wants you.

"I've got to do your lips," Pacifica said, picking out a couple of options: a red so bright it was nearly orange (totally in this year), a nice glossy nude that ought to be a close match to Goldie's natural lip color. "Did you want to stick with the natural look, or...?"

He glanced up from his hands at the offered lipsticks. "What the heck," he sighed. "Let's make it red."

Pacifica nodded. "Pooch your lips out for me, like this." And that was the last they spoke for a while.

####

(Here's your regular TBOB report: no actual plot was changed due to TBOB. I added in a few lines referencing it: the imagery of Priscilla grinding normal people beneath her heel is meant to be reminiscent of Pacifica's giant nightmare on TINAWDC; the "meditating" for specifically two billion years is a direct reference to the barber pole, although I'd already headcanoned that Bill can meditate/dissociate for absolutely vast quantities of time; I already had dialogue where he goes on the importance of charisma and how much everyone adored him as a kid, but I tossed in another sentence or two about charisma just because of how strongly he emphasizes it in TBOB; and originally I had dialogue where Bill went on about what big supporters his parents were, even though he privately feels like they didn't get him—all I changed was deciding to make him admit to some of those feelings out loud, since it's something he says outright in TBOB. I've imagined that he tends to swing between "they were the best/they were the worst" based on how he's feeling at the time with no neutral ground in between—whiiich lines up pretty well with what TBOB gave us.

And unrelated but I spent way too long researching makeup & hair trends in the 70s and in 2013. I had no idea orange lipstick was hot for a while. My idea of doing makeup is painting my nails once every six years.

Hope y'all enjoyed, and I'm looking forward to hearing y'all's thoughts! I've been eager to dive into this aspect of Bill's backstory and Pacifica's POV for a while.)

[blckbrrybasket]

Quiet Riot

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.2k

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: protected then unprotected sex, mean!Rafe, mean!reader, Rafe’s a slut, bickering, degradation, name calling (slut, whore, bitch)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Rafe was never created to be a good roommate. He constantly finds ways to be loud and disrupt your peace, so it’s unsurprising that when you need to finish a project he’s fucking another girl.

You needed to get this project done. It was your fault for procrastinating it, but right now Rafe certainly wasn’t helping. No. Right now, he was banging a girl in his bedroom next to yours. The apartment layout was bad enough that your room was stuck next to his, but he was never quiet. You’d think someone who needs to sneak around for a living would know how to be quiet but apparently not.

Hearing another loud moan from the girl he had over made you drop your pencil. You didn’t see the appeal that granted him a new girl to fuck every other night. Maybe that was a slight exaggeration but still. A louder moan that sounded close to a dying cat had you standing up to go to his room. Sure you’d slept with other people in the apartment before. You were no saint yourself, but you avoided doing it when he was busy. More than what he could say.

Rafe slid his cock in and out of the girl, who’s name he wasn’t sure of, and flared his nostrils. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the exertion while his eyes were focused on the slick coating his condom. He pounded back into her with a lewd squelch before he heard your knock on the door over her moaning. Knock was an understatement.

A groan of exasperation left his lips and he looked down. “One second.” Rafe squeezed her waist and pulled out with a grumble. “I’m coming, damn!” He rolled his eyes at your continued knocks. His fingers tugged at the latex as he pulled off the used condom. Rafe tossed it in the trash and glared at the bin. 

“Waste of a good condom.” Rafe sighed and grabbed a towel on his chair to cover his still hard cock, the girl forgotten on his bed. He yanked open the door to see your fist raised to knock again. “What?” His eyebrows were raised while looking at you, his pupils wider than normal.

You huffed and looked at him, crossing your arms. “Can you please be a little quieter? Shit, cover her mouth if you have to!” You hissed out the last sentence, not wanting to embarrass the poor girl. Rafe, however, could get the brunt of your frustration and god if he didn’t like it. He was almost annoyed with how quickly his dick twitched at the sight of you being upset.

You furrowed your eyebrows and jerked your head in the direction of your bedroom. “I have shit to do!” Rafe leaned against the door frame somehow looking relaxed in this state. It wasn’t the first time you butted heads and it was doubtful that it would be the last.

He blew a lazy puff of air out of his mouth, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Well, aren’t you being a little bitch today?” He let out a low chuckle, his voice dripping with mockery. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked you up and down, taking in your irritated expression when you scoffed.

Rafe pushed himself off the door frame and stepped closer to you, soundlessly padding over the floor. “You know what?” he said with a wicked grin, enjoying the power play. “I’ll keep the noise down if you promise to keep those lips of yours occupied with something other than bitching. Now I’m wondering…can you do that?”

Your nose scrunched up in disgust at his innuendo and you took a step back. In the opened up space the now modestly dressed girl dipped out between the two of you. She ducked her head and rushed out the front door, not sparing either of you a glance. Slowly turning back to look at Rafe, you faked a wince. 

“Yikes..” You looked down momentarily before quickly glancing back up. It was hard not to notice the obvious bulge that his towel clung to. The white cloth only reached his mid-thigh, keeping his deep v-line visible. You fake gagged at the sight. Deep down your heart raced, but you wouldn’t let him have that satisfaction, opting to reach up and flick between his eyebrows. “Man whore. Can’t believe you’d break *another* girl's heart like that.”

Rafe reached out to catch your wrist mid-flick, his grip firm but not too tight. Rafe let out a throaty chuckle at your ‘disgusted’ reaction, enjoying how it heated up your cheeks. “Watch it,” he replied, his voice low. “You know I love it when I prove you wrong, but don’t mess with me when I would happily punish you.”

Rafe tilted his head to the side. “And she knew we were only fucking. Didn’t seem like you knew that.” With a teasing grin, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “But you can't deny that you were enjoying it. I saw you looking at me, you know?” He saw how your pupils blew out at the sight of him sweaty and almost entirely naked. 

Your breath hitched at his vulgar words. You knew Rafe lacked a filter, it was common knowledge, but it didn’t make it any less shocking. Your eyes caught his, your lips parting in shock. “I-“  “I bet you’re getting wet thinking about it.”

Rafe released your wrist, letting his hand trail down your hand before he took a step back, giving you some space. You blinked slowly then shook your head, pulling your hand back from hovering in the air. Fuckkk. He was right, you could feel slick slowly pooling into the fabric of your underwear. Rafe’s eyes roamed your body, his gaze trailing from your cheeks down to the curve of your lips.

“But if you'd rather keep acting like a prude, that's your loss.” He shrugged casually. “I’m not acting like anything, I just don’t like you,” you retorted semi-easily. He rolled his eyes at your stubbornness. “Whatever,” Rafe continued on as if you weren’t discussing him making you wet.

“What's so fucking important that you have to interrupt me, huh?” His eyes sparked with something unidentifiable as he awaited your response. You rolled your eyes and turned to look back at the open door to your room. Rafe would obviously throw a fit if he knew he was interrupted over you needing to do a project. “Just doing shit, get off my dick.” You huffed.

Rafe couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction at the effect he had on you. “Yeah. Shit,” he laughed, shaking his head. “See, I know what you’re doin’,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially. Looking up at him, you rolled your eyes. “And what’s that, Rafe?”

“You’re actin’ like a frigid bitch cause you like me.” At your incredulous laugh he leaned further into your space. “No, I get it. Big, bad, evil Rafe…and shit you like him. I’d be scared too.” His voice was too smug for your liking as he straightened back up with a satisfied smirk.

“You may not like me, but your body sure does,” he rubbed his jaw, chuckling. “And I’d bet it’s been a bit since someone properly took care of you.” His blue eyes stayed focused on you, his hand moving to slide over his crotch. His thick fingers grazed over his covered length. It was a mystery as to how his tip wasn’t exposed by the shorter towel. 

“But shit, if you want me to hop off, then I will. I'm always here if you change your mind,” he mused, his voice laden with hidden invitation. Rafe’s hands raised in fake surrender and with a smug smile he turned on his heel to walk back into his bedroom. The door swung shut, but he made no move to properly click it closed. The choice was yours, and Rafe knew that he had planted a seed of curiosity in your mind that wouldn't easily be ignored.

The image of his erection under the towel that his hand had rested over, thumb stroking up and down over the hidden skin was stuck in your head. “Jesus, Rafe.” You sighed to the shut door. A battle raged it’s war in your mind. You knew what would happen the moment you stepped into his room. Shifting on your feet you groaned quietly before crossing over the threshold, pushing the door back open.

Your eyes studied the familiar decorations and landed on him by his bed, still only in his towel. Rafe leaned nonchalantly against the edge of his bed, his eyes glimmering with anticipation as he watched you cautiously enter his room. The towel that barely covered his muscular frame showed off his physique, leaving little to the imagination. 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he studied your every move, his eyes locked onto yours, filled with hunger. “Changed your mind already?” Rafe grinned proudly. He pushed himself off the bed, closing the distance between you with slow, measured steps. Rafe’s fingers reached out, his touch feather-light as they grazed along your jawline, his voice a mere whisper against your ear. “Didn’t know you were such a slut.”

Rafe’s hand trailed down from your jawline, his ghosting over your neck, teasingly trailing down the curve of your collarbone. His touch left a trail of electric anticipation in its wake, raising goosebumps on your skin. “If you want me to back off, say so,” he mumbled, his lips brushing temptingly close to yours. “If you don't, there’s no going back. I’ll give you everything you need.

You rolled your head back to expose the column of your throat. “No. I want this..I want you.” Your voice was strained and you fluttered your eyelids closed. For a moment the only sound was your breaths fanning over each other's lips. Taking initiative, your hands moved to rest on his bare chest. Once slid up and over the curvature of his shoulder to find the hair at the nape of his neck. “Please.”

There was no going back now. You could only trust that he’d take care of you like how he trusted you. Outside of sex you knew him and he could be kind, even when he acted like he wasn’t. He had and would never hurt you. You trusted him. The tension in the room grew thicker as desire mingled between the two of you. His hands moved to rest gently on your waist, pulling you closer until there was almost no space left between you. The heat from his bare chest seeped through the fabric of your shirt, setting your skin ablaze with anticipation.

Rafe’s voice was a low rumble as he spoke, his breath tickling your lips. “Trust me, relax. I'll give you exactly what you need,” he murmured the promise. You could see the fire burning in his dark eyes, a spark of something deeper than desire. He was a man of many contradictions and lies, but in this moment, there was something genuine in his gaze.

“I've got you.” With that, his lips crashed against yours with a need that matched your own. The kiss was immediately passionate, filled with the pent-up desire that had been brewing for far too long. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and dip with a familiarity that betrayed his previous insinuations of not caring.

His touch became bolder and more desperate with each passing second. You moaned freely into his mouth, digging your fingertips into his hair and tugging. Rafe hissed momentarily before groaning low in his throat when your fingernails raked down his chest. Angry red marks rose on his tanned skin, a testament to your want. 

Through your shorts and his thin towel his hard cock nestled against your thighs. You pulled back and then pressed forward repeatedly, pecking smaller but just as needy kisses on his lips. “Need…to..ride..you.” Each word was punctuated by a kiss before you bit his lower lip. His bottom lip was sucked into your mouth, your teeth pulling it down before popping it back into place. 

The pain mingled with his pleasure, heightening the sensations that coursed through his body. Rafe returned your kisses with equal fervor, his lips hungry against yours, relishing in the taste and warmth that they offered. “Fuck,” he groaned. “‘M not going to say no that” His cock pressed firmly against your in rhythm with the grinding of your hips, each movement sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through his body. 

Rafe’s hands tightened around your waist, guiding you onto the edge of his bed. He positioned himself in front of you, hands exploring your body when you sat back. Your own hands grappled at his shoulders and tugged him on top of you. Lips finding each other again, you both slowly crawled backwards up the bed. The earlier girl was completely forgotten in his mind. It was only you, you, you.

Rafe’s muscular arm slipped under you and easily flipped the two of you over so you were on top now. He gripped your hips, guiding you down to straddle him. “Take what you need.” he urged, his breath hot against your ear. “Ride me.” In any other situation you would have thought of a dumb quip, but right now you were too caught up with him.

Your hand swept the loose towel to the side and off the bed. Mouths opening, the two of you kept your lips close to let your tongues swirl outside of the confines of your mouth. Rafe’s teeth nipped at the tip of your tongue before he lapped at it to soothe the sting. It should be gross, all the spit coating your lips, but Rafe made it feel so good.

You were too distracted to take your shorts off properly, fumbling with the button. It strained before popping out of the slot and letting you yank them off. Rafe hurriedly helped you slip them off your ankles and tossed it to the floor, pulling you back down right after. 

Your underwear were molded to the shape of your cunt, soaked when you desperately ground down against his begging cock. Rafe was just as lost in the pleasure as you were, head knocked back and groaning unabashedly. Rafe forced himself to look down and watch your every move with a racing heart. The friction of the cloth against his flesh was a sweet torment, igniting a fire in his gut that demanded release.

His arms, toned and strong, moved to rest above his head, offering himself to you completely. Rafe’s breath came in short bursts, his anticipation palpable in the air. He held your gaze, the connection between you both unbroken as you hovered over him. “Fuck,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper. “You gonna do something?”

The look in his eyes showed a burning need for fulfillment that could only be sated by each other's touch. And as you pressed your cover cunt against his cock, the desire reached a fever pitch, the promise of pleasure and ecstasy just a heartbeat away. “Need it off fuck.” You grunted in response, feeling his hands assist you in pulling your underwear off. Rafe’s hands helped shove down the tight material past your thighs. With a relieved sigh, you found some relief in the cool air, your cunt throbbing.

The momentary reprieve was followed by a sigh of repose when you sat up to straddle him. You raised onto your knees and wrapped a hand around his dick, guiding him to your folds. Your hips moved, sliding him between your puffy lips, coating him in your wetness. It didn’t seem to be enough though, his worried expression not going unnoticed. 

Your head shook instantly as you held eye contact with him. You knew what you wanted, and you needed it now. Foreplay was far from your mind, all you needed was him. “Only need you.” You admitted. “Right fucking now.” Slowly, deliberately, you lowered yourself onto his cock, savoring the sensation of being stretched out and filled. 

Your hand came down to circle your clit, making your thighs twitch on either side of him. It effectively moved your focus away from the stinging. The feeling of familiar discomfort mixed with pleasure had the thought of coming around him conquering all else. Rafe took deep breaths, an almost pained look on his face as he slid into you.

This is what he had been missing out on. If he had sucked up his pride earlier he could have been fucking you way sooner. He couldn’t have any regrets though when both of your hips began to rock back and forth as he bottomed out. “Fuck,” Rafe cursed. Finding a rhythm that allowed you to adjust to his size was easy enough, Rafe seemingly knowing your body already.

Rafe gave up trying to relax back, too invested now to let you go and do all the work. He’d prove how good he could be so you’d come back to him. His hands rested on your thighs now, blue eyes filled with intensity. “You’re going to ride me,” he stated. “And I’m gonna guide you. A’ight?” At his words you nodded and tilted your head back with shut eyes. “Yeah…yeah, please.” You mumbled without thought. 

Without any hesitation, his hips rolled, circling his dick deep inside you. The base of his dick brushed against your cunt, signifying that he had claimed you. A raw moan ripped its way through your body when his grinding drug his cock against your g-spot. 

It was as if a bolt of lightning shot through your body, electrifying every nerve ending and causing you to jerk forward involuntarily, your clit pressing against his pubes. “God fucking damn,” Rafe groaned, the sound resonating from deep within his chest. The sheer pleasure of completely filling you drove him wild. 

Picking up the pace, his hips continued their rhythmic motion while his hands on your thighs lifted and lowered your body with little effort, biceps flexing. “Holy fuck Rafe,“ you bit your lip in concentration before slamming your hips forward, his tip hitting that sweet spot again. Driven by the insatiable need for more, you ground forward and rutted up against his body to stimulate your clit. 

The motion sent you forward and back onto his dick to stimulate your cunt simultaneously. As you humped him, your walls clenched around his thick cock, drawing him deeper with every movement. Unable to resist the temptation, Rafe’s hand reached down, his fingers curling around a fistful of your ass, spreading you open even further. 

The rough touch mingled with the pleasure coursing through your veins amplifying the euphoria of finally fucking him. Rafe fucked into you with uninhibited fervor, his grip on your ass giving him a handle to support your body while he drove his hip’s mercilessly into you. “Gonna come inside. Shit. You want that?”

Feeling you clench, he grinned and pressed his forehead to your shoulder. “Knew you’d like a creampie, slut.” You grimaced, smacking his shoulder, the sound masked by skin on skin slapping. “That’s disgusting, don’t say it like that.”

Rafe snorted, “How else do you want me to say it? I’m telling it like it is. You want my cum deep in your pussy.” He bounced you on his dick, victorious when you moaned instead of talking back. “That’s what I fucking though, now shut up while I fill you up.” Rafe grunted, his balls tightening as he hissed through his teeth.

[bttrflybb]

serendipity ❤︎ variety.

summary: naruto men and some of their favorite little symbols of love you give them.

wc: 1.3k

feat. gaara, yamato, kakashi

a/n: honestly, this whole thing should be classed as a ramble. sorry if it's a bit funky at times ;; just some ideas i wanted to get out hehe

GAARA

gaara loves it when you push his hair up out or his forehead so you can plant a kiss on the kanji carved there. part of him was worried it’d make you uncomfortable- like you’d be put off by the fact that he put it there himself. not once did you show any adverse reaction to the marking, the story, or the meaning. you always accepted gaara. every part of him.

“missed you.” he hummed into the curve of your neck, holding you from behind. he had just gotten home from a drawn-out council meeting. poor boy, dealing with some of those personalities takes so much out of him. “i missed you too, cutiepie.” you always treat him like such a baby. he didn't hate the nickname, it was just so... lovey. sometimes a bit of a shock to hear. he'll admit it grew on him though. he loves whatever you call him- because it's you. “you hungry? ‘s almost done.” you wiggled, trying to escape his grasp so you could stir the veggie medley you had going on the stove. he relented, steps quieting as he disappeared to shed his vest on a rack and reappeared on the other side of the island counter, pulling out a stool to settle into.

you put extra care into making his plate, loading it with some extra meat and rice. not gonna let him get by without some veggies though. you set both your plates on the counter, shuffling around to sit on gaara’s left. he always waits.

you pull the plates towards the two of you and look to gaara with pride. “smells good,” he hums, snaking an arm around your side to pull you into a kiss, “thank you, lovely.” you beam, cupping his cheek to pull him into one too. one on the cheek, and one on the kanji. “thank me by eating your veggies this time.” you tease.

your focus is back on the food before you can notice the blush crawling up his face.

YAMATO

yamato can’t take it when you’ve got your fingers in his hair. he’s like a puppy, in a way. scritches, pets, brushes, all of it has got him instantly relaxing in your arms.

“morning, pretty lady.” you hear your husband rumble. ah, you’d fallen asleep. eyelashes flutter to find him, settling on his smooth, barely clothed figure above you, ruffling his hair with a towel. “mm. how long have you been home?” you murmur, the smell of eucalyptus and mint hitting your nose.

“not long. wanted to shower before i cuddled up to you,” he states, that sultry smooth voice washing over you. he tosses the towel to the side and is quick to get underneath your blanket. observant, this one is. he’s already got all the lights off, doors locked, showered and clean for you. just how you like it. you’re a sensitive sleeper- and a bit of a neat freak, always chewing him out for getting his “outside clothes” in the bed or under a blanket.

“mm. how was today?” you murmured, voice still coated in sleep. you pulled yourself up a tad and spread your legs, coaxing him to lay his head on your chest. “fine, mostly just surveillance.” his voice vibrates into your chest, “kakashi had us swap places though- he hates paperwork. always wants to make me do it.”

you can hear his pout. he hates it too. everyone does. and there is so much of it. “my poor baby,” you purr, pulling him further into an embrace. one hand caresses circles into his back, the other coming to rake through his hair. immediately, he sighs and the process of turning him to mush begins.

“mhmmm.” “yeah? you’re my poor baby?” “mm, sure.” “are you fallin’ asleep already?” “mmmmm… no.” amid your little scalp massage, your nails scratch with just the smallest bit of extra pressure, warranting a tiny cry. “what was that for?” he fusses. “lyin’ to me.” “mm-mm. not sleepin’- just comfortable. missed my wife.” the sudden intimate confession makes your heart skip a beat. “hehe- i missed you too, sweetheart.” your fingers go back to combing through each damp strand, coming down to scritch his sideburns and the nape of his neck. he’s practically purring.

enough time has passed for you to assume he’s knocked out on top of you, and before sleep makes you their next victim- you curl in slightly to leave a kiss on the top of his head, running your thumb over the patch before you lay back down. before you can- hooded inky eyes look up to you expectantly. needy man. another kiss, this time on the forehead. you think you’re cute, teasing him this way. with a huff he’s lifting himself up, hovering over you to give you a short-lived kiss on the lips before he’s setting himself down, this time nestled on your shoulder.

such a pampered man. you don’t mind it. his neediness was something you came so close to losing. with that thought you can’t help but squeeze him closer, resting your cheek on the top of his head.

KAKASHI HATAKE

kakashi loves it when you offer to shave his face for him. when you waddle into the bathroom to brush your teeth, just to be greeted by his foamy face- the way your eyes widen with aggravation is the funniest thing to him.

“why didn’t you ask me?” you pout, setting yourself up on the counter in front of him with a huff. “thought you were gettin’ ready for bed.” he hums smugly, relinquishing the single-blade razor to you as you grip the underside of his chin. “not goin’ to bed without you. ‘s quicker when i do it for you too.” your annoyance quickly fading and being replaced by concentration. so cute, he thinks, watching your brows furrow and lips slightly part while you focus on the left side of his face.

he’s in bliss, letting you tug his jaw, chin, ear, whatever it may be, to get at every angle. getting bitched at and manhandled by your pretty little self while he gets to squeeze at your hips and butt? a dream come true.

he doesn’t want it to end, heart stuttering at the feeling of you shifting beneath his grasp and the sound of the razor getting folded in on itself and set down. ‘nooooo…’ he quietly whines, reaching out for you and making the most pathetic grabby hands. grown ass man, by the way.

“quit fussing,” you giggle a bit- quit, you’re supposed to be mad at him. you grab a small washcloth from the rack of neatly folded towels, turning back to his smug little face watching your every move. so annoying, you roll your eyes. you love his attention.

you beckon him to lean over after wetting the cloth. you wipe his face with warm water so gently- like he’s gonna break underneath your touch. it’s nice. you’re gentle with him. so so gentle. “looks good.” you hum. “always looks good when you do it.” he hums back. “you’ve not even looked.” “don’t gotta. i know you always do good.” so cheeky. you use the hands you have on his face to turn him to the vanity mirror. “see? jus’ like i said. always looks good.”

it really does. kakashi’s looking at himself like he’s the hottest guy he’s ever seen. honestly, he probably is. little twerp. you won’t admit it, but the praise he mumbles while he admires your work is going right to your head.

after you pat the alcohol into his skin and give him a kiss for enduring it like a ‘big, strong man’ you’d coo in the most demeaning tone, you’re finally able to brush your teeth. kakashi is in heaven this entire time, unable to keep his hands off you and definitely unable to keep his eyes off.

the nighttime routine the two of you share is one of the best parts of kakashi’s day. he makes that fact known when he’s sleeping outside during a mission and wailing over the fact that his face feels dirty or dry. bless his teammates. though, it’s less the actual routine and more you being there with him during it all. taking care of him.

before you know it you’re being scooped up in his arms and lightly tossed into the bed. he’s just so full of feelings- feelings for you. others may not have guessed it (they probably have with how much he whines when he's away from you,) but this man is such a sap.

[chilling-seavey]

this is so possessive of George and his breeding kink but imagine you are trying to wear a tight and skintight dress but it won't fit because of your tiny bump and the way your breast are changing

LOVE IT. LOVE IT SM

The string of muttered expletives coming from the ensuite bathroom had George's eyes drifting to the cracked open door. Standing in front of the full length mirror in your bedroom as he tied his tie, he called out to you, "You alright in there, love?"

"No." came your insistent response, words strained in frustration and exertion.

George padded over to the ensuite door and knocked as he nudged it open a little more to peek inside, alerting you of his presence. Of course, you didn't turn him away, letting him get an eyeful of you immensely struggling to get into your cocktail dress. You honestly looked like some attempt at a Picasso sculpture with your arms flung around your torso this way and that, manicured fingernails clawing at your back and the edge of your dress.

"What in the world is going on here?" George asked with a breathy laugh as he rested his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

"My dress won't do up," you huffed, finally getting your hand on the tiny zipper but it wouldn't budge, the fabric sides being held too far apart.

George pushed off the wall and took the half step over to you, "Alright, alright, let me."

You sent a frustrated pout to the bathroom mirror as you dropped your hands to your sides, watching his reflection standing behind you and analyzing the zipper of your dress. His warm fingers brushed over the small of your back, rising the faintest shivers in their wake, and he tugged the fabric of your dress closer together before starting to pull up the zipper. He made it about an inch or two before he was met with resistance.

"See?" you threw a hand out towards the mirror in exasperation.

George glanced up to meet your frustrated gaze in the mirror, the pair of you standing at a 45-degree angle to the vanity. He had this stupid little smile on his face.

"What?" you frowned.

George leaned in closer and let go of your zipper to slide his hands around your front until they rested over the tiny swell of your belly. He answered in the softest voice known to man, "Baby is growing. You're growing."

There was a pause between you as you both stared at yourselves in the mirror and the ever so faint bump revealed under the tight fabric of your dress. Your frustrations eased a bit and you leaned back against his chest, settling your hands on his wrists.

"Oh."

George, without tearing his eyes away from the sight of you in the mirror, licked his lips instinctively. Then, he pulled back to give your hips a squeeze, "Why don't you find another dress then, love? Something looser until we can buy you some maternity clothes."

"But I wanted to wear this dress," you frowned, running your hands over the silk fabric around your waist. The top was still gaping and loose since the zipper wasn't done up but you were adamant that this was the dress you wanted to wear for your special dinner together.

So, like the good husband he was, George had you suck in the best you could so he could yank at the zipper until it finally cooperated with a purposeful zwwwip. Sure, you could hardly breathe and in spots the dress looked like it was about to rip right off you, but you were pleased.

As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your eyes moved from your tiny belly to the genuinely obnoxious swell of your breasts. Once having been held nicely in this form fitting dress, now, to be frank, you resembled a cheap prostitute with how they nearly spilled out of the neckline. Sure, you had known your body was changing with your pregnancy but this damn dress was really the nail in the coffin of realization as to how much.

Your eyes flicked to George in the reflection of the mirror, him still standing beside you and, as if having the same thoughts, his eyes were also trained in shamelessly on your chest. You licked away your amused smile at his expression of awe and then grabbed two handfuls of the front of your dress to try and make yourself look a bit more decent by tugging up the neckline.

"What the fuck." you groaned when the dress that was nearly painted on wouldn't budge.

George stepped up behind you and gently pulled your hands away so he could try, definitely knowing he wasn't going to get much farther but silently wanting an opportunity to touch you without looking too sleezy. But when it was proven that the dress was not going to budge and you were left looking quite...out there...George let himself splay his large hands over the surface area of your breasts as he sighed against your shoulder.

Your momentary frustration melted into an amused smile, resting your hands on the bathroom counter as he gently groped your breasts and then slid his palms down to rub over your tiny belly beneath your dress. He kissed your neck.

"I think baby is being strangulated in this dress," George mumbled against your earlobe, "And as much as I think you look...ravishing...I don't think this is giving the right message for formal dinner."

"Too much boob?"

"No such thing, really, but, yeah," George kissed your shoulder and then rested his chin down to stare at you through the mirror, his arms secure around your middle, "Too much boob."

You jutted out your bottom lip, trying to accept that your favourite dress was now, momentarily, unwearable. It was bittersweet, watching the old you that you were familiar with change to grow life. It would teach you how to fall in love with yourself and your body all over again, in a whole new way.

Before you could even have an inclining of a thought about George's mindset amongst all your changes, he spoke with his hands firmly covering the small swell of your stomach,

"God, you look so fucking gorgeous and I'm so fucking in love with you."

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[kaiyunsim]

spin me around —

pairing : bf!taesan x m!reader

summary : taesan invites you to go shopping with him and you guys get matching outfits :]

warnings : established relationship, fluff, crack, banter, featuring jaehyun + woonhak as roommates.

a/n : god... taesan has got me in a chokehold now :o also as of making this taesan is no longer roommates with woonhak and jaehyun and that makes me sad.

queueing : spin me around - the marias, still into you - paramore,

[requested]

— wc : 1.7— not proof read —

you don’t think too much of it when taesan texts you, asking if you want to go shopping with him today. it’s not the first time you’ve gone out together, though it is the first time he’s the one offering. usually, you’re the one convincing him to go out, pulling him away from his guitar or whatever new band he’s fixated on that week.

but today, he asks first.

which means you say yes, obviously.

you stand outside his dorm, shifting on your feet as you wait. when the door finally opens, it’s not taesan... it’s jaehyun. he leans against the doorway, a smirk already in place like he was expecting this.

"well, look who it is," he drawls, arms crossed. "taesan’s boyfriend."

you roll your eyes, used to his antics. "is he ready?"

"oh, he’s ready, alright," jaehyun says, stepping aside so you can see inside.

taesan is sitting on the couch, pretending he doesn’t hear anything, but the tips of his ears are red. woonhak, who’s sitting beside him, nudges him not-so-subtly.

"you sure you’re going out?" woonhak teases. "you never take anyone shopping. not even us."

"shut up," taesan mutters, standing up and brushing invisible dust off his jeans. he looks effortlessly cool, as always. baggy black ripped jeans, a vintage band tee, silver jewelry catching the light. "we’re leaving."

jaehyun grins. "aww, look at him. he’s flustered."

"i’m not flustered," taesan says, clearly flustered.

woonhak elbows him. "make sure to buy your boyfriend something nice."

taesan glares at him before grabbing your wrist and dragging you out, his grip warm but firm. you hear jaehyun and woonhak laughing as the door shuts behind you.

"ignore them," he mutters, still not meeting your eyes.

"i don’t mind," you say, smiling. "they’re not wrong, though. you never ask me to go shopping with you."

taesan exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "yeah, well… i thought it’d be nice. that’s all."

you don’t push him on it, even though your heart flutters a little. instead, you just squeeze his hand and let him lead the way.

the mall is buzzing with life, neon lights reflecting off polished floors, the air filled with the scent of food from the nearby food court. taesan walks beside you, hands stuffed into his pockets, looking as effortlessly cool as ever.

"so what are we looking for?" you ask, peeking at him.

he shrugs. "clothes. maybe some accessories."

"you planning on getting anything specific?"

he hesitates for a moment before glancing at you. "i was thinking… maybe you could get something too."

"me?"

"yeah." he looks away, pretending to be interested in a store display. "something that matches me."

you blink, processing his words.

taesan, who has always been particular about his aesthetic, wants you to match him?

you try to hold back a grin. "so you want us to match?"

he groans, dragging a hand down his face. "don’t make it weird."

"it’s not weird. it’s cute."

"oh my god..."

you laugh, bumping your shoulder against his. "alright, let’s find something."

the first store you step into is one of those alternative fashion boutiques, dim lighting and rock music playing overhead. taesan immediately seems more at home here, flipping through racks of clothing with ease.

you, on the other hand, are a little less familiar with his style. you like how he dresses, obviously, he looks good in everything... but pulling off the same look yourself is a different story.

taesan seems to notice because he pulls out a black graphic tee and holds it up to your chest. "this would look good on you."

"you think so?"

"yeah. here, try this too." he grabs a silver chain necklace, placing it over your palm. "and maybe these rings."

you watch as he gathers more items, fully invested in styling you. it’s endearing, really, seeing him this focused. eventually, he shoves a pile of clothes into your arms and nods towards the fitting rooms.

"try them on."

"yes, sir." you salute playfully before slipping into the fitting room.

as you change, you realize how much this actually means to him. taesan isn’t the type to do things half-heartedly. if he wants you to match his style, it’s because he wants you to be part of his world in some way.

when you step out, taesan is leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. he looks up, and for a moment, he just… stares.

"…well?" you prompt.

he blinks, clears his throat, and looks away. "it’s good."

"just good?"

"great. it’s great." he rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. "you should get it..."

you grin. "you’re so bad at hiding your feelings, you know that?"

"shut up."

but when you catch his reflection in the mirror, you see the small smile playing on his lips.

after picking out a few more pieces (including a matching leather jacket that taesan insists isn’t couple wear, even though it totally is), you both head to the register.

as the cashier rings up your items, taesan pulls out his wallet.

"i got it," he says before you can protest.

"taesan—"

"just let me." he doesn’t look at you, focused on tapping his card against the machine. "i want to."

your heart does that stupid fluttering thing again. you don’t argue. instead, you reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers.

"thanks," you say softly.

he squeezes your hand in response.

after taesan pays for your clothes, you don’t let go of his hand. instead, you tug him toward another store, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

"where are we going?" he asks, though he doesn’t resist.

"you got to dress me up in your style," you say, stopping in front of a streetwear boutique, the kind with oversized hoodies, cargo pants, and chunky sneakers displayed in the windows. "now it’s my turn."

taesan looks at the store, then at you, eyes narrowing slightly. "no."

"yes."

"absolutely not."

"taesan," you say, giving him your best pleading look. "come on, it’s only fair."

he exhales through his nose, like he’s already regretting every decision leading up to this moment. "i don’t wear streetwear."

"it’s not that different from your usual style," you argue. "it’s just… a little less emo, a little more cool boyfriend energy."

"i already have cool boyfriend energy."

"let me prove you could have more."

he glares at you, but there’s no real heat behind it. after a long pause, he mutters, "fine. one outfit."

you grin, dragging him inside before he can change his mind.

picking out clothes for taesan is fun—mostly because he’s so reluctant about it.

"try this," you say, handing him a beige oversized hoodie.

he stares at it like it personally offended him. "why is it this color?"

"neutral tones are in."

"i wear black."

"expand your horizons."

taesan groans but takes it anyway. you pile on more, cargo pants, a crossbody bag, sneakers that aren’t his usual beat-up converse. by the time you’re done, he’s looking at the fitting room like it’s a death sentence.

"i hate you," he says before stepping inside.

"you love me," you call back.

when he finally steps out, you can’t help but stare.

the oversized hoodie drapes over him perfectly, the cargo pants fitting just right. the streetwear aesthetic somehow works on him, making him look effortlessly stylish but in a different way than usual.

"see?" you say, grinning. "you look good."

taesan folds his arms. "i feel weird."

"you look hot." you say, holding back the urge to fully make out with him right then and there.

his ears turn pink. "shut up."

"no, seriously, you could wear this all the time and no one would question it." you approach him, admiring your work. "just imagine, us walking around in our matching outfits. everyone would be jealous."

"you’re insufferable," he mumbles, but you can see the way his lips twitch, like he’s trying not to smile.

"so… are you gonna get it?"

he hesitates, looking at himself in the mirror.

and then, to your surprise, he sighs. "yeah, whatever."

your jaw drops. "wait, really?"

he shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "you like it, right?"

you smirk playfully. "no..."

taesan stands there, stunned, "what? then why-"

"i absolutely love it"

before you can say anything else, he grabs the clothes and heads toward the register, leaving you standing there, absolutely smitten.

the sun is starting to set by the time you leave the mall, the sky painted in shades of orange and pink. taesan carries the shopping bag in one hand, his other still holding yours.

"so," you say, swinging your intertwined hands slightly, "was this a date?"

he scoffs. "obviously."

"oh? so you’re saying you planned this because you wanted to spend time with me?"

"i mean, yeah?" he glances at you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "why else?"

you grin. "just making sure."

he rolls his eyes but doesn’t let go of your hand.

when you get back to his dorm, jaehyun and woonhak are waiting.

"back already?" jaehyun muses.

woonhak eyes your bags. "did you guys get matching clothes?"

taesan doesn’t answer, but his grip on the shopping bag tightens.

jaehyun smirks. "oh my god, you did."

woonhak gasps dramatically. "that’s so cute."

"shut up." taesan pushes past them, dragging you with him into his room. before he closes the door, you hear jaehyun laughing.

"taesan, you’re so whipped!"

taesan groans, pressing his forehead against the door. "i hate them."

"you don’t."

"i do."

you laugh, wrapping your arms around his waist. "well, i like them. they make you flustered, which is adorable."

he sighs, leaning into your touch. "you’re lucky i like you."

"i know," you tease, resting your chin on his shoulder.

he turns his head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"but don’t push it."

you just smile, holding him a little tighter.

just as you’re basking in the warmth of taesan’s arms, the door suddenly swings open.

"alright, lovebirds, break it up—"

jaehyun’s voice cuts off as he takes in the scene: you wrapped around taesan, his head resting lightly against yours. taesan barely has time to react before woonhak appears behind jaehyun, eyes widening.

"oh my god," woonhak breathes, pointing accusingly. "you guys are so gross."

taesan tenses immediately. "get out."

"no way," jaehyun grins, crossing his arms. "not before we see you in those matching outfits."

taesan scowls. "not happening."

woonhak gasps dramatically. "but taesan, you spent all that money. what a waste."

jaehyun nods sagely. "yeah, what a shame. if only there were some way to make sure the outfits were worth it. like, i don’t know… wearing them right now?"

taesan looks like he’s considering murder. you, on the other hand, are having the time of your life.

"you know what?" you say, squeezing taesan’s waist. "they’re right."

"don’t encourage them," taesan groans.

"too late!" woonhak cheers, already pushing the door open wider. "put it on, hyung. let us bask in the couple aesthetic."

"i will actually throw you both out," taesan warns.

"so violent," jaehyun sighs. "is this what love does to a man?"

woonhak shakes his head, looking at you sympathetically. "you deserve better."

you snort. "nah, i think i’ll keep him."

taesan groans even louder, but at this point, he knows he’s lost.

"fine," he mutters. "but if i do this, you two are never speaking of it again."

jaehyun and woonhak exchange looks.

"no promises," they say in unison.

[m4iya]

Beach (Family outing: Twin boys and a girl)

Kuroo Tetsuro

Anon - from my 50 followers event

“Mommy, can I wear my new swim clothes?” Your 5 year old held out the frilly swimsuit that was amongst the numerous things Kuroo had recently spoiled her with. Giving her the okay, she skipped off into her room to change, only after attempting to wake her brothers up, who had been napping on the couch for half an hour after snarfing down breakfast.

“Five more minutes…” One groaned.

“Ten…” His twin replied.

“Kuroo, I need to finish prepping the snacks - could you wake the boys up?”

Kuroo, who had been wiping down the table perked his head up. “Sure, just a sec.”

He made his way to the sink, wetting his hands before walking over to the napping boys and flicking water onto their faces.

“Wakey-wakey!”

Groggily opening his eyes, one of the pair’s face contorted into a confused look. “Dad, why are your hands wet..?” Pulling his sleeve over his hand, he wiped his face down, complaining as he did so. Kuroo sent them to get ready, telling them of their plans to spend the day at the beach.

Sure, it had already been 10 years since they were born, but twins definitely aren’t easy to get used to. Somehow they’re always fighting over wanting the exact same thing, but not wanting the other to copy them; which is why most of their belongings are the same, only in different colours. Sometimes you’d take one of the boys shopping, encouraging him to pick out things he specifically liked, and getting Kuroo to do the same with the other son. Though, they still manage to find things to argue about, and this time it was their floaties and sand toys.

The five of you arrived beach after listening to your kids nagging at eachother for the duration of the car ride while you attempted to have a semblance of a conversation with Kuroo. He went ahead, setting up the beach tent while you placed the blanket underneath. The twins ran into the water together, splashing around, their gleeful laughter filling your ears. You opted to sit in the shade under the tent, watching them have fun together as your daughter played in the sand close by. Kuroo sat down next to you, slinging an arm over your shoulder.

“The older she gets, the more she looks like you, y’know?” He glanced over at the little girl in the as she shoveled sand into a bucket beside you both.

“The boys as well.” You chuckled. “From their eyes to the way they laugh. It’s like there’s two more of you.”

“But I can’t let them have my bed head.” He sighed. “That’s not something i want to be recognised by.”

You giggled, remembering how messy his hair used to be all throughout your childhood together. Only recently did he begin paying attention to his appearance, combing his hair at the very least.

The boys called out to him from the water, and he stood up to walk towards them. “Are you okay on your own?” He asked.

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

He took off towards the boys, making his way into the water as they splashed him incessantly. He’d prop one of the boys onto a floaty, thrusting him forward as he swam.

“Me next!” The other would squeal.

You took a few steps over to the sand where your daughter was playing.

“Don’t you want to jump in the water?” You asked, brushing a piece of hair out of her face.

“It’s okay. I wanna play in the sand with Mommy.” She handed you a bucket, instructing you to fill it with sand. “We’re gonna make a huge castle!” She chirped.

Playing with your daughter in the sand, hearing Kuroo’s laughter in the background as he splashed around with the twins; the environment brought you back to when you were young as well. Reminding you of when you’d come to this very beach with Kuroo, just the two of you as awkward teenagers.

But now, you’re both back here at the same beach, being reminded of your youth. Except this time, there are three new people bringing a plethora of memories to a place that already holds so many.

other works

[avaredava]

Can I have your thoughts on sexual tension with jjk men? Like the kind where you both want each other and can't do anything about it?

Kisses ❤️❤️

Yeah of course! If this isn't what you mean by what you want I'll redo it don't worry it's no biggie! I'd rather you say something and I PROMISE i will re-do it! ♥️🫵

Master list

MDNI

Satoru Gojo:

You and Satoru were out shopping for lingerie (he made you), but he wanted to help his girl feel pretty in his defence. You both walk into the store and look around and see a very nice set. Baby blue. You can already tell he's rock hard. "Should I try these on baby?" You ask teasingly. "Yeah." He bluntly says. He wants to drag you into that changing room and fuck the shit out of you while you wear that- until you and him are soaked with sweat cum and tears. But the door is a curtain and there's a worker right beside it. So you really can't get frisky. He groans when you tell him no but you try it on and walk out to show him, since it was just girls out there. He made sure no men were there.

You honestly just gave him a bigger boner and a raging emotion he's never felt. Neediness, wanting, horny... He wants you so bad. You're so getting it when you get home just make sure you have your soul after that. He wants to fuck that out too.

୨୧・・・・୨୧

Megumi Fushiguro

You were sitting beside him listening to Gojo yap to the classroom about reverse technique and blabbering about how awesome and hot he is, which was slightly annoying but everyone learned to tune him out. "He's an idiot." Megumi mumbled like the grump he is. He was mindlessly rubbing your thigh gently under the table. But you were ovulating and this was just getting you fucking wet. And he was hotter than usual, I mean he was always hot- yeah he is. Your mind was squirming with thoughts and you were soaked at this point. He noticed that your face was flushed and he did a small grin. "What's wrong baby." He mumbles into your ear. You take a sharp inhale of breath and he moves his hand higher playing with your panties feeling the wet spot. He randomly pulls hand away and whispers.

"Princess, you're gonna have to wait."

୨୧・・・・୨୧

Nanami Kento

Nanami has the prettiest little secretary. You. He loves those short skirts and tight dress shirts that drive him crazy. When you sit in the corner of the room in his office with that lollipop in your mouth sucking it, he just wishes that it's his cock in your mouth. He swears you do it on purpose sometimes! It drives him absolutely wild. Short tight outfits, sucking and smirking, ain't even the worst thing. It's the fact that you have stripped in his office to change from your clothes to your work outfit. He's never seen you change but he finds the evidence. Your wet pretty pink lacy panties with a bow in the front and a matching bra and he jerks off to your underwear and stuffs the bra in his mouth so he's not loud. He really wishes he was sucking the thing the bra was holding (your tits) not the bra. He thinks he might go mad.

୨୧・・・・୨୧

Toji Fushiguro

You recently got a book. It had a gun scene, where she got gun fucked by her man, and fuck Toji has a gun. And that's for some reason a turn on for you. Your ovulation time makes you extra horny. And just seeing Toji makes you aroused. He is one fine man and god you can stare at him for hours. He comes home holding his gun from his last shoot out and his muscles compressed in that tight shirt of his. God damn. You looked him up and down imagining his gun rubbing your clit rubbing up down your slit going inside, teasing you with it. He sees you checking him out, wanting something. He knows.

He waves his gun in the air.

"You want somethin' doll?"

୨୧・・・・୨୧

Choso Kamo

The air in the crowded space felt stifling, but it had nothing to do with the people around you and everything to do with him. Choso stood close—too close—his body angled just enough that only you could feel the heat radiating off him. His fingers barely skimmed the small of your back, an innocent touch to anyone watching, but the way his knuckles brushed against your skin sent a sharp thrill through you. He didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned in, his lips hovering just beside your ear, his voice low and deliberate.

“You keep pressing into me like that,” he murmured, “Are you testing me… or do you want me to break?” His breath was warm, teasing, as his fingertips traced the faintest pattern against your side before retreating—just enough to make you crave the contact again. The weight of his gaze dragged over your lips before flicking back up to meet your eyes, dark and unreadable, but the tension between you was undeniable. It was a game now—one neither of you seemed willing to lose.

୨୧・・・・୨୧

Suguru Geto

You've been walking around in a bra, all day...

Suguru's fingertips brushed against your jaw, barely there, yet enough to set your skin ablaze. His smirk was lazy, almost amused, but the sharp glint in his eyes told a different story—one of restraint, of something simmering just beneath the surface. "You're making this difficult," he murmured, his voice smooth, dark, laced with amusement and something more dangerous. His breath fanned against your lips, the space between you shrinking with every passing second. "Tell me," he mused, tilting his head ever so slightly, "are you going to keep teasing me, or do you want me to ruin you?"

୨୧・・・・୨୧

Toge Inumaki

One thing for Toge is that he can't talk normally without hurting himself because of his cursed technique. So he uses physical touch. He'll pinch your sides, snuggle you, tickle you, stuff like that.

Right now he's gently kissing your face on his dorm bed running his hands up and down you. You both never went past making out. But the tension between you two is so strong. He decides to use his cursed technique.

"Undress."

୨୧・・・・୨୧

Yuji Itadori

Yuji was playing with Megumi's demon dogs scratching their bellies. You couldn't help but notice how long his fingers are and how nice they curl. You gulp and look away but being the observant man he is, he looked back and noticed your flushed face. "Y/N what's the matter?" He said in a curious but overall cheerful tone.

He notices you zoned out and staring at his fingers before you blink back to reality. "Oh nothing, nothing." He grinned and wiggled is fingers.

"Oh?"

୨୧・・・・୨୧

Comment if you want a longer version of these!

[k1mbe3rly]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO AN NSFW ALPHABET FOR THE SALESMAN PRETTY PLEASE WITH A CHERRY ON TOP IM BEGGING ‼️ 😭💕🙏🧎‍♀️‍➡️

The Salesman NSFW alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

he probably doesn’t do much, maybe he’ll clean you up but after that he’s fixing himself up mainly because he has to go and get people to join the games

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part about you is your shoulder , he bites into it and sometimes leaves small cuts

His favorite body part about himself is his fingers, especially since he uses a gun and very skilled with his hands, he also loves to finger you

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

This man would make you filled with his cum, dirty you everywhere, face, mouth, tits, stomach, and on your pussy lips, seeing you a mess is amazing to him and maybe he snaps a photo of you

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

His dirty secret is wanting to fuck you with his gun

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

I would say he’s not a virgin but he doesn’t have sex often, because of his job he’s focused on that more than sex

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary. All the way, the way you’re tits bounces, your face, just everything

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Not once he is goofy and never would be

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s groomed, if he can shave his beard than he definitely shaves down there

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Very hardcore serious, you’ll see him so into it that his eyes go dead

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Not at all

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Gun play, Knife play, slight pain kink, degrading, praising and hair pulling

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

UMM THE BED? or anythjng private

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Dirty talking and revealing clothes

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Carry a loaded gun to you when having sex

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

he’s a giver for sure. He does like when you give him head but most of the time he loves devouring your list and rubbing your clit with the handle of his knife or his gun

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He’s fast and rough mostly, he just loves the way his cock goes in and out fast and the way you squirm

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

not really, he likes to take his time espically since he’s a big fan of teasing

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’ll take risk but not often

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can last many rounds, he’s endless

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

no toys

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

very into teasing, he likes to edge you a bit before he shoves his cock into you

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He growls and groans

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Sometimes he likes to act like he’s forcing you to suck him off just to place a gun to your head as you suck on his cock, obviously it’s not loaded

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

7 inches straight, a bit thick

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

not high, but maybe once he met you it goes to like medium high

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn’t really sleep after, he’s just sweaty and likes to keep himself professional

[dwaekkicidal]

Heard you were looking for mean dom thoughts and for some reason my current hyperfixation is telling me Han teasing you to hell and back and denying your climax specifically at like 3AM

brooo han is such a little shit sometimes asjkudhalskjd horny, horny, HORNY, man. he would SO spend the whole day building you up, teasing the living shit out of you while you guys are out and about, all just to edge the shit out of you when you guys get home...

i want to think he would want to have no shame with it, but he knows sneakily doing stuff to gradually get your adrenaline up and running always ends up with you being the horniest by the time you two get home </3

so instead of being blatant about his teasing, i think he would wait until you glance over at him to sloooowly trail his eyes down and up your body, usually lingering on any cleavage or between your thighs

and then when you press your legs together while he's staring holes into your thighs, he's gonna look up at you with the cockiest smirk in the fucking world...

and at this point he LOVES to lean back in his chair and spread his legs as he repositions himself lower on the chair (YKWIM BY THIS???FMLL)

when he's not doing this^ he's usually lingering touches at all times, for literally no reason.

this dude has no business feeling you up in the elevator while his manager is <2 feet away on his phone TALKING TO HAN. but this man is too busy grabbing a handful of your ass (and probably trying to get a feel of your chest if he's able to without getting caught)

nor does he have any business sneaking his hand in your pants during lunch. will find literally any excuse to get up close to you and sneak his hands past your underwear. and dont get me started if u have a fucking skirt on..

if he manages to get a feel, he'll usually dip a finger or two in your hole for literally <10 seconds and then bring that finger/fingers to his mouth and pretend that he spilt some of his food on his hand and wanted to clean it up

the worst ones are when you're at a party or some sort of club with him, usually in celebration after their comebacks are over. and it wouldn't be so bad if he didnt get so tipsy so easily, and beg you to sit in his lap "because i want to hold you 🥺"

*buzzer noise*

ah-ah-ahhh...

that man wants to grind you over his cock the ENTIRE time you guys are in that building. anytime you're sitting down, it is always on his lap- and he is slowly but surely fucking his hips up into you and dragging you back and forth over him.

or if you're adamant on wanting to be on the dance floor, he will be glued to your hip and is gonna grind on you from behind as you two dance. will even try bribing the dj to play sexy songs just so he has a real "excuse" to grind all over you

this^ usually ends with you two dry-fucking in the bathrooms of the place, but neither of you are getting even close to cumming. he's just doing it to make sure you're still nice and ready for him <3

even once he gets you in the safety of your home, he's gonna be aaaaall over you. its sooo far past midnight but he needs some sort of release after spending literally the whole day with a hardon

will have his hands in your underwear, grabbing literally as much of you in each hand as he can- multiple fingers deep before you even get past the kitchen. he's gonna have you half naked and dripping before you guys even walk into the bedroom

you'll be lucky if you manage to get the rest of your clothes off before he's on you,, he's usually so impatient to get started after teasing himself all day that he refuses to wait for anything.

has you bent over the dresser while you're trying to pull your shirt off- his face buried between your legs and making the nastiest, most obnoxious sucking noises for no reason. will happily and quickly bring you to the edge, only to pull away right before you started to cum

laughs at you and drags you to the bed so he can push you onto your back just and admire how fucked out you looked over 1 denied orgasm- and the best part is, he's only just starting <333 he knows you're gonna get fucked stupid and cry so pretty for him before you're

something about the two of you being absolutely insatiable and desperate for any sort of release, just to have him deny you of your own release gives him some sort of sick satisfaction

he lets himself cum into you at least once. and its only because he knows that if he doesnt, he's not gonna be able to control himself and he will overstimulate you instead- which is arguably better or worse lol

i dont think he would be the one to be huge on impact play, but wouldnt hold himself back if you try grinding against him as he's denying your orgasms.

will frown at you and whine in your ear about it, but if you don't stop after that he might land a smack or two to your ass to remind you of your place <3

straight up straddles your hips/thighs and will finger you from up there so that you have less means of wiggling around and accidentally triggering an orgasm

he loves spending the entire night between your legs, from the second you get home to the second the sun starts rising. he doesnt care if he's giving you the messiest oral known to man, or if he's fucking you within an inch of your life, he is doing so with a SMILE on his face

and no, he hasn't forgotten unfortunately. you still arent allowed to cum by the time its 5 am, pushing 6am. its only after you show signs of actually being tired/falling asleep that he will start to push you to your first orgasm of the night- usually being on his fingers and his tongue

[emsdevs]

I’m a sucker for Angst, so a heaviest of heavy Angst will always do it for me, like I need my insides to feel like it’s being stabbed and overwhelmed with all sort of emotions. Bonus point if it’s long. Hope this isn’t too much to ask for maybe I’m getting too carried away loll Could you do it with Justin Herbert please?

No Strings?

a/n: nonnie you sent this at the perfect time! I've had justin on my schedule for a while, but couldn't figure out what to write for him, so this worked out perfectly! this does not have a happy ending but i might be open to a part two if enough people want it. enjoyyyy :)

masterlist | NFL Masterlists | Justin Herbert Masterlist

You swore you could handle casual. When you started whatever you had going on with Justin, you swore you were the kind of person who could have a casual relationship, but now you aren’t so sure. When Justin asked you out four months ago, you never would’ve expected to be where you are now. It had all been going so well. The dates had been everything you could’ve asked for and more, and Justin was the perfect gentleman. It all began to go downhill after your third date. You had invited Justin into your apartment when he dropped you off, your intentions clear, and he had followed you inside. You two had been sitting on the couch when things began to get serious, the kiss you were sharing heating up.

Justin pulled away, looking slightly guilty. “I feel like I need to be honest with you about something before this goes any further.”

“Um, yeah, okay,” you were a little confused, but you let him speak.

“Look, because of the job I have, I really can’t do anything serious right now. I know I’ve probably led you on a little bit, but I swear I’ve never had any intentions to hurt you,” he stared at you, looking nervous.

“That’s okay!” you speak up too quickly for your liking. “We don’t have to stop unless that’s what you want. I can do casual.” Surely, you could. It couldn’t be that different from a normal relationship.

“You sure? I don’t wanna overstep if casual isn’t something you’re comfortable with.”

“Yeah, of course. No strings attached. Just having fun.”

As Justin leaned back in, you were thinking that this could definitely work. Justin was great, and this would keep him in your life without overstepping any boundaries. You could do casual.

~~

Turns out, you can’t do casual. You’ve been trying to stay normal, but you realized two days ago that you were falling for Justin, hard. You’d been keeping it to yourself, not wanting to scare him away, but it’s getting more and more difficult. He’s just so sweet, and the things he tends to do for you simply cannot be casual.

Is it casual when he plays with the ends of your hair before you get out of bed in the morning? Is it casual for him, even though he keeps all your favorite snacks at his place for when you have movie nights? If it’s casual, why does he keep a drawer free so you have space to keep a few clothes at his place? If it’s casual, why does he know you better than you know yourself? Why has he gotten you your favorite flowers every two weeks since you went on that first date with him? Why does he know “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” is the perfect movie to cheer you up after a long day? If it’s casual for him, why is he acting like he’s in love with you?

Eventually, it had gotten to a point where you couldn’t stand lying to him or yourself anymore. After four months of no strings, you had to talk to him. You finally got the chance one night when he invited you over for a movie night. Before the movie got started, you decided it was time to break the news.

“Justin… I actually think we need to talk,” you wiped your hands on your pants, feeling them already starting to sweat from the nerves.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“I just really need to say this, and I know you probably won’t like it, but I need you to listen until I finish,” you pause, waiting for him to nod. “Okay, so, I just feel like we’ve definitely crossed some lines in this arrangement, ya know? Like we both have a drawer at each other’s places. We’re spending the night together, and sometimes, we hang out without even having sex. I just… this isn’t what we originally agreed to,” you were avoiding saying what you were truly feeling.

“So we’ll step back some? I don’t know. That doesn’t seem like something to be worried abou-”

“I caught feelings for you, Justin,” he just stares at you, shocked, “I know we said no feelings, but we’ve just gotten a little too close. We don’t have to stop or anything. I’m a big girl. I can handle-”

“No. No, we should stop,” he cuts you off, and it’s your turn to stare.

“Seriously?”

“We said no strings. I told you I can’t do relationships because of my job. If you have feelings for me, this needs to stop now before it can get worse.”

“Right,” you stood robotically, grabbing your things and walking out of Justin’s house with tears in your eyes. The worst part? He didn’t even try to stop you. Somehow, with one sentence, you ruined something that could’ve been so good for you, that had been so good for you.

~~

Now, it had been three months since that night, and you hadn’t spoken to Justin since. You’ve been going through the motions, just doing a fairly normal routine to make it through your day. You wake up, get dressed, go home, shower, cry while you eat your sorrows away, sleep, and then do it all again the next day. Nothing has felt right since your breakup with Justin, if that’s what you would even call. How can you break up with someone you were never really dating. 

You’ve found your confidence to be much lower recently, too. You couldn’t count the amount of time you’ve wondered where you went wrong. Why did you have to tell him? Why would he not even try? Why didn’t he follow you? Today, you found the answer.

You had decided that a day out would do you some good, so since you had the day off, you got dressed and walked around the city. You were about to go into one of your favorite coffee shops, one that you had brought Justin to many times. As you neared the door, you caught a glimpse of something that shattered your heart in a second. There sat Justin across from some girl you’ve never seen, looking too close to just be friends. You watched as she stood, kissing his cheek before she wandered off to the bathroom. A bright smile made its way onto Justin’s face, a smile you had never managed to bring out of him. With your heart broken all over again, you made your way to a close friend’s place. It was closer than yours, and you knew you didn’t want to be alone right now.

He had told you he couldn’t be in a relationship, but what he really meant was that he couldn’t be in a relationship with you. The questions began to set in again. Were you not pretty enough? Not popular enough? Did he need someone in the same tax bracket as him? Did he really just not like you? Did he think you weren’t good enough for him? Was he lying the entire time, every time he told you how special you were to him

Even with all the questions you had, you knew two things for sure. You were done with Justin Herbert, and you definitely could not do casual.

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[not-neverland06]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚕 𝚂𝚘𝚗

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: It's finally here, the fruits of my labor have finally come forth lol. I finally managed to get out those last few bits that I was struggling with so much. Turns out, finally getting on anti-depressants is actually a fucking game changer. Who knew?

I'd like to apologize for how long this took, but, also, I'd like to thank you all for being so supportive. I know there can be a lot of toxicity in fandoms, especially in fanfiction. I have been absolutely blessed with such wonderfully supportive, understanding, and kind readers. I want you to know that I do not take you guys for granted and absolutely love the small community I've found on here. Thank you all, and know that the epilogue is nearly finished and will be posted within the next 1-2 days, as I'm sure some of you will be wanting it after this one.

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: The end is nigh. Arthur feels it in the air, the broiling tension and building hostility within the gang. Their enemies are no longer their biggest problem. Instead, they have to worry about each other now. There's betrayal at every turn and Arthur is stuck in the middle of it all, pulled incessantly between two worlds. His old life as an outlaw, and the possibility of a new one with you.

You heave the hog off your shoulder and drop it onto Pearson’s table with a heavy thud. The legs creak under the weight, groaning as though they might give way. For a moment, you hover, watching the table tremble before it steadies. Satisfied, you take a step back.

Pearson ambles out of his tent, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He spots the hog, and his face twists into a suspicious scowl. “What the hell is that?”

You give a faint grin, more out of habit than humor. “Helped a farmer down the road. Didn’t have the coin to pay me, so he gave me one of his prize hogs.”

Pearson’s frown deepens, his lips twitching as though he’s struggling to process the situation. After a beat, he shrugs. “Alright, fine.”

You scoff, the lack of gratitude digging under your skin. Would it kill him to crack a smile? Shaking your head, you turn away, irritation simmering as you leave him to his work. Maybe you’ll go for another ride tonight—most likely camping out under the stars. Anything to clear your head.

You’ve still got a few hours before sunset, so you mull over how to kill the time. A race with Sadie might do the trick. The familiar sound of hooves splashing through the mud catches your attention. Normally, you’d ignore it, but a sudden commotion pulls your focus.

Mrs. Grimshaw’s gasp pierces the air, her hands clasped over her mouth in shock. Frowning, you follow her gaze, your stomach twisting as you spot riders approaching. Their faces are blurry in the distance, but something about the way they move makes your chest tighten. Stepping closer, your heart drops like a stone.

Dutch is at the head of the group, leading his men back into camp. Those who’d been on the ferry are all there, alive and well—except for one. The absence burns hotter than the sun on your back. Anger flares like wildfire in your chest, threatening to consume you.

The others cheer and laugh, crowding around the returning riders. Your gaze locks with Micah’s, and your teeth clench so hard it hurts. Dark circles frame his eyes, and he coughs into a bloodied cloth. The sight of him—the fact that this bastard gets to live while Arthur doesn’t—is enough to make you sick.

You turn away sharply, unable to stomach the celebration. Across the camp, your eyes meet Sadie’s. She’s leaning against the cabin, her face a mask of restrained fury. The sight of Dutch soaking up the adoration like a starving dog gnaws at what’s left of your patience.

You can feel it slipping away—your peace, your freedom. Dutch’s return threatens to drag it all back into the muck. But not this time. You swear it, not this time.

Dutch Van der Linde isn’t your leader. He isn’t your friend or your family. He’s nothing but a man who takes and takes until there’s nothing left.

Your gaze hardens on his back, your lips curling in quiet defiance. Tonight, you’re leaving—for good. Damn the gang. Damn this camp. And damn Dutch Van der Linde.

Arthur finds Diablo waiting for him at Shady Belle, as though the horse knew exactly where he’d return. He walks up to him, rubbing the horse’s nose gently. He finds an apple and gives it to Diablo, relishing in the familiar connection.

He’d known, deep down, when he was on his way here, that the gang wouldn’t be around. There was no way they could stay near St. Denis after what happened. Still, when he doesn’t see you immediately, the gut-deep ache doesn’t fade, even if he’d expected it. 

The note Sadie leaves is easy enough to figure out. Going off the hooves circling around the house, he’s sure the men who were ahead of him discovered the location too. Mounting Diablo and riding off toward camp is such an achingly familiar feeling it almost hurts. After weeks in Guarma, scorched by the sun and tortured by corrupt politicians, riding Diablo feels like a return to something sacred, something he can’t quite explain.

Reacclimating himself to the feeling of riding a horse isn’t an arduous task, but it is uncomfortable at first. He’d walked across every inch of Guarma, then spent weeks on a boat. It’s been so long since he felt the freedom of the open plains.

 Arthur looks toward the horizon, to the setting sun and the golden light casting its net across the world before him. It won’t be much longer until he’s back with you. He’s almost looking forward to hearing you say ‘I told you so.’

It’s not much longer before he’s riding through the muddy puddles in front of the cabins deep in the moors. Sadie is the first to see him. Her head is ducked, eyes down as she speaks in hushed whispers with you. Your back is to him and he doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not. The idea of a reunion has felt like a distant dream, he’s not sure if he’s truly ready to see you again. 

Sadie’s head lifts slightly, eyes locking on his. Her face goes slack with shock, cheeks pale, and eyes wide. “Sadie?” You ask, and your voice is like a balm over all his aches and pains. “What is it?” You don’t look,as stubborn as ever, you nudge at Sadie’s shoulder, waiting for an answer.

She spares you a brief glance as Arthur dismounts, eyes still stuck on him. “Turn your ass around and look,” she demands, her voice a mix of disbelief and wonder.

Arthur doesn’t notice the way Sadie throws herself at him, her arms wrapping around him, pulling back, and slapping his shoulder. He’s too focused on you. Your shoulders are stiff, fists curled tight like you know he’s there but can’t bear to turn around. In all his time thinking of this moment, of seeing you again. He’d forgotten something very important. 

Finally, you turn around. Arthur grins, the relief in his chest rising. “Well?” He teases, arms open wide as he narrows his eyes at you. “Aren’t you gonna say hi?”

You don’t answer, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you look close to tears. Arthur’s brow furrows in confusion. He thought you’d at least look happy to see him. “Arthur Morgan,” Sadie chides from beside him, though her grin betrays her. “I thought you were dead, you bastard.”

Arthur feels his heart drop, finally realizing why you’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost. He was gone for weeks, last you heard he’d been on a ship. And word had probably gotten around that they’d been shipwrecked. Weeks without word, the shipwreck, and the rumors that must’ve circulated. He hadn’t thought for a second that you might actually believe he’d left you behind. After the way you’d parted, he supposes he didn’t do enough to convince you otherwise.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, chest clenching tight, “I-” 

You take quick steps toward him, boots splashing through the mud. He mutters your name lowly, an apology and a promise laced between the syllables. You suck in a sharp breath and he thinks you might hug him. Before he can say anything else, his head is whipping to the side, cheek stinging. 

Your hand lingers in the air for a moment, as if still caught in disbelief. You stare at him, your eyes wide, voice trembling. “Arthur?” you whisper, your words barely audible, your face crumpling under the weight of the truth.

You surge forward, grabbing the collar of his tattered shirt and dragging him down. You surge up, pressing your lips to his with a desperation that nearly matches his own. He can taste the salt of your tears as you kiss him, the way they streak down your cheeks. 

Arthur’s heart drops. He’s used to being a disappointment to the people around him. He’s experienced this a hundred times. His relationship with Mary was no exception, he should be used to this pain by now. But knowing he’s failed you, makes it hurt worse than it ever has before. Arthur grabs you by the waist, desperate to make up for everything. He pulls you as close as he can get, pressing his lips to yours. 

You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, desperation nearly a physical thing as you return his touch. You hold each other as though this kiss could somehow erase the weeks of suffering you’d both endured.

He doesn’t want to let go again. Arthur never wants to see that heartbroken look on your face. And he doesn’t ever want to be the cause for it, not anymore. The ache in his chest loosens as he breathes you in like you’re the only air he’ll ever need. Arthur won’t let you go again, he swears it to himself, because he knows you won’t ever believe him again.

You and Arthur sit toward the back of the cabin, away from the heart of the gathering. Everyone had been thrilled to see him alive, their greetings warm yet subdued, their relief tempered by everything they’d been through in his absence. 

Your hand rests loosely in his, a token of comfort you hardly seem aware of offering. Arthur studies your face as you listen to Dutch’s grand retelling of Guarma, your narrowed eyes betraying the skepticism simmering beneath your otherwise still expression. Each time Dutch embellishes a detail, you flick your gaze toward Arthur, silently searching his expression for the truth. The scrutiny makes Arthur shift uncomfortably, though he knows it’s not unwarranted.

“I truly do not know how you all made out so well here.” Dutch comments, lips curled slightly as he glances around at the thick layers of dust and dirt coating the walls 

Tilly grins eagerly, motioning toward you and Sadie. “It was all Mrs. Rowe and Sadie, they found this place. They been taking care of everything.” 

Arthur’s brows furrow as he watches a sheepish smile grow on your face. He squeezes your hand and you glance toward him. He lifts his brow in question and you nod your head. “Ain’t been doin’ much,” you tell him, shrugging. 

Sadie must hear you because she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You kiddin’ me? Once you finally stopped mopin’, you were the only reason we didn’t all lose our minds.” Your smile tightens, the edges hardening as your shoulders stiffen.

“Well,” Dutch interrupts smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension. He fixes you with a look, and you straighten under his gaze. “I suppose I should thank the both of you for holding things together.”

“Suppose you should,” you reply sharply, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Or maybe you could apologize for that half-assed plan that got us stuck in this mess in the first place.”

Arthur’s hand tightens on yours, his voice low and warning. “Don’t—”

You whip around, glaring at him, and he’s startled by the fire in your eyes. Without a word, you yank your hand free and stand. Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Dutch steps forward, his gaze narrowed in on you.

The tension is interrupted by the door bursting open behind Dutch. Bill stumbles in, his face red and sweaty. “Go’damn!” he bellows, his chest heaving. “I’ve been lookin’ for you all damn day. Had to ask every soul in town where the hell you were.”

Arthur’s gut twists. He bolts to his feet, striding toward you and Bill. “What’dya mean you asked around town?”

Bill falters, his face draining of color. His lips part as if to speak, but the words are stolen by a booming voice from outside.

“This is Agent Milton,” the voice calls. The blood drains from Arthur’s face as he grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. “You have one minute to surrender before my men decide to take you in dead.”

“Dammit, Bill, you fool,” Arthur growls, the words biting through clenched teeth. His mind races as he grips your arm firmly. He knows the men outside won’t hesitate. They aren’t the type to spare the women or the children. They’ll gun you down just for being around him and the others. He tugs you closer, instinct has him shielding you from the chaos as best he can. 

Milton doesn’t wait for the countdown. “Forget it,” he barks. “Start shooting.”

The first bullets shatter the cabin’s windows, sending shards of glass spraying like rain. Arthur curls his body around yours, as the rest of the gang scatters, some diving to the floor, others scrambling for cover. A lamp explodes nearby, and the oil catches fire, dripping to the floor and licking at the walls.

Arthur’s focus is on you, but you’ve already moved. You duck and grab a rifle from beneath a cot, slinging it over your shoulder. There’s no hesitation, no look back for approval. You dart toward the door, your movements swift and purposeful.

“Wait, dammit, don’t!” Arthur shouts, but you’re already outside, firing before the Pinkertons can adjust their aim. The sun has dipped below the fire, he only spots you through flashes of bullets and the fire steadily growing behind him. He tugs his revolver out, shooting wildly, the Pinkertons are swarming out of the forest like wolves, there's no point in aiming now.

Arthur follows along behind you, taking cover behind a wagon as some of the others pick up their own guns. He spots Sadie running past him, shouting something indecipherable as she takes out the Maxim gun. Blood flies as bullets make their marks, after weeks on a boat it almost feels foreign to feel the warmth of someone else’s life pressing against him. 

Through the chaos, he watches you move with precision, directing shots with a cold efficiency that makes his chest tighten. You’re not the woman he left behind. You’re faster, bolder, and sharper, your confidence and stupidity is clear as you throw yourself into the center of danger, taking aim at some of the men on the roofs of the cabins. 

Arthur sees another man creeping up behind you. His gun has been abandoned somewhere, he only has a machete in his hand now, arm arcing down toward your head. Weeks without practice might have left him slower than he used to be, but he’s still quick enough to shoot the blade out of the man’s hand. 

You flinch at the shot, whipping around with a pinched expression. The attacker shouts, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. Without hesitation, you rise and swing the butt of your rifle at the back of his skull. The man crumples face-first into the mud, lifeless. You don’t even look at him again, your focus snapping back to the fight as you resume shooting, each shot clean and deliberate.

The tide of the fight begins to shift. Once Sadie got ahold of the maxim, the Pinkertons had no choice but to start their retreat. Even outnumbered fifty to one, the gang still has some fight left in them. But it’s a fragile victory, and Arthur knows it won’t last.

He weaves his way toward you, his mind racing, but you speak first before he can get a word out.

“They’ll regroup,” you say, your voice firm but low. “We need to track them into the woods, pick them off before they get away.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “What’re you talkin’ about?” His voice is sharper than he intends. “You’re stayin’ right here. You hear me? I’ll deal with it.”

Your face screws up and it’s the first time you’ve given him a glance of the anger that had been burning under the surface. You go silent, lips set in a firm line before you glance over his shoulder. “They’re getting away,” you tell him quietly. “You can stay here if you want, but I’m going after the rest with Sadie and Charles.” 

You move around him without waiting for a response, your rifle brushing his arm in a way that feels deliberate, distant. The message is clear: you no longer need his protection. Arthur watches, stunned, as you stride toward the others.

For a moment, he stands frozen, the weight of the realization sinking in. The way you fight now, the fire in your eyes, the complete lack of hesitation, it’s all different. You’ve become someone who doesn’t need him, someone who’s learned to stand alone.

His chest tightens as he mounts Diablo, his gaze flickering toward you one last time before spurring the horse forward. He’ll follow the Pinkertons like you suggested. But even as he rides, a different battle churns inside him.

This isn’t something a few dead Pinkertons will fix. The distance between you both is growing and for the first time, Arthur feels powerless to stop it.

Dutch moved them down to Beaver Hollow, it’s a nice enough spot near the base of the mountains. The only problem is a bad brood of folk called the Murfree’s. A bunch of animals masquerading as men, cannibalizing people, and taking women without a care. Arthur hates the idea of you being anywhere near them. He’s doing his best to keep you in camp and you don’t argue. Arthur’s surprised at your easygoing obedience after what happened at the other camp. 

He’s getting worried about you. You’re quiet more often than not, you don’t bite back at Dutch or Micah like you usually would. And you’re more on edge than he’s ever seen you. He tries to talk to you about it, to understand what’s going on with you, but you won’t tell him. 

You always just say you’re worried about what’s going to happen when everything finally goes wrong. He thinks he knows what you mean, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Too many times has he been told that the reign of outlaws is over. There’s no room left for them anymore. 

When he was a boy, he would have thought that the time of outlaws was immortal. It’s easy when you’re young and foolish to think that you’re invincible, that nothing can ever touch you. He sees everything coming close to an end now, though. Despite the elation of their return back to a land they know, nothing’s the same. 

Micah’s only gotten worse since they returned from their shipwrecked time in Guarma. He’s always coughing, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. A doctor down in St. Denis told him it was tuberculosis a while back, Arthur knows that their time on the island only further agitated the disease. Since then, he’s been angrier, always whispering in Dutch’s ear. 

And Dutch, he won’t listen to Arthur anymore. Since the Pinkertons turned up at the cabins, he has it in his head that everyone’s a traitor. The only person he’ll trust is the one whispering poison into his ear. It drives Arthur mad. He keeps trying to get Dutch to tell him what’s going to happen next but he just says the same thing every time. “I have a plan, Arthur. Don’t you trust me?”

Before Guarma, before the O’Driscolls, before you, he would have said yes in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t trust him anymore, he can’t. Not after Dutch left him for dead, and then Sean and John. Sadie and Arthur had to go bust them both out of the chain gang they’d been working at in jail. It had been a mess and a half but when they’d returned to camp the only thing Dutch had to say was, “I had a plan.”

He’d been angry at them for rescuing the men and Arthur couldn’t understand why. He never would have left them to rot if Hosea were still here. 

The thought of the old man’s death leaves an ache in Arthur’s chest. He keeps picturing him lying on the St. Denis road, bleeding out. He knows Dutch couldn’t have done a damn thing about it, that bastard Milton was never going to spare him. But, if he had been given the opportunity to save Hosea by turning himself in, Arthur knows he wouldn’t have taken the chance. Dutch has grown selfish and arrogant, prioritizing himself over the rest of the gang and it only makes Arthur’s resentment grow. 

Still, he can’t help but see him as the man who’d taken him off the streets. Dutch and Hosea had taught him how to shoot, how to read and write. They’re the reason he knows how to hunt and make it on his own in the wild. How can he turn against the man who raised him to be who he is today?

You shift restlessly beside him, turning out of his hold and onto your side. Arthur frowns at the action, placing a light hand on your arm. You don’t shrug out from under his touch but you don’t reciprocate. You’ve turned cold and it’s only making everything harder. 

“I want to leave,” you whisper, and he startles slightly, thinking you’ve been asleep this whole time. 

“Huntin’?” Even as he speaks, he knows it’s not what you want, but he tries anyway. 

You scoff, the noise bitter and angry. “No.” You tell him shortly, tone clipped as you rise from the cot. Without another glance at him, you start changing out of your nightgown. Arthur sits up slowly, watching you. He doesn’t know what he’s done to spark this sudden shift in you, but the tension is near suffocating. “You have to see it, Arthur,” you say, pulling up your pants and tightening the belt. You glance over your shoulder, your expression is expectant, almost pleading. 

He lets out a rough sigh, figuring that there’s no chance of convincing you to rest a little longer. “See what?” He asks, dragging his hand over the stubble on his jaw. A low groan slips from his lips as he gets to his feet, back protesting at the too-small cot. 

“This,” you motion wildly, arms swinging out towards the camp that waits outside the closed flaps of his tent. “All of this, Arthur. It’s coming to an end. I can feel it,” you tell him, voice impassioned with fear and urgency. “There’s only so far we can run.”

Arthur looks away from you, shrugging on his shirt. “I know it’s hard right now. But Dutch-”

“Has a plan?” You snap, taking a step closer to him. Your brows knit tightly together, anger burning hot behind your eyes. You swat his hands away as he fumbles with a button, doing his shirt up for him. Even in your frustration, you can’t help but help him. It’s oddly endearing, despite the tension yawning between you. “He’s gonna get us to Tahiti?” You scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm as you roll your eyes. You smooth out his collar before stepping back, movements curt and precise.  

He reaches forward, hands catching your waist and tugging you back toward him before you can get far. You don’t meet his eyes, stubbornly looking away, but you don’t stop him from pulling you closer. 

“We’ll leave,” your head whips towards him, face lighting up with hope. He winces, wishing he was more clever with his words. “For a few days,” he clarifies and your eyes narrow into irritated slits. 

“I promise, what happened in St. Denis isn’t going to ever happen again.” He needs you to believe him, to understand just how much of a fool he felt like getting on that boat with Dutch. They hadn’t truly had another choice, but if he had a chance to do it all again he would have ran away with Charles. He never would have even left you at camp. 

“After a certain point, Arthur,” you squeeze his hand in yours and he feels just a little bit of relief at you finally returning his touch. “Your promises stop meaning much when you don’t keep them,” you slip out of his hold and his face falls flat, chest caving slightly. “But, sure, we’ll leave for a few days,” you shake your head, slipping out from his tent as he stares at the spot you’d once occupied. 

How had things gotten so bad?

“And where are you going, Mrs. Rowe?”

Arthur turns toward the sound of Dutch’s voice, spotting him standing near Pearson’s station. He looks for all the world like he’s at ease, but the tense set of his shoulders and twitch at the corners of his lips betray him. Arthur’s gaze shifts to you, standing by Lady, one hand gripping the reins of the restless mare.

“For a ride,” you say curtly, your tone flat and face pointedly blank. “What’s it look like?”

Arthur’s stomach knots as he notices the tension in the air. You’re already gripping the horn of Lady’s saddle, pulling yourself up with practiced ease. Arthur watches as you glance down at Dutch, your expression hardening and eyes slit in challenge. 

Dutch steps closer, his mouth curving into a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I understand things were run a little differently while we were gone. But I don’t think you going out alone is what’s smart right now-”

“Frankly, Mr. Van der Linde,” you interrupt, voice laced with venom, “I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m going for a ride.”

Arthur watches the muscle in Dutch’s jaw tighten, the flare of his nostrils betraying his irritation. Dutch turns to him, his eyes sharp, searching Arthur’s face for the usual complacent obedience.

Arthur whistles, and Diablo trots up to him obediently. Swinging into the saddle, he shoots you a quick look. “You heard the lady. We’re goin’ for a ride.”

The trail you lead him down is unfamiliar, winding through thick trees and rocky inclines. Arthur catches himself stealing glances at you- the way you sit tall in the saddle, the ease with which you guide Lady over uneven terrain. He tries to meet your eye, but each time, you only offer him small, polite smiles. They feel hollow, and it gnaws at him.

The silence stretches, prickling at his nerves. Finally, he speaks, voice cutting through the suffocating stillness. “Alright. Where are we goin’?”

You glance at him briefly, nodding toward the mountains in the distance. “Meeting up with Charles and the local tribe. I’ve helped them hunt a few times, but,” you trail off slightly, voice growing heavy, “they’ve been having problems.”

Arthur raises a brow. “Problems?”

You hesitate, your jaw tightening. “With the military,” you admit.

He doesn’t feel like you’re telling the whole truth and he can’t help but prod you further. “What kind of problems?”

You let out a frustrated sigh, shifting in your saddle. “The kind Dutch has been making worse.” You shoot him a pointed look and his jaw clenches at the blame lurking in your gaze. “He’s been riling up the chief’s son, getting him involved in jobs he shouldn’t.”

Arthur’s frown deepens, his brows furrowed as he struggles to think of Dutch’s reasoning for getting involved with the local tribe. Though, it’s not as if he’s been involving him in many plans lately. “Why would Dutch do that?”

Your head snaps toward him, your eyes filled with pent-up ire that’s been waiting to spill over. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Hey, now,” Arthur objects defensively, his tone growing just as sharp as yours. “I’m just askin’ a question.”

You fall silent, your expression flattening as you look ahead again. The weight of your resentment  hangs heavy between you, unspoken but undeniable. Arthur feels it like a stone in his chest, and it makes his teeth grind.

Arthur isn’t sure what he expected, but the sight before him twists his gut. Women huddle around children, feeding them thin soup from chipped bowls. Elderly men and women cough into bloodstained rags, their frail bodies barely covered by thin blankets. The air smells of sickness and desperation.

Arthur glances at you, but you’re already dismounting and striding toward the center of the settlement. Despite the distrustful stares from the tribe members, you move with purpose, your shoulders squared.

Charles stands near an older man, his voice low but urgent. Arthur catches the tail end of the conversation. “…my people will not survive this much longer,” the man says, his voice weary but resolute.

Arthur follows behind you as you approach. The man carries himself with a quiet strength, but his face is lined with worry and it’s ageing him by the minute. There’s a glint of familiarity in his eyes as you approach and he nods his head in greeting.

“Arthur, this is Rains Fall, he’s the chief of this tribe,” you explain to Arthur, introducing the two. “He-”

“I know you,” Rains Fall interrupts, still looking at Arthur. “You were there in the city. Your leader was meant to help my people.” He shakes his head, and Arthur sees the pain of being betrayed one too many times in the old man’s face. “Now the military is holding our medicine hostage.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens as he takes in the scene. It’s worse than he imagined. He’s heard the stories—the government stealing land, taking children—but seeing it up close is something else entirely. 

Being associated with Dutch has never brought about anything but pride. But standing here, seeing the people he’s taking advantage of, he’s overcome with shame. Rains Fall speaks again, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. “If we cannot retrieve the vaccines soon, we will lose many more. My people are already weakened.”

Arthur looks to Charles, who meets his gaze with grim determination. “We’re going to get the medicine back.” he tells him, and Arthur knows that you’re going to help, whether he wants you to or not. “The officer’s camp isn’t too much further down the mountain. But we can’t risk this looking like the tribe’s retaliating, it’s why I need your help, Arthur.”

Arthur and Charles are close, perhaps not as close as they should be. But they respect one another. Right now, Charles isn’t just asking for a favor, he’s asking for the help of a friend. Of a brother. And Arthur won’t allow himself to keep disappointing the people he cares about. 

Arthur nods, his decision immediate. But the truth burns in his chest: Dutch’s hand is in this. Somehow, the man he once idolized has turned these people’s suffering into a means to an end.

He glances at you, and your expression says it all. This is what you’ve been trying to warn him about. The look you give him is sharp, almost scolding, as if to say I told you so. Arthur doesn’t have the words to argue—not this time.

The conversation with Rains Fall and Charles winds down, and the three of you prepare to part ways. Arthur adjusts his hat, turning toward you. “You comin’?”

You pause, exchanging a glance with Charles. The look between you is brief but meaningful, and Arthur feels a pang of something he can’t quite name.

“We’ll catch up,” you say simply, your tone dismissive.

Arthur hesitates, searching your face for… something. An explanation? Reassurance? But you’ve already turned away, speaking quietly with Charles. He lingers for a moment longer, then mounts Diablo.

Arthur finds himself screwing up more often than not lately. But letting Dutch know about the plans for the tribe, has to be one of the stupider things he’s ever done. Dutch wants to get involved, of course, for the good of the natives, he claims. Arthur knows him, though, he knows it’s more than that. 

Together, they go and find Eagle Flies, the chief’s son. He’s already with his own band of men, each of them young and healthy, the few fighters their tribe has left. Their plan to get the medicine back, to stick it to the military, is far more violent and grand than yours and Charles had been. 

“This is the dumbest idea I have ever heard,” Arthur tells Eagle Flies, glaring down at the dynamite in his hand. He turns toward Dutch, expression disbelieving, “I can’t believe you’re encouragin’ this!”

“Encouraging what, Arthur? These young men to fight for their home, their land back. I’m disappointed in you son,” Dutch chides, and the way he says son rubs Arthur the wrong way. “I thought you, of all people, would support a cause such as this.”

“I support the cause,” Arthur snaps, snatching the dynamite out of Eagle Flies hand, “but I cannot support acting like damn fools and getting yourselves killed.” He turns toward the boy, imploring him to see reason, not to listen to Dutch’s silver tongue. “My friend has a plan for your people, he can get the medicine back. And he can do it without getting anyone killed.”

“What is the point in that?” Eagle Flies growls, taking the dynamite back from Arthur. “You want us to just lay down, belly up like dogs and let these men take everything from us? You would have us stay quiet instead of fighting back? The only way your people hear us, is if we make ourselves loud.”

He steps back, looking around Arthur to Dutch. “Tonight, we’re going to their camp and we will send them a proper message. You can join us or not,” he snaps, storming back toward his men. 

“Dutch-”

“I’m disappointed in you, Arthur,” Dutch starts, shaking his head as he makes his way back to the horses. “Not just for this, but for how you’ve been acting lately.”

Arthur stops in front of Diablo, eyes narrowed on Dutch, “And how have I been actin’?” He snaps, tired of the superiority that Dutch carries himself with, as if he’s not trying to get these boys killed. 

Dutch stares down at him, distrust and suspicion lingering between the both of them, “Like someone I can’t trust.”

“Well,” Arthur shakes his head and mounts Diablo. “I guess we both feel the same, then.”

Charles is furious as Arthur tells him Eagle Flies plan to blow up the military encampment and steal back not just the vaccines, but the deed to their people’s land. “We had a plan,” Charles shouts, the first time Arthur has ever truly seen him lose his temper.

“Arthur,” you start, letting out a low sigh. “Why did you tell him?” He doesn’t need you to say his name for him to know who you’re talking about. 

“I thought,” he can’t finish his sentence. Too ashamed of what the end might be. He thought that, maybe, you were all wrong, that Dutch could still be relied on. That the man he once knew was still in there somewhere. It felt too childish to admit out loud. 

“We’ll need the others,” you start when it's clear Arthur doesn’t have a reasonable excuse. “We won’t be able to stop Eagle Flies on our own. Especially not if he actually picks a fight with the military.”

It doesn’t take long to gather the rest of the gang, some of them ready to join Dutch as he goes to see Eagle Flies. But Arthur knows that he’s doing this for the wrong reason. He doesn’t understand what Dutch thinks he can gain from exploiting the tribe, and he knows that Dutch is never going to share it with him. 

The ride toward the military encampment is quiet, the tension thick enough to choke on. Eagle Flies and the other men are already moving around the area when they arrive, dynamite placed and ready to ignite. Their faces are set with the determined fury of men ready to face death. 

Charles brings Taima to a harsh stop and swings down before she’s fully still. He heads straight toward Eagle Flies, face tight with anger. “What the hell are you doing?” He demands, voice sharp as he jerks the boy forward by his arm. “We had a plan! Your father-”

“My father would do nothing!” He snaps, ripping his arm out of Charles's grasp. His hands ball into tight fists at his side, as though he’s prepared to take his anger out on anyone close enough. “He waits, and we die slow. The army has taken everything from us, and you want me to stand by and watch?”

Arthur dismounts from Diablo, mud splashing around his boots as they hit the ground. “You blow this place sky-high, you think they’re just gonna walk away? They’ll come down even harder on your people.”

Eagle Flies’ expression flickers for a brief moment, the weight of his father’s disappointment visible in the tightness of his jaw. Before he can respond, a sharp sound cracks through the night. Everyone turns to face it as another breaks the silence. A gunshot, clear as day. 

Chaos erupts instantly, soldiers startling from their tents and returning from their watch along the treeline. They run forward, rifles raised, gunfire already ringing out through the night. “Shit!” Arthur curses, reaching for his revolver. 

As he turns to run for cover, the rest of the gang scattering, he realizes that he can’t find Dutch. He doesn’t want to assume the worst, he can’t. But he wasn’t beside Arthur when the first shot rang out, and the soldiers didn’t even know they were there yet. 

He doesn’t have time to linger on the thought as the first explosion detonates prematurely. A fireball launches to the sky, the ground below him shaking as though it’s about to split open. The horses make a run for it, bucking off riders and racing for cover. Shouted orders and screams become one cacophony as he finds cover. He fires from behind a stack of crates, bullets disappearing into the dark of the night, but the return fire is relentless. 

Arthur has lost sight of everyone, you, Charles, he sees no one except the soldiers bearing down on him. 

He grits his teeth and keeps shooting, even as the fire begins to spread across the dry grass and smoke fills his lungs. He sees one, two, three men drop before he’s forced to reload. As he turns, he spots Dutch nearby, moving through the smoke and fire with a calculated calm. For a brief moment, Arthur feels a flash of relief, if only to see one familiar face. 

Then, something slams into him. He’s knocked to the dirt, teeth rattling from the force. A soldier grapples Arthur and raises his arm, a knife flashing in the firelight as he swings it toward Arthur’s throat. He catches his wrist just in time, muscles straining and breath ragged as he holds the soldier back. The blade trembles inches from his neck, the soldier’s weight pressing him further into the suffocating earth. 

“Dutch!” Arthur chokes out, struggling to keep the knife at bay. “Dutch, help me!”

He sees Dutch stop and turn to face him. The gunshots have lessened, soldiers dropping to the ground like flies as the gang swarms over them. Dutch has nothing to worry about as he watches Arthur. Yet, his eyes are unreadable, cold in a way Arthur has never seen before. He looks at Arthur for a long time. Then he turns. 

And runs. 

Arthur’s grip slips, for a horrifying second, he nearly lets the knife drive through his throat. The shock and betrayal hits him like a punch to the gut. But before the knife can land, a wet, gurgling sound fills the air. The soldier jerks, eyes going wide and face paling as blood spills from his lips. 

Eagle Flies stands behind him, his knife buried deep in the man’s throat. He rips it out without a care and the body slumps to the ground. Arthur remains in a state of shock as Eagle Flies offers his hand. He hesitates, only for a second, before grasping it and hauling himself to his feet. He barely has a moment to catch his breath before another shot rings out. 

Eagle Flies gasps, his body jerking to the side as blood blossoms from his ribs. “No!” Arthur shouts, whipping around and putting a bullet between the eyes of the soldier who fired the shot. The man drops, but Arthur barely pays attention as he turns back to the boy. He grabs Eagle Flies as he wavers, slinging his arm over his shoulder. 

“Come on, kid. We’re gettin’ outta here,” he swears. Eagle Flies groans in pain but doesn’t argue. Arthur grits his teeth, half-dragging and half-carrying him away from the battlefield, bullets whizzing past him. 

He stumbles through the trees as the soldiers scream, wildfire consuming them quicker than his revolver ever would. He hears your voice over the sounds of death, sharp with desperation. “Where’s Arthur?” You shout and he lifts his head. You stand by the horses, face tight with worry and finger twitching close to the trigger. 

Dutch stands in front of you, expression impassive. “Where the hell is he?” You demand, stepping back from Dutch and raising the rifle to be level with his face. 

“Here,” Arthur calls out before you put a bullet in the man’s skull. You spin, your relief immediate but fleeting as your eyes fall on Eagle Flies slumped in his arms. Charles steps forward, his face contorting with grief as he looks at the boy. 

Arthur meets Dutch’s eye, something flickers in the man’s expression, something that could be shame if Arthur didn’t know better. He stares at him, and for the first time, he sees Dutch for what he truly is. A liar, a coward. And a man who would leave him to die. 

“I’m takin’ him home,” he turns his back to Dutch and prepares for the long ride back. 

He pushes Diablo faster than he ever has, heels digging into the shire’s side as he pushes him over the edge. Eagle Flies is only getting weaker and he can’t return another dead son to Rains Fall. He can’t be the reason that the rest of his family dies. 

He knows, though, that there is no chance of survival for a wound like Eagle Flies. No herbal remedy or medicine could fix this. But the least he could do is give them one last moment together. 

When he rides back onto the reservation, Rains Fall is already waiting to greet them. He rushes forward, face stricken as he sees his son slumped against Arthur’s back. Charles walks over, helping Arthur gently lower Eagle Flies from his horse. 

Rains Fall kneels beside his son, quickly scooping him into his arms and pressing his forehead to his. Eagle Flies is too weak for words by this point, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxes into his father’s embrace. 

“You brought him back,” Rains Fall murmurs, his voice breaking. Arthur nods, not trusting himself to speak. The chief closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, they’re wet with sorrow. “This land will never be safe for us. We must go. Find somewhere else to settle.”

Arthur looks away, knowing nothing he could say would ever fix this. He could never salve over a wound like this with something as trivial as empty promises or kind words. You and Charles stand at his side, watching Eagle Flies take in his last shuddering breath. The disappointment is palpable. 

He can’t face it any longer. Can’t face the death or the grief that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Without a word, Arthur mounts his horse and rides off into the night, leaving the weight of it all behind him. 

And he knows, deep in his very soul, that nothing will ever be the same again. 

The trail lightens as the sun begins to rise. The sounds of the reservation fade behind him, swallowed by the rustling trees and the distant call of an owl. He rides without direction, without thought, just the steady rhythm of Diablo’s hooves against the earth, carrying him further from everything he no longer knows how to fix.

Then, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Oh!” Someone shouts from the trees, “You goddamn, useless,” the man’s voice trails off into a series of expletives that’s too quick for Arthur to make out. Face pinched in confusion, he nudges Diablo forward, leading him towards the man. 

An old man stands in the middle of a clearing, hopping around on one leg, fist waving wildly in the air as he curses to himself. Arthur chuckles to himself, watching the man plop to the ground with a huff. He reaches down and rolls his pant leg up, revealing a stump where his leg should be. 

Arthur frowns, slipping off Diablo and moving closer to the stranger. He’s barely got a chance to greet him before the man's whipping out his revolver, eyes narrowed in suspicion as Arthur approaches. 

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, sonny.” The man tells him, pulling back the hammer of the gun. 

Arthur puts his hands up in surrender, shaking his head, “I’m not lookin’ to cause any. Only wanted to see if you needed any help.”

The man’s eyes turn into thin slits, lips pursed as he eyes Arthur up and down. He looks the part of an outlaw, but right now the stranger doesn’t have much choice but to trust him. He lets out a heavy sigh and puts his gun down. “Hamish Sinclair,” he offers as an introduction. Arthur gives him his name and Hamish gives him a brief smile. 

“Forgive my poor manners, don’t see much of anyone ‘cept those Murfree folk.”

Arthur shakes his head in dismissal, taking a step closer. “It’s fine. You wanna tell me what’s got you out here shoutin’ at the sky?” He can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out when he sees how Hamish’s shoulders slump in embarrassment. 

“It’s my damn horse, Buell, bucked me off, took my leg with him.” He gestures vaguely behind Arthur with a huff, “ran off that way.” Arthur nods, grabbing his rope off Diablo and heading off. “Feel free to shoot him,” Hamish shouts from behind him, “bastard’s caused me enough trouble.”

Arthur laughs quietly to himself, Hamish reminds him a bit of you. 

It doesn’t take long to find the horse. But Hamish wasn’t lying, he was a right bastard. It was more of a chore than Arthur thought it would be to get him lassoed and corraled back to the old man. 

Hamish’s leg, as he’d promised, was still tucked into the stirrup, the wooden appendage waving in the wind as Buell stomped around. “Oh!” Hamish shouts, waving his hand as Arthur brings the horse forward. “Shoot the son of a bitch, I’ll go get me somethin’ nicer,” he mutters, reluctantly bringing a hand up to pet Buell’s nose. 

Arthur offers Hamish a hand up, holding the wooden leg out for him to take. Hamish holds himself steady on a nearby rock and latches the leg back on. “Cannonball,” he says idly. 

“Which war?”

“Civil, whatchu think?” Hamish snaps, narrowing his eyes at Arthur and shaking his head. “Named this damn thing,” he lays a heavy hand on Buell's side, “after my commander. They were both pains in my ass, and they both cost me my damn leg.” Hamish laughs at himself, swinging up onto the saddle and glancing down at Arthur. “Comin’ or not?”

Perhaps it’s the loss of Hosea that has Arthur following this man. Or maybe it’s just the need for a moment of escape. Either way, he finds himself mounting Diablo and following after him. “What were you doin’ out here, anyway?”

Hamish digs his heel into Buell’s side with a huff, driving the horse down a small path Arthur wouldn’t have found on his own. “I went out to get some bait. Got this pike that’s been eatin’ all the fish in my creek,” he turns and gives Arthur a wild grin over his shoulder. “I’m lookin’ to turn it into my dinner.”

A smile curls upon Arthur’s lips, something uninvited and unnoticed. Things in camp have been so tense, every conversation with you or Dutch just feels like a noose tightening around his neck. He’s being drawn in so many different directions that he’s forgotten what it feels like to just talk to someone without any ulterior motives. There’s no hidden message within Hamish’s gaze or underlying threat to his words. For right now, he can just ride and pretend that all is fine within his world. 

“Can’t seem to get the damn thing on my own, maybe you’ll have better luck. You seem a touch spryer than myself.”

Arthur snorts and shoots the old man an amused look, “A touch?”

“Hey,” Hamish warns, tone light as he grins, “I may be weathered, but I can still take you down, sonny.” Arthur raises his hands in surrender, bowing his head in defeat as Hamish lets out a low chuckle. “Gotta say, been a while since I hollered at anyone ‘cept those Murfree boys. It’s quiet out here, that’s for sure.”

Arthur takes in the scenery around him. The way the sunlight just barely parts through the thick cover of trees and shines across the creek running beside them. The deer he can hear rustling off in the distance. There’s a whole other world around him, one he hasn’t been a part of in a very long time. 

“Quiet’s what I’m looking for,” he mutters, not much thought behind the words as he makes note of a bunch of wildflowers. They look like some you used to pick for the tent. 

“No point in quiet when you’re all alone,” Hamish chides softly, a heavy sadness hangs off his shoulders that Arthur’s not sure he’s ready to dissect. Hamish doesn’t leave him worrying for long, shooting Arthur a quick smile and shaking away the emotions. “Nearly there,” he tells him, nodding toward a clearing. 

Wildflowers and rocks that reflect the midday sun surround a shimmering lake he’s never noticed on his travels. Arthur’s fingers twitch toward the journal in his satchel, the scene too perfect not to draw. Still, he doesn’t think Hamish would appreciate the interruption much. 

Instead, he commits the image to memory. The quaint cabin that sits in the middle of it all, so unimposing it looks as though it had grown there like a tree. He’d have to draw it later, maybe even show it to you. 

Hamish leads him around the cabin and orders him around like he’s spent all his life doing it. Arthur drags out the fishing poles and takes the boat off the shore. He laughs when Hamish slaps his hand away when he tries to help in the boat. And he laughs even harder when Hamish nearly topples over the edge in his stubborn fit. 

The fishing itself is spent in silence. One of them occasionally breaking it by humming something or thinking they spotted movement in the water. It makes Arthur’s chest ache with a familiarity that’s a stranger to him. Yes, he used to do this with Hosea. But Hamish wasn’t Hosea, and there would never be anything to replace or soothe that gnawing pain of never being able to sit on a boat with him once more. 

“There!” Hamish slaps his shoulder hard enough to force Arthur out of his spiraling grief. He nearly knocks him out of the boat as he starts frantically jumping up and down, arms pinwheeling to keep himself balanced. “There’s that bastard, whoo I got you now!” He hollers, lighting a stick of dynamite and tossing it into the water before Arthur knows what's happening. 

He ducks, bracing himself as a ripple of water nearly puts the boat on its side. It’s quickly followed by a fin rising up in the water in the distance before disappearing once more. “My god,” Arthur gets to his feet, jaw gaping as he watches the behemoth of a fish swim away. Not once, has he ever faced a pike as large as that before. It could eat him. 

“What’re you doin’, you fool? Reel it!” Hamish snaps, already lighting another stick of dynamite to force it back towards them. Arthur shakes off the silent astonishment and quickly grabs his fishing pole. It feels like a battle, hauling this fish toward them and finally killing it. 

They must spend nearly an hour on those waters, blowing up half the lake just to haul a fish the size of Bill out of the water. Hamish is cackling and hollering the whole way back to his cabin. He goes on and on about how long that pike has been taunting him. How Arthur must be his goddamn lucky charm to have gotten it on their first day. 

It’s only when Arthur lingers by the edge of Hamish’s doorway do either of them acknowledges the shared pain between them. Arthur doesn’t know exactly what Hamish lost in the war, but he knows it must be something just as bad as Arthur. There's a creeping loneliness that they both know neither one of them can fill. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. 

“You helped kill the bastard, sit down, I’ll cook up some of him for ya.” It’s an invitation that Arthur can’t deny. He gives Hamish a small smile, sitting down at his table while Hamish moves quickly through his cabin. 

“Did I ever tell you,” Hamish starts, as though they’ve been friends long enough for Arthur to hear his stories. Arthur doesn’t object or interrupt, he leans back, eyes alert as he listens to everything Hamish tells him. Tales of the war, the time before, the time after. Arthur shares a little about himself, but for the most part, he’s content to let the old man talk. 

That’s how most of their time together goes. When Arthur manages some time away from Dutch’s suspicious eyes, he goes to Hamish. He listens to his stories. And they use the excuse of hunting animals Hamish claims to be haunting him. It’s on his fourth visit that Arthur mentions you. 

“I don’t get it. You’re big, strong, you gotta have someone.” Hamish pauses, glancing away from his fishing pole and narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “Don’t tell me I’m your only friend, son.”

Arthur chuckles a little, shaking his head. “I got a lady,” he tells him, reluctant for Hamish to know exactly what company he keeps. Hamish nods his head, giving him an expectant look. Arthur lets out a low sigh, rubbing his palms across his pants and shrugging. “She’s gorgeous,” Hamish lets out a disbelieving snort and Arthur shoots him a look. “Smart” he continues and it’s the first time he’s ever struggled to describe you. 

Such simplistic terms don’t seem fitting for someone like you. If he had his journal, if he could show him a drawing of you, of the little bit of you he’s managed to capture on paper, maybe Hamish would understand. “And she’s a good person, a better one than I ever will be-”

“Then what’s she doin’ with a fool like you?” Hamish interrupts, snickering when he sees the irritated look on Arthur’s face.

“Weren’t you just tellin’ me what a catch I am?” Arthur snaps, eyes narrowed in amusement at the old man. 

He shrugs, tugging slightly on the string of his fishing pole and huffing out a laugh. “Eh, she can’t be that great if she’s with someone like you.” Arthur straightens up but Hamish barrels on, paying him no mind. “Bring her down tonight. I’ll cook up whatever we catch here. It’ll give me something other than your ugly mug to look at.”

Arthur scoffs, “You are a piece of work, old man.”

Hamish waves him off, leaning back in the boat and smiling softly as he waits for a fish to bite his bait. Arthur shakes his head, looking back to the familiar blue waters and feeling something like contentment settle over him. 

“You didn’t have to dress up,” Arthur tells you, holding his hand out to you. Perched atop Lady, you give his outstretched palm a long look before slowly settling your hand in his. 

“I’d hardly call a corset and some nice pants dressing up, Arthur,” you tease. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to each other without there being some underlying current of tension to your conversation. 

He leads you toward Hamish’s front door, smiling slightly when you stop to admire the garden at the side of the cabin. “I wanted to make a good impression,” you tell him, straightening up from where you’d been smelling some of the flowers. You give him a brief look out of the side of your eye before brushing dirt off the knees of your pants. “You’ve been talkin’ about him a lot and well,” you suck in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I know things have been hard after Guarma,” you can’t seem to look at him, eyes always darting away from his. 

Arthur stays silent, worried anything he says will ruin the first honest conversation you two have had. “And everythin’ has been so odd between us." You take a step forward and Arthur follows, craving the closeness that has been so sorely lacking. Looking up, you finally manage to meet his eye. The hurt and frustration so plainly displayed on your face makes his stomach clench. 

“I care about you, Arthur, deeply. And that’s not ever goin’ to change.” He expects there to be a ‘but,’ some clause added on that means he needs to change his ways. Or even you telling him that you just can’t handle this life anymore. He wouldn’t blame you if you told him that, but just the thought of it makes him hurt. 

Instead, you give him a smile and lean up, pressing your lips timidly against his cheek. Your hands find his, squeezing slightly, like an assurance to you both that there’s still something to be saved between you. 

Arthur can’t help himself as he turns his head, capturing your lips between his own and tugging you closer. You let out a short huff of laughter, smiling against his lips. It’s a chaste kiss, certainly one of the more demure ones you’ve shared. But it means more to him than he ever thought it would. 

“What the hell are you two doin’?” You startle back from him, eyes wide as you turn. Hamish has his head peeked around the corner of his porch, a stern look on his face but a slight mischievous tilt to his lips. “I invited you to dinner, I didn’t need a show to come with it,” he scolds, but there’s no hiding the humor in his tone. 

You bite your lip and move away from Arthur, though you let your hand linger in his as long as you can before you slip to the porch. “It��s nice to meet you,” you tell Hamish sheepishly. 

“Hm,” Hamish shakes his head as he looks at you, “Can’t believe you let Arthur fool you into bein’ with him.” He grins at Arthur’s affronted scoff and nods you along. “Go on inside, fish is almost ready.” You send Arthur one last look before heading off. 

Climbing the steps of the porch, Arthur lightly shoves at Hamish’s shoulder. “What’re you playin’ at, old man?”

Hamish shrugs, beckoning him inside, “I need somethin’ to entertain myself with.”

“How long have you been out here?” You ask Hamish as you settle down at his too-small table. He plates the fish and takes a seat across from Arthur, brow wrinkled as he thinks. 

“Well,” he laughs lightly and shakes his head. “It’s been so damn long, I can’t quite remember. Probably longer than you’ve been walking, sweetheart.”

Your eyes round, something like concern flitting across your face. “All on your own?” Arthur pauses from where he’d been cutting into his meal, content to let you carry the conversation. He glances up at Hamish, gauging the look on his face. 

Hamish’s solitary lifestyle has been something Arthur’s been avoiding talking about. He knows there’s something painful in Hamish’s past, something he does his best to keep quiet about. Arthur hasn’t wanted to push, too afraid that he’d ruined the good thing they had going. 

But the look on the old man’s face isn’t defensive or angry. It’s soft, his eyes are sad as he looks nostalgic, as if thinking back to happier times. “All on my own,” he confirms and Arthur sees the way your expression slacks with sympathy. “Honestly, this cabin is starting to feel too big,” he admits, glancing around at the barren walls. 

Where some would have family portraits, heirlooms, or memorabilia, Hamish has mounted deer and stuffed fish. There’s nothing besides a slightly dusty metal from the war to hint at what his life had once looked like. “It needs a family, or,” he glances back at you and smiles, “someone besides a sad old man.”

Hamish turns back to his meal and asks Arthur something, he responds vaguely, eyes still trained on your face. Your gaze has hardened as you glare down at the fish on your plate. There’s a wrinkle between your brows that he’s come to know as you plotting something. Whatever Hamish has said has given you an idea that Arthur’s not sure he wants a part of. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Hamish shouts, jumping from his seat and running toward the window. “That goddamn bastard!” 

You shoot Arthur a bewildered look and he shakes his head, standing up to join Hamish by the window. “What is it?”

“That boar! It’s back!” Hamish points to a vague shadow of a shape on the crest of the hill. It’s larger than any boar he’s ever seen, but Hamish seems to be cursed with animals of legendary size and vindictiveness. He runs from the window, grabs the rifle mounted above his fireplace, and runs toward the front door. “You better get a move on, boy, I ain’t waitin’ for ya!” He hollers over his shoulder, already whistling for Buell. 

Arthur sighs and gives you an apologetic look. “I oughta make sure he don’t get himself killed.” 

Smiling, you wave him along, “Go ahead, though,” you muse, glancing out the window, “it doesn’t look like he needs much help.” Arthur turns, letting out an aggrieved huff as he sees Hamish already shooting wildly at the beast. 

“Won’t be long,” he promises as he rushes out the door. 

He only vaguely hears your small, “I’ve heard that before.”

Arthur spots Buell grazing in a small patch of grass and leaves Diablo beside him. The two horses don’t seem to get along very well, but he’s more concerned with the trail of blood in the underbrush than them. 

Kneeling down to investigate, he’s stopped by nearby shouting. “I’ve almost got him, Arthur, hurry-” Hamish’s voice is cut off by a loud cry of pain and a boar squeal that almost sounds like screaming. 

Dirt flies up under Arthur’s boots as he races forward. He pushes through the thick foliage, stumbling out into an open area where Hamish lay sprawled on the ground. His body twitches, fingers weakly grasping at a dark, gaping wound in his stomach. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the earth.

“Oh, Hamish, no,” Arthur mutters, dropping to his knees beside him. He presses his hands over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it’s no use. He can see it in the way Hamish struggles for breath, his chest stuttering with each ragged inhale.

Hamish lets out a shaky laugh, the sound wet and gurgling. “Flesh wound,” he croaks, though the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth says otherwise. His voice is strained, each word dragged from his throat like it pains him to speak. “I’m an old man, Arthur. This was bound to happen sooner or later.” Arthur wants to tell him to stop talking, to save his breath. But he’s seen death enough times to know there’s no coming back from this. 

“Don’t,” Hamish chokes on his blood and flinches forward. Arthur props him up on his knee, still keeping his hand over the wound. It’s not doing anything except prolonging this, but he can’t find it within himself to let go. Hamish settles, lungs wheezing with effort. “Don’t be like me. Don’t die lonely.”

Arthur doesn’t have the chance to tell him he’s not alone before the light leaves his eyes. He finally takes his hands off of him, looking up as he hears squealing. He spots the boar in the underbrush and picks Hamish’s rifle up off the ground. 

The trek back to the cabin is slow. Hamish’s body is slung over Diablo and Buell carries the boar. Arthur wonders if Buell knows that his master’s dead. If he can smell it, or if he even cares. 

He leads them both toward the hitching post at the side of the home. He sees you watching in the window, eyes narrowed in on Hamish’s body before you disappear from view. Footsteps sound out on the porch as he slings the body over his shoulder and walks it toward the clearing of wildflowers. 

“What happened?” You call out, voice soft as you join him. 

“Boar,” he answers shortly. He doesn’t have the patience to speak. He’s faced and caused death hundreds of times, but something about this feels like a slap in the face. It wasn’t enough that he had to lose Lenny and Hosea and then watch as what used to be his family falls apart. He had to drag Hamish into his problems, had to loop you into this business. 

He knew, when his mother died and when his son died, that he was cursed to lose everyone he loved. That he would never be allowed a happy, or a simple life. And yet, like the fool he is, he keeps trying. He keeps trying to allow himself a sliver of peace or happiness. 

You hand Arthur a shovel as he sets Hamish down on the ground and he starts to dig. Until the sun sets and the moon is high in the sky, he digs a grave for Hamish. You stand there with him the whole night, never saying a word, and for that he’s grateful. He’s learned that it's better not to have to do something like this alone. 

When he’s done, and Hamish is six feet deep, facing the east so he can see the rising sun, he leads you back to the cabin. It’s a comfortable quiet as you help him rinse the dirt and blood off his hands. You take the clothes he stores on Diablo and bring them to him, convincing him to just stay at the cabin for the night. 

He’s too tired to understand the concentrated look on your face, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. A sort of intuition he usually wouldn’t ignore but can’t bother with tonight. “Good night, Arthur,” you whisper but he’s already asleep before he can say it back. 

When he wakes up, you’re sitting at the table, writing something on a scrap piece of paper. You turn slightly, smiling briefly at him before going back to the paper. “What’re you writin’?” He asks, sitting up in bed and stretching out the soreness from digging for so long. 

Your shoulders tense up, expression going blank before carefully reconstructing itself into something pleasant. Placing the pen down, you slide the paper away from yourself and turn fully to face him. 

“Eagle Flies is dead.” Your voice is clipped, emotion buried beneath steel. “Dutch was at the heart of it all. He didn’t just destroy a tribe and a family for nothing but his own gain, he left you for dead.”

Arthur grimaces, shooting you a sharp look. “I don’t need the reminder-”

“I think you do, Arthur.” Your tone hardens, cutting through his defensiveness. “Charles is devastated. He won’t stay with the gang much longer after this. That’s who the letter’s for,” you say, nodding toward the paper on the table. “I need to tell him some things before he disappears for good.”

Arthur watches you carefully. There’s something else behind your words, something bigger than just grief over Eagle Flies. A knot of unease tightens in his stomach.

“John and Abigail are leaving soon,” you continue, voice steady but insistent. “They won’t risk Jack getting caught up in Dutch’s mess. Sadie’s been itching to go off on her own for a while-”

“What’re you gettin’ at?” Arthur snaps, frustration creeping in. He’s tired, exhausted from everything, and you dragging this out isn’t helping.

You inhale sharply, rolling your shoulders back as if bracing yourself. “I want to stay here.” Your expression is unreadable, your voice flat. “Here or anywhere else, but I am not going back to that camp. I won’t.”

Arthur stiffens, dragging a hand down his face before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He tugs his shirt back on with sharp, jerking movements, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “You want me to just leave?”

You shake your head, voice calm but firm. “I want you to do what you need to do.”

Arthur doesn’t believe that. He can’t accept that you would be so calm giving him permission to leave again. He searches for an ulterior motive, for some hidden tone to your words, even though he knows there won’t be one. “They’re my only family. You expect me to just walk away?”

Your expression softens, but he can see it in your eyes, the steel behind each word. Your resolve isn’t bending, you won’t be changing your mind anytime soon. “I expect you to decide for yourself, for once.” You step closer to him and he feels two ideals, two lives, warring against each other in the back of his mind. 

“You’ve spent your whole life followin’ someone else’s lead- Dutch’s, Hosea’s.” Arthur wants to leave before he has to listen to anymore, not ready to confront the truth. “Even now, you’re just tryin’ to hold it all together because you think you have to.”

Arthur swallows hard, “It ain’t that simple,” he argues, even though, deep down, it truly is. 

“It is,” you counter gently, voice calm like you’re soothing a bucking horse. “I’m not tellin’ you to abandon anyone. But you know how this ends,” the look in your eyes shifts. It changes from something earnest to the distant gaze of someone whose sick and tired of marking new graves. “You’ve always known.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he turns away from you. If he doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe he won’t have to face the truth in them. 

But you’re stubborn as all hell and you never know when to quit. “I’m stayin’ here. This is my choice. And I’ll be here when you get back,” you pause, your last words quieter, “if you choose to come back.”

Arthur hesitates by the door. There’s so much hanging over the gang, the Pinkertons, Cornwall, Dutch’s tightening grip. Even if they all wanted to leave, Dutch would never let them. And Arthur… 

Arthur has to see this through. 

“I have to go.” His voice is quiet, resigned. 

“Then go,” you tell him as if it’s the simplest idea in the world. 

He lingers a moment before stepping through the door. He doesn’t look back, but he knows what he’s fighting for now. What he’s fighting to come back to. 

Arthur rides into camp, his gut twisted with unease. He’s not sure what he was expecting, certainly not an idyllic scene, but the sight before him still takes the breath from his lungs. 

Molly lies sprawled in the dirt, blood soaking the earth beneath her. Mrs. Grimshaw hovers over her body, shotgun in hand and the barrel still smoking. Her face is unreadable. The rest of the gang looks at her in stunned silence, some horrified, others grim. 

“She said,” Susan mutters, voice hoarse. “She said she sold us out. Gave us up to the Pinkertons.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. He steps forward, his voice low and urgent. “No, she didn’t,” he looks at Molly, the flickering light of the fire dancing across her lifeless face. He turns his gaze to the real snake in their midst. “It was Micah.”

Mrs. Grimshaw pales and Micah scoffs. “Oh, give me a goddamn break.” He leans lazily against a post, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes are alight with amusement as if this is all some great joke to him. “You’re graspin’, Morgan. I get it, you need someone to blame, and Molly’s already dead, so why not pin it on me?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, “I see you for what you are, you rat bastard.”

Micah just shrugs, cocky as ever. Mrs. Grimshaw, though, in all of her wisdom and unflinching loyalty, sees right through him. Her eyes narrow and she comes to stand beside Arthur, “Arthur’s right.”

That’s all it takes. The shift on Micah’s face is instantaneous. The gunshot rings out before Arthur can even react. Mrs. Grimshaw jerks back, her body crumpling to the ground. Blood seeps through her blouse and spreads across her chest. 

The camp erupts. Shouts ring out, insults are thrown, and guns are pulled by people who had once called each other friend and brother. Dutch steps forward, getting between Arthur and Micah, his hands raised, eyes darting between them both. Arthur can’t read his face. It’s calm on the surface, but beneath it, something fragile and uncertain lingers. 

Micah steps back, but he isn’t alone. Bill and Javier fall in beside him, weapons drawn. 

John pushes Abigail and Jack behind him. Charles and Sadie round up the rest of the women, dragging John’s family off as they lead them to the horses to flee. John meets Arthur’s eyes, and there’s no hesitation. He grabs his revolver and steps to Arthur’s side. 

Arthur breathes out sharply, giving Dutch one last chance. “You can still do this,” he tells him, voice raw. “You can still make this right, Dutch. You can stop this.”

Dutch’s face twists, pain, doubt, anger, all flickering at once. He shakes his head slowly. “I thought of you as a son, Arthur.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. Then louder, firmer, “I can’t believe you’d betray us.”

Before Arthur can say another word, the Pinkertons ride in, guns blazing. Chaos takes hold of the camp as Micah takes his eyes off of him to start shooting at the others. Arthur doesn’t hesitate, grabbing John as they bolt for their horses. Bullets fly past them, grazing against their clothes and nearly nicking them. Pinkertons certainly aren’t good shots. 

They mount the horses, racing through the woods. The sound of gunfire and shouting follows behind them before slowly fading. They can’t afford to slow down or stop, wordless as they push their horses harder and faster than the animals can stand. 

They don’t stop until they reach the base of a mountain. The money’s nearby, stashed away in Dutch’s greed-fueled paranoia. It’s their only chance of making something out of this mess. Arthur can’t afford to let Dutch and the other’s get to it first. 

Arthur dismounts and John follows. “This is it,” Arthur turns toward John, placing his hand on his shoulder. “You take the money, you get Abigail and Jack outta here. Make somethin’ of yourself.”

John frowns, shaking his head. “Arthur, I ain’t-”

“Go,” Arthur’s voice is firm. The finality of it stops John short. “I’ll hold ‘em off.”

John hesitates, and Arthur knows how desperately he wants to stand beside him and fight. To prove that he’s more than a coward. But he knows better than to argue, and he knows he can’t leave his family behind. He gives a short nod and starts running. 

Arthur begins his climb up the mountain, hoping to find a vantage point to hold the Pinkertons and the others off. He’s not far when he hears them behind him. Turning, he sees Micah and Dutch closing in. 

Micah grins, “Should’ve run while you had the chance, Morgan.”

White hot fury floods through Arthur’s veins, it pushes him forward and he lunges at Micah, grappling him to the ground. Micah lets out a wheeze, his blackened lungs not prepared for the attack. He doesn’t hesitate, bringing his fist down until he feels bones crunch under the force of his hand. 

Micah struggles against him, kicking him off and struggling to his feet. Arthur lets him get up and then he goes after him again. He pins him against the wall of rock behind them both, letting his rage drive him forward as he hammers against his face. Micah keeps gasping for air, arms rising feebly in defense only to get knocked down again. 

A click echoes through the cold air and Arthur freezes, dropping Micah and letting him slump to the dirt. His eye is purpled, swollen completely shut and Arthur almost can’t recognize him anymore. 

He turns, finding Dutch standing behind him, gun aimed at his chest. 

For a long, silent moment, they just stare at each other. Dutch’s finger hovers over the trigger and Arthur just watches. He sees the conflict in Dutch’s eyes, the doubt warring with years of manipulation and ego. 

But in the end, Dutch does what he always does. 

He runs away.

Micah groans, nails digging into the dirt as he struggles for air. Arthur doesn’t bother finishing him off. He watches Dutch disappear into the night and leave them both behind. Breathing slowly, his chest heaving, Arthur turns away from Micah and leaves him to rot. 

The ride back to the cabin is slow. Every muscle in Arthur’s body aches, his lungs burning with each breath, but for the first time in a long while, he’s not carrying the weight of the gang on his shoulders. It’s over. Dutch is gone. Micah is as good as dead. The life he’s known has fallen apart, but he’s still here. And he’s free. 

He crests the final hill, the cabin coming into view, and there you are- waiting. 

You’re not crying with worry or pacing in anger that he left again. You stand, arms crossed, watching the road like you always knew he’d come back.

Arthur exhales, something in his chest easing at the sight of you. He slows Diablo to a stop, dismounting with a grunt of pain. You don’t rush over to him and demand to know what happened, or how he got the fresh bruises littering his skin. The both of you have always known that the only way this was going to end was bloody. Arthur looks up and you hold his gaze, waiting for him. 

Waiting for him to finally decide. The outlaw life, or this new one with you. 

He takes a step toward you, and you stay still as a statue, another and he’s nearly on top of you. You don’t move away or take a step back, you peer up at him, meeting his gaze expectantly. “It’s over,” he tells you simply. 

You nod, nothing gleeful or victorious on your face that you finally got him right where you wanted. You’re not Dutch, this was never about controlling him, he realizes that now. Without his loyalty blinding him, he can finally understand that you were only ever trying to help him. “I know,” your voice is calm as your eyes rove over his face. 

A silence stretches between you, heavy with words left unsaid. Then, slowly, Arthur lifts his hand toward you. You don’t pull away, and when his fingers brush your waist, you sigh, your shoulders easing like you’ve been holding yourself together for too long. Arthur doesn’t waste any more time pulling you in close to him, the both of you holding each other up. 

Arthur breathes out slowly, resting his forehead against yours and pulling you as close as he can get. Your hands come up, gripping his shirt like you’re trying to make sure he doesn’t slip away. But he knows he won’t, not ever again. 

For the first time in what feels like forever, Arthur allows himself to feel real and true hope. He keeps you tight in his embrace, and you bury your face in his neck, he can feel your lashes flutter against his neck as they finally close and you relax against him. He’ll make something of this second chance. He’ll become a man you can be proud to call your own. 

As the sun rises, casting its golden light over the both of you, Arthur finally leaves behind his old life, to begin this new one with you. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

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