#one day i will look like a proper cowboy

[ceofcatgirls]

Girls just want to look like this in todays society

[not-neverland06]

conflicted spaces

Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

a/n: He doesn’t get TB in this. Why? Because this is fanfiction and I’m god and fuck canon (I just finished the game, I’m emotionally distraught and needed this)

Warnings: brief attempted SA

Summary: Your father is a gambling man and you’re always the collateral. He refuses to pay the wrong man and now you’re being dragged across country roads to a man you’ve never met. Arthur Morgan, an outlaw down to the bone, is in charge of making sure you get there in one piece. Except, he doesn’t feel right selling a woman off like she’s property.

You’re done being a doormat and letting the men in your life tell you what you’re worth. You’ve got three days to escape him, but you’re not prepared for the reality of the real world.

“Put your hands where I can see ‘em, cowboy.” Arthur’s shoulders tense and he curses under his breath. His hand darts to the revolver on his hip, but the second his fingers twitch towards it he hears a hammer being pulled back. The cool barrel of a gun digs into his neck and he raises his hand in surrender. 

The man behind him lets out a familiar laugh and tugs him around. Arthur rolls his eyes and glares at Dutch. “The hell are you doing?”

Dutch clears his throat, still laughing slightly. “Relax, Arthur, but if I had been an O’Driscoll you’d be dead right now.” Arthur doesn’t point out that the only thing they have to worry about out here are the Lemonye raiders. He’s more focused on why Dutch is even out here. Rarely does he leave Shady Belle to traverse the streets of St. Denis. 

None of them are particularly fond of the place. If he wanted to step in horse shit every other step he’d go to a stable. At least those smell better. Dutch slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, tugging him away from the saloon he was heading towards. 

“You’re gonna have to save the cheating for later, Arthur, I need you for something.”

“You know I don’t cheat,” Arthur jokes and Dutch grins at him and it’s nice. This is familiar to him. This feels right. Dutch has been odd lately, the jobs he’s been taking, the risks he’s been imposing, none of them feels like the man he knows. 

Now, Arthur would follow Dutch straight into hell without being asked. But he can’t abide by how he’s putting their people in harm's way. He’s felt like a stranger more often than not and he’s been doubting the people he shouldn’t. Right now, though, he can see the man he knows in the teasing curl of his lips. 

“What’dya need?”

Dutch pauses in front of a tailor and pats Arthur’s chest. “I need you to look prim and proper for a party we’ve got tonight.”

Arthur’s brows furrow cynically and he scoffs. “Someone invited us to a party?”

Dutch hesitates, a stiff smile on his face. “Well, let’s just say someone is interested in our work.” Arthur wants to question him further, he’s hiding something from him. But Dutch is pushing him towards the door of the shop before he can argue. “And get a haircut, we need to look presentable not like a bunch of mountain men.”

Arthur watches as Dutch leaves, something heavy weighing down on him. Dutch doesn’t usually tell people about his plans beforehand. At least not every step of them. But this is odd, he’s definitely hiding something and Arthur isn’t sure he wants to know what. 

With a resigned huff, he heads into the tailor. He has to mentally prepare himself for being stuffed into a starched collar and a stiff suit for the rest of the night. He hates these damn parties, hates having to pretend like he knows what the hell is being said. 

Most of the people that attend are educated or pretend to be. And when he lets it slip that he’s more likely to shoot a gun than read a book they turn on him like jackals. You can’t let them see that you’re different than them or you’ll never get a word in edgewise. 

The only part he enjoys is the booze and robbing them of their money. It’s not like they earned any of it. Most of it was made by breaking the backs of the people they mock for being too poor to afford a fancy suit. 

Arthur takes a deep breath and looks for the cheapest suit he can find in the overpriced shop. 

“Now,” Mr. Crane’s hand tightens around your bicep and he jerks you closer to him. You keep your face impassive, not letting him see just how much he’s hurting you. But you can feel your skin being stretched to its limits by his clammy fingers. “You’re going to behave tonight. I’ve got a few gentlemen I’d like you to meet.”

He looks at you expectantly but you keep your mouth firmly shut. His eyes narrow and he jerks you around roughly. “Understood,” you force the word out through gritted teeth. You’re trying to breathe as little as possible, not wanting to smell his cigar-laced breath any longer. 

Finally, after a tortuously long moment, he releases you. You take ten steps back, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from the silk skirt he’d forced you in. You glance out the window of his office, watching as the workers scramble to set up the tables for tonight. You can hear cooks in the kitchen, shouting out orders for the food for tonight. 

Everything must be perfect. Mr. Crane never fails to deliver on his extravagantly indulgent parties. The man himself is the very embodiment of greed. You glance over with a disgusted sneer as he sinks himself into his leather chair and pulls out a wad of cash. 

He catches your eye and sends you a sickly sweet smile. “This,” he waves the money at you and you track the movement boredly. “Is how much you’re worth, sweetheart.” Your brows raise in amusement and you scoff. More than you thought he would put up for you. 

You wonder who he’s going to have transport you. He’ll need you out of the city soon, your father is starting to catch onto what’s happening. It took him long enough. You’ve been missing a month, you’d think he would have put two and two together faster. Then again, he’d never been very interested in you beyond what you were worth to others. 

“When will I be able to meet these gentlemen?” You ask, taking a step towards him. Your eyes dart towards the letter opener on his desk and for a brief moment you picture yourself strabbing it into his fattened jugular. 

But he flicks his wrist and like magic the door opens, his men coming inside and standing resolutely by your side. “Not anytime soon, my dear.” He looks to the men surrounding you and you take in a sharp breath, wishing you’d just taken the chance when you had it. “My associate is feeling quite tired, take her back to her room, please.”

They grab you by the elbows, even though it's entirely unnecessary. You wouldn’t run, and even if you did you wouldn’t get far with the chains he has hidden under your dress. A punishment for the first time you snuck from his home. You’ve been well behaved since then but he doesn’t trust you. 

You’re whisked away without another word. The trek of the stairs is a slow one. They’re forced to help you navigate by lifting your skirts and not tripping on the chains. It no longer brings you any satisfaction to cause a hindrance in any of their days. 

Before, you would think of being an annoyance as a small victory. But it’s not, it never was. It was just a way for them to keep you complacent by allowing you to think you’d done something for yourself. You believe your father used to do the same thing. 

It’s just another way of keeping you quiet. 

When you make it to your rooms, they shove you inside. Like clockwork, you hear the jingle of the keys and then the lock clicks. You sigh and take a step towards your vanity, working on touching up your hair. 

You think the worst part of this must be how well you’re treated. You have meals made by a private chef. Your quarters are decorated more lavishly than they ever were at your father’s house. Yet, you hear the suffocating tick of the clock as it counts down your doom. 

You’re not entirely sure what their plan is with you. You know your father had made a promise to Mr. Crane involving some land. Or perhaps it had been a wager. But as always, you were collateral when your father refused to pay up. 

You know Mr. Crane wants you out of town so that he has more time to negotiate with your father, to call in the interest he owes him. You also know the only reason your father is interested in finding you is because you’re meant to marry the son of a business partner in two months. The money he’ll get from that will be enough to finally pay off his debts. 

Except, now, Mr. Crane tells you that should your father refuse to pay you’ll be married to one of his associates. And the deal he’ll make from that will be enough to cover what your father has refused to pay. 

No matter what, you’re going to be married off to some man you’ve never met and yet again be a quiet trophy on a shelf. It’s a very convoluted situation, one which makes you think leaping from a window might be a better fate. 

None of the men your father or Mr. Crane is in business with are particularly kind. They’ve got more skeletons in the closet than there are in the graveyard. You doubt you’ll live a very happy life with whoever they pick for you. 

You slump forward onto the vanity, trying to fight off the burning feeling in the back of your eyes. You’ve known this would happen for years. Even before Mr. Crane had you kidnapped, you knew that this would be your destiny. You would never get to be one of the free-spirited women who fought for the right to choose. You would always be forced into this role. 

Yet, being so close to it coming to fruition makes you feel choked and suffocated. You can feel the noose around your neck tightening, the hangman’s fingers twitching as he waits to see you drop. 

You dig your nails into your palm, taking in a deep breath and fighting back the wave of despair. Where there is doom, you also see a sliver of hope. Your next journey will be a long one. He’s hiring someone to have you transported to an area further up the map. 

If you play your cards right you might be able to escape while you’re traveling. If you’re incredibly smart about this, thinking with your head and not your heart, you might have a shot at freedom. 

You take in a deep breath, reapplying your makeup and resolving yourself to another night of mindless entertainment. But you hold onto that fleeting feeling of hope. You have a shot, you just have to take it. 

Arthur’s heard of these parties before. Some Mr. Crane fella that likes to blow all his money on food and booze. He indulges his guests and when they’re weakest, gets their secrets from them. He’s a snake and everyone knows it. Yet, missing his party is social suicide. They have no choice but to go and indulge in him. 

Arthur had never had any interest in meeting him or doing any business with him. But Dutch had informed him that’s exactly what’s happening tonight. They’ll mingle for a little while, maybe scout some other jobs, and then Mr. Crane will invite them up to his office for a private discussion. 

Dutch still hasn’t told him what exactly their business with him is. He brought Hosea along tonight so he has to assume it’s not going to be anything violent. But he can’t think of anything else they could be good for. 

“Alright, gentlemen,” Dutch places his hands on Hosea’s and Arthur’s shoulders, a scheming smile on his face. “Try not to embarrass me.” He slips behind them, heading up the stairs of the home. Hosea and Arthur share a brief look before they split up, blending into the background of the garden. 

Arthur lurks near the bar, he knows he should be talking to these assholes, possibly learning something useful. But he can’t be bothered. He orders a whiskey, gaze surveying the partygoers. They’re all loud with painted faces and fake smiles. Not a goddamn person here seems to be genuinely interested in anything they’re doing. 

“First time?” The soft voice beside him catches him off guard. He glances to the side and is surprised to see that you’ve slipped past him. He hadn’t even noticed you slide up next to him. You laugh at the look on his face and it’s the first thing here that seems real. “Sorry, it’s just that look on your face, I recognize the disappointment. You’ve never been to one of Crane’s parties before?”

“No,” he clears his throat, still recovering from the surprise. “Uh, I can’t say I have.”

You suck on your teeth, narrowing your eyes at the people passing by. “They’re not worth the effort. Everyone who leaves here leaves carrying his debt on their back.”

Arthur chuckles a little, lips twitching up into a small smile. He’s surprised by your frankness, most people like to hide behind passive-aggressive digs. He appreciates the straightforward attitude. “Then why are you here?”

You shrug and Arthur finds himself enchanted. He shouldn’t be, he’s never been one for romance. He finds women pretty and he’s been in love before, but he’s never bought into the idea of love at first sight. Or any of that mushy stuff that Mary Beth devours in those books of hers. 

But you are absolutely gorgeous, dressed in a silk dress that’s so expensive he’s sure he could buy two new horses with it. Your fingers and neck are decorated in dainty jewels that you fidget with as you stare down at your drink. When you set your eyes on him again he thinks he might have been struck by Cupid’s arrow. 

“I don’t have a choice,” you finally answer, sending him a stiff smile. “What about you? Why are you here?”

Arthur suddenly remembers himself, remembers why he’s here and what he’s supposed to be doing. The fog in his head dissipates and he’s disappointed in himself. Pretty women have never done anything except get him in trouble. 

“Business,” he answers vaguely. Your eyes narrow and your brows twitch in discontent. Something like realization dawns on your face and you back away from him. The easy attitude you’d carried yourself with is gone, replaced by a vague look of distrust. 

“Right, should’ve known.” You let out a rough sigh and Arthur can’t help but feel like he’s said the wrong thing. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you again soon.” You slip past him before he can ask you what you mean. He hears the faint sound of metal clinking as you walk back up the stairs. 

Something silver flashes under your skirts but he can’t get a good glimpse of it. He feels unsettled as he turns back to the bar. The whole interaction was odd. From how stricken he was with you to how cold you turned. 

He doesn’t know what you saw in him but it was probably for the best that you left when you did. Neither of you needed the trouble the other would bring. He shakes his head, downing his whiskey and muttering nonsense to himself about not thinking with the wrong head. 

It’s not that much later that Dutch is appearing on the balcony and silently motions him forward. Arthur leaves the bar behind and slips up the same stairs you’d disappeared on. Dutch says nothing as he leads Hosea and Arthur through the house. 

The mansion is a maze more than anything. Arthur loses track of all the turns they take and the winding staircases they descend. Finally, Dutch stops them all in front of two large oak doors. He raps once on the door and then lets himself in. 

A large, balding man with a shiny head is perched on top of a leather chair. He looms behind his desk, fingers steepled as he greets them all with a false smile. “Ah, gentlemen, so nice to finally meet you.”

Dutch grins and motions to Arthur, “This is the man who will be doing the transporting, Arthur.” Arthur’s eyes narrow in confusion but he says nothing as Dutch moves to Hosea, “And this is my associate, Hosea. He’s a lot better with money than I am, Mr. Crane. You understand.”

Mr. Crane lets out a boisterous laugh that makes Arthur’s ears hurt and nods his head, his cheeks jiggling with the movement. “That I do! Well,” he waves them forward when they linger in the doorway too long, “come in, come in.”

Arthur closes the doors behind them as Mr. Crane lifts himself from his desk. There are two couches positioned in front of an unlit fire. He takes one of them and Dutch and Hosea take the other. Arthur perches himself on the armrest of their couch, eyes surveying the office like it might reveal the truth of their visit. 

“I trust Mr. Van der Linde has kept this all quiet?” 

“He has,” Arthur grouses. 

At the same time, Dutch says, “Of course, Mr. Crane. I promised confidentiality and Dutch Van der Linde is nothing if not a man who keeps to his promises.” Crane nods, looking satisfied and  Arthur holds back a laugh at how easily he seems to trust Dutch.

“Good, good.” He dips his hand inside his jacket and Arthur’s palm instinctively drops to where his gun should be. Of course, they’d had to give up their weapons before they came into the party, if he does has a gun Arthur can’t do a damn thing. 

But he doesn’t, instead, he pulls out the thickest stack of cash that Arthur has ever laid his eyes on. A loud thud resounds through the room as he slams the bills on top of the table between them. Arthur’s eyes widen and Hosea’s jaw nearly drops at the sight of it all. 

This would be enough to get them out of St. Denis tonight. Shock sours quickly into suspicion. What the hell has Dutch signed up for? “Now, this is the first half. This is simply for accepting the job and,” he gives them all severe looks, “for your silence.”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably on his perch and waits for Mr. Crane to finish. “The other half will be given once the package has been safely delivered.” There’s a certain lilt to his words when he says package that has Arthur’s hackles raising. Whatever is getting delivered is not going to be good. 

Crane turns towards the bookshelves on the wall and calls out, “Darling, won’t you join us?” Arthur figures the man must have lost his mind, they should just take the money and leave. But there’s a loud creak and something like metal gears grinding together. One of the shelves pops open and the panel swings forward. 

You pop your head out, glancing towards Crane and then taking a step forward. Arthur, without even thinking about it, finds himself sitting up, and brushing some of the dirt off his pants from the ride over. 

At first, he’s so confused by seeing you again that he doesn’t realize why exactly he’s seeing you again. Then you glance towards him, a knowing look on your face and it clicks. You’re the package. You’re what he’s meant to be transporting. 

He glares over at Dutch, when exactly did they get into the business of trading women?

Hosea voices his doubts in a much calmer manner. “If I may, sir, why does she need to be delivered so discreetly?”

Mr. Crane laughs and your face twitches unpleasantly. You grimace, glaring at the back of the man’s head with something like murder in your eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause such a visceral look of hate and he doesn’t want to think about it. This whole situation is bothering him. You’re not here willingly, which means you’re not going to be transported willingly either. 

None of this makes sense. Dutch would never have taken a job like this before, even when they needed the money. And there’s no way in hell a rich man like this one would want to pay a couple of grungy outlaws so much money. There’s got to be some sort of trick in all of this. 

Cran clears his throat, “She’s a daughter of a, well,” he frowns and struggles for the words. “Let’s just say we’re in a hostile competition for a lot of land. This land, boys, could be very beneficial in expanding my business. He’s not interested in selling and, well, desperate times, desperate measures.”

You scoff, laughing slightly at him and rounding the couch. Dutch ignores you, Hosea looks uncomfortable, and Crane continues prattling on without missing a beat. “Should her father not pay me, she will be married to the associate you’re bringing her to. He’s promised me enough land and money to cover what I lost to her father. And if he does pay, she’ll be returned in time for her wedding here.”

Arthur’s eyes dart towards you and you send him a bitter smile. It makes him shift where he sits, hating the way your eyes bore into him. “I just need someone who's not afraid of getting their hands a little dirty to make sure she behaves while she’s delivered to my friend,” Crane glances over at Arthur. He asses him, the bulge of his arms in the suit and the scars on his face, whatever he finds must be satisfactory because he smiles over at Dutch. 

Arthur stands, ready for Dutch to tell Mr. Crane that they’re not in the business of selling women off. But Dutch doesn’t, he smiles at Mr. Crane and reaches for the money, passing it off to Hosea to count. “Well, I do believe my friend Arthur is just the man for the job.” 

“I think you’re right, Dutch.” He stands up now, pot belly nearly bursting the buttons of his shirt, and reaches for Dutch’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Dutch smiles and takes his sweaty palm, “You as well, sir.” Dutch walks towards you and holds his arm out. “This way, my dear.” You glance between him and his elbow before rolling your eyes and reluctantly placing your hand on his arm. You follow him silently and obediently, no fight is left in you. Hosea follows after you both, a concerned look on his face. 

Arthur remains in the office, standing dumbfounded and staring at the doorway you’d disappeared through. He’s struggling to process what just happened. Arthur has helped people get home safely before and provided protection. But he’s never been one to traffic a hostage. 

Crane glances up, finally noticing him still standing there. He walks past him, patting his shoulder as he does and giving him an approving smile. “Don’t be afraid to take care of her should she get out of hand.” He’s nearly out the door but he looks back and adds, “Just don’t bruise her too much.”

Arthur’s fingers twitch for his revolver once more and he’s never wanted to shoot a man more. But he knows Dutch is waiting for him and he’d never make it out of here alive if he started a fight right now. Reluctantly, he makes his way out of the manor and towards where you’re all waiting for him. 

He’s fuming by the time he stops in front of Dutch. He’s trying to help you onto his horse and Arthur finally realizes what the metal sound he heard earlier is. There are chains around your ankles and you can’t maneuver yourself on the saddle. 

His eyes narrow and he glares at Dutch, “What the hell are you doing? We’re selling women now?”

Dutch glowers at the tone of Arthur’s voice. You watch them both passively, fiddling with the rings on your fingers and looking unbothered by the entire situation. “Watch yourself, Arthur,” there’s a clear warning in his tone but Arthur’s too upset to care. 

They’ve done a lot of bad things. They weren’t good men. But this was just going too far. “We need this, Arthur. You want to get out of here, you want to keep our people safe?” Arthur let out a deep exhale, gritting his teeth together and nodding reluctantly. Dutch huffs, “That’s what I thought. We’re not selling anyone, Arthur. It’s a simple delivery.”

His jaw clenches as he watches Dutch struggle to help you again. “It’s not going to work,” you inform Dutch. You lift your skirts, flashing him the chains he hadn’t seemed to notice yet. Neither of you gets a chance to say anything as Arthur pulls out his gun and shoots the lock off. 

He feels a little guilty at how startled you look. Your eyes widen until they look like they might bulge out. Your hands fly up to cover your ears as the sound rocks through you. It breaks violently through the silence of the night. 

Dutch turns and gives him a stern look, “Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?” Arthur can tell he’s trying not to shout and drag any more attention towards you all. 

Arthur glares at Dutch, something wicked brewing in his stomach. “The lady wouldn’t be able to ride a horse like that.” He mounts his horse and rides off without a look back. He can’t stand to be near you or Dutch any longer. 

The reality of what they’ve turned into hits him like a bag of rocks and it makes him irate. They’ve never been these people. Never traded a person off like they were an object. He’s sure plenty of people in camp would have a problem with this. But he doubts Dutch will let them know the truth until the job is done. 

And by then, everyone will be too happy with the money to complain. Dutch is nothing if not good at saving his ass. He’s hitching his horse as the rest of you ride into camp. He lingers by Diablo, resting a hand on the thick neck of the shire while Dutch helps you off the saddle. 

His eyes narrow in on the way Dutch’s fingers glide along your waist as you jump down. You take a step back the second your legs are steady sending Dutch a dirty look that almost makes Arthur laugh. 

He starts towards Dutch, ready to try and reason with him again. But he holds his hand up and walks away, not even giving him a chance to speak. Arthur lets out a rough sigh as Hosea comes up behind him. 

He pats his shoulder comfortingly, “You should get some sleep, Arthur. You’ll ride with her to Strawberry tomorrow morning.” He almost walks off but he whispers a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before he goes. 

Arthur glances towards you but you’re looking around the camp, eyes lingering on Javier as he sings by the fire. He swears he almost sees you smile but it's gone as quickly as it came. He takes his hat off, running his hand through his hair and letting out a tired sigh. 

“Alright, come with me,” he starts towards the house. It takes a minute to realize you’re not directly behind him. When he looks over your shoulder he sees you with your skirts lifted, tiptoeing through the mud and trying not to get your pretty skirts dirty. 

He rolls his eyes, storming back towards you. Your eyes widen at the look on his face and you stumble back a few steps. Undeterred, he bends over, throwing you over his shoulder and walking towards the house. 

Your hands claw at his back, desperately grasping onto his shirt so you keep your balance. He storms up the stairs, ignoring the alarmed looks he gets from others in camp. He can already hear them whispering, wondering who you are and why he’s dragging you into his room. 

They can make up whatever the hell they want. Arthur’s too pissed off to give a shit about rumors tonight. He drops you unceremoniously onto his bed and storms back out. He heads downstairs, rooting around in one of the chests for some extra clothes. 

You won’t be able to ride to Strawberry in those ridiculous clothes. You’ll need some pants if you’re going to sit on the horse properly. He tucks the outfit under his arm and makes his way back to you. 

When he opens the door your hand immediately darts away from his shaving kit and shoves itself under your butt. His brows furrow as he catches a flash of silver in your hand. He places the clothes down on the end of the bed, eyes drifting towards his shaving kit. Sure enough, his razor seems to be missing. 

He lets out a sigh and you tense up, hand clenching around your prize. He briefly debates taking it from you. But he figures you should be allowed a modicum of comfort. Even if you did try and use it against him it’s dull, he hasn’t sharpened it in a while and you wouldn’t be able to do much damage anyway. 

He lets you keep it, leaving you on your own without another word. He can hear the exhale of relief you let out when he walks away and it makes him feel just a little better about this. At least you’re not completely terrified. 

You change into the clothes Arthur gave you. They’re a little big, but you appreciate the pants. It’s much better than the ridiculous dresses Crane had you in. You collect your dress and toss it out the window of Arthur’s room, watching it sink into the mud pit below. It brings you some satisfaction to see Crane’s pretty silk getting ruined. 

You take off the jewelry you’d been given and stuff it into your boots. If you did manage to escape while you were traveling with Arthur then you were going to need some cash. You could sell off the jewels and hopefully, it would be enough to keep you comfortable. 

It feels nice, to wear real clothes. Not being dressed up like a doll for once. You envy some of the women here, who can wear what they want. There is an appeal to the outlaw life. As long as you’re on the right side of it, which, currently, you’re not. 

You slip out of the house before anyone has a chance to retrieve you. The whole night you were curled up around a dull razor with your eyes wide open. Spending a night surrounded by outlaws isn’t exactly restful. 

You figure you might as well try and walk around before you’re on the back of a horse for the rest of the day. There are more people up than you’d expected. Luckily, you don’t see Dutch around anywhere. You don’t feel like having to deal with any more of his false charm or empty apologies. 

The same man you’d seen strumming his guitar the night before is asleep next to the dying fire. A blonde woman catches your eye, she’s walking past some other women in dresses. They’re still asleep but she looks like she’s been up for hours. 

There’s a bit of blood on her pants and you briefly wonder what she’d been doing. “Who are you?” She asks, surveying you from head to toe with suspicion in her eyes. 

“A package,” you tell her bluntly, walking past her towards the only lit fire of camp. She follows you, a wry grin on her face as she watches you pour yourself some coffee. 

“You’ve got a real attitude, I like it.” 

You huff out a laugh, taking a sip of the burnt coffee and giving her a brief smile. “I’m sure my future husband won’t.” 

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, waving you off. “Husbands, good for nothing. I loved mine but he was useless as a sack o’ flour. You’re better off without them.”

Your smile turns strained and you look down at your feet, at the boots that aren’t your own. You’ll never get to dress like this again. Or speak like this to a woman who isn’t afraid to voice what's on her mind. 

“Yes, well,” you shrug and meet her eyes again, “I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”

Her eyes narrow and she frowns, “What’s that supposed to-”

“Mrs. Adler!” Dutch’s voice booms from across the camp and forces the others awake. Most of them grumble, but they’re quick to get started on morning chores. “I see you’ve met our guest,” he says your name with a flourish that almost makes you laugh. 

He’s a good actor. He’s especially good at covering up his mistakes. “Yeah, what’s going on, Dutch? Who is she? Why don’t you guys ever let me in on this stuff?” She fires off questions rapidly, you almost don’t catch them all. There are clearly underlying issues here other than your unexpected presence. 

“In due time,” he assures her, laying the charm on thick. But even you can tell he’s full of it. He’s not planning on letting her in on anything unless it benefits him. “And this is our guest, her fiancee has paid us handsomely to provide her safe passage back to him.” 

He walks towards you, laying a hand over your arm and squeezing slightly. You give Sadie a stiff smile and let him lead you away. “I do believe it’s best that you just wait for Arthur, dear.” He gives you a look that lets you know it’s an order, not a suggestion. 

Still, you play along, “I think you might be right, Mr. Van der Linde, thank you for the hospitality.” You run a tired hand over your face, sitting down on the stoop of the house and finishing off the rest of your coffee. Dutch watches you for a while, never straying too far from where you are and intercepting anyone who asks about you. 

He spins quite the romantic tale of your lost love and how he desperately wants you back. You wish it were true, that you were living out some wonderful fairytale and were about to be reunited with the love of your life. Instead, it feels like one long walk to the gallows. 

The wood creaks behind you and you don’t need to turn to see who it is. “Ready?” Arthur asks and you figure he means, ready to leave freedom and happiness and the will to live behind? 

No, “Sure,” you toss the rest of the coffee into the grass and leave the mug on the stairs. You get to your feet and let him lead you towards the horses. He shares a brief look with Dutch as you pass by him but it doesn’t look entirely pleasant. 

He makes his way toward a towering black shire and your eyes widen in horror. “What’s this?”

He works on saddling the horse up, not paying much attention to you. “This is Diablo.” You take a step closer and the horse starts huffing, swinging his neck towards you with his lips pulled back. You jump back a step back, eyeing him warily. 

Arthur glances over and lets out a low chuckle, “He won’t bite. He’s just curious.”

“Mhm,” you give him a disbelieving look. “You’ll have to excuse me for being wary, I’ve not met a lot of horses.”

Arthur looks a bit shocked by your admission. “Really?” He questions, sounding doubtful. 

You give him a brief smile and nod. “Hard to believe, I know, but I’ve lived a very sheltered life, Mr. Morgan. Haven’t had many opportunities for exploring on my own.” 

He opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something. At the last second, he stops himself, instead taking a step closer to you. You flinch away from him when he reaches for you and he lets out a sigh. “You can’t spend the next three days terrified of him, come on.”

He coaxes you forward and you reluctantly step closer to the beast. He chuckles at the scared look on your face. You don’t appreciate how much amusement he’s gaining from this. “Come on,” he mutters, taking your wrist and leading you closer to Diablo. 

The damn thing is named Devil, how could you not be terrified of it? 

“He won’t bite, I promise.” You don’t trust him but he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He presses your open palm to Diablo’s nose and you wince, bracing for him to lash out at you. 

But he doesn’t, he lets out a soft knicker and it seems like he doesn’t even care that you’re there. You let out a relieved laugh, running your hand tentatively over his muzzle. It’s shockingly soft and oddly squishy. 

He doesn’t seem to mind as you awe over him. You smile and glance over at Arthur but it drops when you see the odd look on his face. He seems perplexed by your reaction and you can’t fathom why. “You really never have ridden a horse before, have you?”

You shake your head, “No. I told you.”

He purses his lips and nods. You don’t know what it is about this that’s bothering him and you don’t care to ask. If he doesn’t believe just how strict your upbringing has been then fine. “Alright, come on, we need to get a move on.” 

He leads you around to the saddle and helps you up on the back of the horse. It’s beyond odd, sitting on something in pants. Getting to spread your legs freely is something you are going to greatly enjoy during this journey. 

Arthur takes off without much warning and you yelp, throwing your arms around his waist to steady yourself. He glances over his shoulder at you but says nothing. You turn your head, watching as the camp gets smaller and smaller. 

The people mill about, greet each other, and break bread together. It hits you suddenly, this will be the last time you get to see people being free. If you don’t get out, if you can’t escape, your life will be filled with starched collars and powdered faces. You’ll never have a genuine conversation with someone again. You’ll be turned into pretty jewelry hanging off the arm of a man you never met. 

The ride to Strawberry is three days at least. You have three days to get your plan together and to escape. You almost feel sorry for Arthur and the repercussions he’ll have to face losing you. But not sorry enough that you’re not gonna try. 

Arthur’s speed evens out and you let your arms relax, easing away from him slightly. Your wrist jolts against the gun on his hip and you eye it curiously. If you had a gun there would be no doubt you could escape. You see Arthur’s fingers twitch on the reigns of the horse and you move your arms higher up his torso. 

You doubt you’ll be a quicker draw than he is. He is an outlaw after all. You don’t think he’d have many qualms about delivering you to your fiancee with a few extra holes in your gut. Your mind drifts to the razor in your pocket and you consider it for a moment. 

You’re sure you’d be quick enough to just whip it out and slit his throat. You sigh and dismiss the thought. You were a lot of things but you were not a murderer. There are lines you can’t bring yourself to cross. Besides, as wicked as what he’s doing to you is, you know he’s a good man. 

It was an instinctual feeling. Mr. Crane and your father were both horrible, evil men. They knew nothing but greed and would never be satisfied by all the riches they reaped. They were the type of men you looked at and knew deep down that there was nothing left to save. 

Arthur has undoubtedly bad things. You don’t become an outlaw without spilling some blood. He was weathered and rough from a hard life, but that didn’t mean there was nothing good left in him. You won’t have his blood on your hands, no matter how much you might want to get away from him. 

As grateful as Arthur is for the silence, it is odd. He’s helped a few ladies find their way back home before and for some reason, they seem to think he’s the best listener in the world. It seems everyone who rides with him wants to tell him their life stories. 

You’re completely silent, though. He has to keep looking back just to make sure you haven’t fallen off the back of the horse. You’re pretty complacent, following along with whatever Dutch said and coming along quietly. You seem beaten down, the fight dragged out of you. 

He wonders what Mr. Crane had done to you. A few times, he’s seen just a glimpse of the spark that used to be there. But it was snuffed out before he got a chance to know it. He almost wishes you would talk. It would distract him from what he was doing right now.

It didn’t feel right, bringing you along to marry a man you’ve never even met. He has to keep reminding himself that it would have happened no matter what. Ladies like you are always sold off into a profitable marriage. The only thing he’s doing is switching up who the fiancee might be. 

None of that makes him feel better, though. He should be helping you, not dragging you away to your worst nightmare. But, his people come first. The amount of money Dutch’ll get from this will be enough to get them all out of here. This could finally be the last score. 

You gasp behind him and he whips his head around, immediately expecting someone to be following along beside you both. Maybe your father’s men or just some raiders. But he doesn’t see anything except a herd of deer running through the trees. 

His brows furrow in confusion and he glances back at you. You’re watching them like they’re something spectacular. Arthur’s always been a fan of the quiet beauty of nature. He appreciates them in ways most folks don’t understand. But you’re looking at ‘em like you just found God. 

“Never seen deer before?” He teases, chuckling a little at your reaction. 

You startle, not realizing he had been watching. You clear your throat and look away from them sheepishly. He almost feels bad for ruining the moment for you. “No. No, I haven’t.” 

He knows it's possible, but it’s astounding to him that someone truly lived their whole life in the city. It just doesn’t seem right. Cities are full of shit, smog, and bad people. Not even having a moment out of that your whole life seems like torture. 

“I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts,” you mutter, eyes darting back to the tree line. But the deer are gone and you don’t look very interested anymore. 

“Right,” he shifts forward, the air between you awkward. He’d only meant it in jest. He didn’t mean to remind you of what was about to happen to you. He doesn’t like the silence, not this time, it feels wrong. It makes him stew in his shame and that’s a nasty feeling. 

Selfishly, he prods you for more. “A few days on the road, you’ll be eager for the city again.”

You laugh but there’s no humor to it. “I very much doubt that Mr. Morgan.”

“Arthur,” he corrects, “just call me Arthur.”

“Right,” your tone remains cold, “well if you don’t mind Arthur, I’d like to ride there in silence.”

He's got no other choice but to comply. If you don’t want to talk he won’t make you. He just wishes he could make this a little easier for you both. 

Camping is something. You don’t have a word for it. It’s nice to be out in nature and embrace it for the first time in your life. But you really would not mind the comfort of your bed right now. 

Rocks digging into your spine and head do not make for a good night’s sleep. You’ve been lying in front of the fire for hours, flipping around uselessly. It doesn’t matter how much you shift, the rock stays digging painfully into you. 

You let out a loud huff, flopping onto your back and glaring up at the starry sky in defeat. At least the view is nice. In the city, you can’t see the stars. The smoke’s too thick and you never get a good look at them.

Out here, they almost feel fake. They’re so bright and beautiful, you thought the paintings in the museum had always been exaggerating just how breathtaking a night sky can be. But you were wrong. And you hate that there’s a potential future where you’ll never get to see this again. 

“Would you quit squirming so damn much?”

You shoot up, resting on your elbows and glaring over at Arthur. He’s got his hat over his eyes, arms crossed, and looking like he’s been asleep for the past few hours. You hadn’t realized you’d been keeping him up. 

“Some of us aren’t used to sleeping outside,” you hiss, throwing yourself back down to the ground. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you figure that’s the end of it. You clench your eyes shut, counting sheep in your mind and trying to force yourself asleep. 

You hear boots crunching across leaves and your eyes fly open. Arthur’s standing over you, hands propped on his hips as he glares down at you. “Can I help you?” You snap when you get tired of the staring. 

He scoffs and shakes his head, kneeling to be eye level with you. You’re startled by the proximity, an odd heat creeping up your neck. “Come on, I’m gonna tire you out. Maybe then you’ll get some sleep.”

You gasp, astonished at the audacity of his suggestion. “Excuse me?” You demand, tone incredulous. 

His brows furrow before he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Not like that,” he grouses. “Get up,” he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He places his hand under your back, shoving you onto your feet. You stand with a slight stumble, glaring at him as you brush dirt off your shirt and pants. 

You can’t help the snotty tone of your voice as you ask, “What are we doing?” 

“Huntin,’” He answers gruffly, going over to the horse and taking the bow out of his saddle. 

Your brows furrow as you recall the few stories your father told you of hunting bison. “Aren’t you supposed to use a rifle?”

He shakes his head and nods towards the treeline. You glance back at the fire before reluctantly following him into the dark forest. The moon is full enough that it provides just enough light for you not to be terrified of what’s lurking in the underbrush. 

“Got a friend,” he tells you, kneeling and glancing at some tracks on the ground. “Taught me how to hunt properly. Bows are quieter, less disruptive, and they provide quicker, cleaner kills.” He looks back at you and motions towards the arrows, “Less pain for the animal.”

Your face slacks with something like astonishment. All you’d heard from your father was the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill. He never mentioned keeping anything from the animal, using it for meat, or about how long it took for them to die. You’d never thought there was anybody who actually cared for the creature’s comfort as it died. 

You suppose there’s going to be a lot about Arthur that’s different from the men you know. 

“Arthur,” a twig snaps behind you, and your eyes widen. You drop your voice to a whisper, not wanting to draw too much attention towards you both. “I don’t want to kill anything,” you hiss.

“Ha!” He barks out a laugh and you purse your lips in irritation. He stands and looks at you, chuckling again before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so confident in your huntin’ skill, kid.”

You click your tongue and glare at him, “Don’t call me that,” you snap. It’s the same patronizing nickname your father loved to use on you and you detest it. He raises his hands in surrender and you roll your eyes at the smirk on his face. “Then what’s the point of this?”

He shrugs and heads further into the trees, you have no choice but to follow along behind him. “Figure you should be taught a few skills before I get rid of ya.”

You want to argue with him that there’s no point. If you are given to Crane’s associate, you’ll never set foot in the woods again. However, if you do manage to escape him, learning a few survival skills wouldn’t be a bad idea. 

So, you keep your mouth shut and let him lead you through the forest. “How do you know where to go?” You ask, trying to figure out what it is he keeps looking at in the mud. He waves you forward, moving you so you’re standing directly in front of him. 

“You see that?” You have to squint, relying solely on the light from the moon, to make out what he’s pointing at. There are some tracks in the mud that look vaguely like hooves. “It’s buck tracks, you can tell by the size.” He kneels and when you don’t follow he tugs you down by the sleeve. “You can’t rely on just the tracks, though. You have to look for other signs of ‘em.”

You glance around, noticing some crushed twigs and grass a few feet ahead. “Like that?” You point towards it and he huffs in amusement. 

“Caught on quicker than I thought.”

You feel vaguely offended by that but don’t bother voicing it, just glare at his back as he gets up. You walk silently through the forest, letting Arthur show you which tracks to follow and which to avoid. You’re not comforted by how many cougar prints you find. You stare up into the branches always expecting something to already be looking down at you. 

Miraculously, no wild cat chooses you for dinner as you track the buck down. You find him near a small stream, antlers dipping into the water as he takes a drink. He’s got to be one of the most gorgeous creatures you’ve ever seen. 

You’ve lived your whole life in St. Denis. The most you’ve seen are overworked carriage horses and mangy dogs. No life slips through the cracks of that place. There’s just smoke and misery. This is nature, real beauty. It’s breathtaking, the way the leaves ripple in the wind and the starlight reflects in the water. 

You can’t imagine seeing this and wanting to tear it down to put up an oily machine that contributes nothing to the earth but death. It just makes you hate your father more. It also makes you more resolved to not be forced back into that life. You can’t do it. You can’t have this one taste of freedom and then let it go without a fight. 

Arthur pulls the bow out and nocks an arrow. You glance between him and the buck and rapidly shake your head. “No,” you hiss, “I don’t wanna kill it.”

He rolls his eyes and moves you in front of him. You don’t have much choice as he places your hands on the string and guides you into the right position. “Relax,” he murmurs in your ear as you fight against his grip. “You ain’t gonna kill it.” 

It doesn’t bring you much comfort, but if you’re going to make it on your own, sometimes you’ll have to do something you don’t like. “Now,” his hand drifts down your bicep and you suck in a sharp breath. “Don’t hold it too long, you’ll get tired.” 

It’s dawning on you just how close you both are. You’re kneeling on the ground with him behind you, essentially cradling your body to him. You’ve never been this familiar with a man before, it’s making your brain short-circuit. You can hardly pay attention to what he’s telling you. 

He lifts your elbow slightly and points you towards the left. “You need to keep your arm steady even after you let go or your aim will be off. Take in a deep breath and release on the exhale.” You give him an apprehensive look, still not wanting to hurt the buck. He just nods and there’s something in his gaze that lets you relax slightly. 

You release the string and the arrow flies over the buck’s head, burying itself into the tree behind it. Its head shoots up and it turns towards you both before dashing off. You let out an astonished laugh, glancing down the bow and then back at Arthur. 

“My god, I’ve never shot anything before.”

“Congratulations, you’ve killed your first tree,” he remarks dryly, but you see the glint of humor in his eye. 

He gets to his feet and offers you a hand up. You smile up at him, undeterred by his attitude. “Thank you for this,” you tell him earnestly. He gives you an odd look but nods anyway. He doesn’t understand just how important this is to you. Knowing how to do something like this is the difference between life and death when you’re on your own. Of course, he doesn’t realize you’ll be making an escape attempt soon. 

He retrieves the arrow from the tree and you run your hand over the curve of the bow. You wonder just how much he’d miss this if you took it from him. 

Arthur’s tearing down the camp and you’re standing by Diablo, feeding him some apples. You stroke absentmindedly over the horse's muzzle, watching Arthur intently. He’s too busy pulling the tent apart to be paying attention to you. 

You got better sleep last night than you did at Crane’s. He was right, hunting had tired you out. You were eager enough to sleep that you didn’t even feel the rough ground underneath you. He seems to be a little more lax about his watch over you. 

Something about last night must have eased him into a sense of comfort that you’re not going to run. That’s his own fault, though. You glance over the curve of the hill, noticing a carriage that will be passing by soon enough. 

You look back at Arthur and ease slightly away from Diablo. Arthur is still collecting the blankets and rolling them up. He turns towards the dying fire and tosses the rest of the coffee out. You take another step back and he keeps his back to you. 

Slowly, you release Diablo’s reigns, giving him one last apple before you turn on your heel and run down the hill. Your foot slips out from under you and you let out a loud yelp as you go flying headfirst down the grass. 

You land on your back with enough impact to make the breath rush out of you. But your descent is still going and you’re flipping over headfirst into the road. You slide forward, the dirt scraping up your chin as you cough and try and catch your breath. 

“Look out!” You roll out of the way just before the carriage rolls over you. Someone shouts your name from the top of the hill and you see Arthur glaring down at you. He starts towards you and you scramble to your feet. 

“Stop!” You scream, waving your arms wildly and chasing after the carriage. The man gives you a bewildered look as you throw yourself at him. “Please, sir, I’ve been kidnapped, you must help me get back to my husband.”

The man looks behind you, sees a very angry Arthur bellowing out your name, and moves to the side. “Hurry up,” he urges, giving you a hand on the bench beside him. You let out a relieved breath, taking his hand and throwing yourself the rest of the way up. 

He whips the horses, hurrying them along all the while Arthur is yelling after you. It’s not hard to believe that he would kidnap you. He looks half-crazed as he follows along behind you. You turn over your shoulder, giving him a brief wave and a smile. “Thanks for the help,” you tell the man beside you. You offer your hand and name. 

He glances down at it but doesn’t take it, instead looking forward and ignoring you entirely. Something uneasy settles in your stomach but you push it aside. You blame the feeling on the adrenaline still pumping through you. 

“Where are you headed?” You ask, glancing into the back of the carriage. You notice some moonshine and a crate full of guns but decide not to question it. 

“Said yer husband’s waitin’ for ya?” He demands, completely ignoring your question. You stare at the side of his face but his expression isn’t giving anything away. He comes to an intersection. You see a sign pointing towards a town and figure he’s going to take it, but instead, he pulls onto a smaller trail leading to the woods. 

“Um,” you clear your throat uncertainly, glancing back at the sign. “Yes,” your voice cracks and you know you sound like you’re full of shit. 

He laughs and the sound sends chills down your spine. You rip your eyes off of him, looking down at the horses and suddenly realizing just what you’d gotten yourself into. “You sure about that, little lady?”

Something cold digs into your side and you gasp quietly, looking down to see a gun pressed against your ribs. “You scream, run, or do anythin’ to piss me off and I’ll put a fourth hole in ya.” When you don’t say anything he digs it harder into you. “Understand?” He growls and you can do nothing but nod your head. 

You want to move, want to shove him off the side of the carriage and make a run for it. But you can’t, you’re frozen solid. You’re so petrified with fear you can’t even blink. You think you’re holding your breath, as if taking in air is going to set the gun off. 

He grins, a blackened curl of lips over rotted teeth, at your obedience and comes to a stop in the trees. “What are you doing?” You whisper, staring at the secluded area with a newfound sense of horror. 

“Shut up,” he snaps, his voice echoing through the quiet of the woods. You hear no birds or animals and you feel so alone it makes you want to cry. He gets off the carriage and turns towards you. “Down,” he demands. Your eyes dart towards the reigns of the horses and he pulls the hammer of the gun back. “Don’t even think about it.”

You lift your hands in the air, slowly slipping down the seat. He doesn’t appreciate you taking your time He grabs the front of your shirt, jerking you further into the trees and tossing you to the ground. 

You let out a rough groan at the impact, blood staining your shirt as your elbow slips across a jagged rock. It’s like something is snapped loose in your mind. He comes stomping towards you, kneeling between your spread legs and it finally clicks. 

You lunge forward with a shout and he rears back in surprise. You wonder how often someone’s actually fought against him or just let it happen. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to get shot by this scum, but there are a lot of things worse than dying. 

You grab the arm holding the gun, jerking it around, and knocking it out of his hand. “You bitch!” He hisses, bringing his open palm down across your cheek. The smack rings through the trees and ricochets through the air. Your head whips to the side so hard you think you might have snapped your neck. 

Blood dribbles out from your lips, your teeth having bitten into the fat of your cheeks. You spot the gun nearby, the silver of the barrel glinting from under the leaves. Just as you reach for it, he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles and dragging you back towards him. 

You feel like screaming as your hands desperately grasp at the dirt underneath you. But there’s not enough air to scream. You dig your nails into the mud, feel them split against the rocks, and kick at his chest hard enough to make him lose his breath. 

His grip on you loosens and you throw yourself at the pile of leaves. Hands groping for something solid. Just as he flips you over you wrap your hand around the handle of the gun. You pull the trigger and the bang is deafening. 

Your ears ring and your hands are trembling from the recoil. His jaw goes slack and he tumbles on top of you. You let out a grunt, breath pushed out of you by his weight. You scramble against his chest, something warm making your hands slip as you struggle to roll him off of you. 

You glance over, waiting for him to spring back up. But there’s something dark pooling around him and sinking into the dirt below. There’s a hole in his chest and his eyes are already flattening. You fall back against the earth, staring up at the trees above you. 

The sounds rush back to you all at once. The birds singing, deers prancing somewhere in the distance. You hear a stream rushing nearby and let out a stunned laugh. There’s a smile on your face but there’s nothing to be happy about. 

You think you might be in shock. Mind still trying to catch up to what just happened. You glance down at the gun in your hand and toss it to the side, not wanting it near you anymore. Only a second later do you reach for it again. 

You struggle onto your hands and knees, checking over yourself for any injuries that you might be numb to right now. The only blood on you is from the dead man on the ground. You keel over, hands on your knees, and suck in a deep gasping breath. 

You stumble back, limping towards the carriage. You dig around in the back of the wagon, tugging out a giant hunting knife and walking towards the horses. You cut them loose, keeping the rope on one of them and tugging yourself onto her back. You tuck the knife in your belt and nudge her side, leading her forward gently. 

You don't even have time to process the fact that you’re riding a horse on your own. Your body is moving on autopilot. You can only think about getting ahead, getting away. What just happened will hit you later. You slump against the neck of the horse, adrenaline leaking out of you and exhaustion catching up. 

He’s going to find you and he’s going to kill you. Leaving while he had his back turned. Getting on some carriage with a man you’ve never met before. How dumb do you have to be? You can’t trust people out here. Not when there are gangs, raiders, hell, he’s encountered a few cannibals. 

For all he knows, you’re already dead and he’ll be delivering a body to the train station. The thought makes him curse and urge Diablo forward. It’s not hard to follow the tracks of the carriage, what concerns him is when they lead into the forest instead of the town. 

“Goddammit,” he mutters, “the hell have you done woman?” He leaps off Diablo, figuring it will be easier to track you on foot. He follows the paths of the wheels, finding the wagon abandoned and the horses cut loose. 

His brows furrow in confusion as he wanders around the side and spots a lump in the leaves. All he can see is the bottom of a boot and blood splattered across the orange of the fallen leaves. 

His stomach plummets and he races towards it. But it’s not you buried under the foliage, it’s the man who offered you a ride. “What the hell?” He kneels, brushing the leaves off his chest and frowning when he sees the blood splattered all along his chest. 

He doesn’t need to look long to figure out what killed him. He’s sure the bullet buried in his heart did the job. Arthur curses and stalks away from the man. There are prints where the horses were but there are too many to tell which one you might have taken. 

He’ll have to rely on instinct to find you. You’re becoming a real pain in the ass for what was supposed to be a simple job. Still, he can’t help but be a little relieved that it was a stranger and not you lying dead on the ground. 

He turns back onto the road, taking the turn into town. Someone on horseback rides past him, they look disgusted by something up ahead and it makes alarms go off in his head. He urges Diablo forward, running the rest of the way into town. 

An unsaddled mare lazily eats some grass as the sound of a rushing river meets his ears. Diablo’s hooves sound off against the wood of the bridge. He finally sees what disturbed the other rider so much. 

You’re sitting on the railing of the bridge, legs dangling dangerously over the edge as you stare down into the crashing waters below you. Arthur gets off his horse, approaching you slowly. He doesn’t want to startle you and have you go tumbling over the edge. 

He calls out your name and you glance briefly over at him. Blood is splattered across your neck and the front of your shirt is soaked with it. He knows it isn’t yours but it still puts him on edge. “What’re you doin’ kid?” 

You don’t answer him, “Did you follow me?” He eases up beside you, straddling the railing so he can catch you if you slip. He nods and you let out a rough sigh. “Is he dead?”

He scoffs, “Sure as shit hope so, don’t know how someone would survive that.”

A manic laugh bursts through your lips and you double over your head falling into your hands. Arthur surges forward, steadying you before you dive headfirst into the river. “Alright, let’s go,” he quietly urges you around. You don’t put up a fight, letting him maneuver you how he likes.

He gets you on your feet and leads you back to Diablo. You latch onto the horse's reigns immediately, stroking your hand over his mane. Your silence is concerning. Arthur doesn’t know what your regular behavior is, the most he’s seen of you, you have been quiet. This is different, though. He’s seen this sort of quiet in women before and it never ends pretty. 

“You’re alright, come on,” he tries to keep his voice low so he doesn’t set you off. He keeps his hands light as they land around your waist, giving you help onto Diablo’s saddle. Your gaze is distant and you move like someone else is controlling your body. 

He collects the mare you’d brought along with you and leads both horses into town. He’ll have to get a saddle for her, she already seems attached to you. And maybe taking a horse with you into the city will let you escape a little. 

The town, at least, is on the way to Strawberry so he doesn’t have to worry about being too far off schedule. Though, that’s the least of his concerns right now. His eyes keep darting up to you. Waiting for you to try and bolt again or finally break down. It doesn’t look like anything is going on in your head, you seem completely distanced from the situation. 

It’s a good thing for him. He can’t handle a distraught woman. He’s not a kind enough man for it. 

He hitches the horses in front of the hotel. You turn in the saddle, staring down at him and waiting for a hand down. You slide easily through his hands, landing in the mud with a dull thud and heading up the stairs of the hotel without prompt. 

He huffs and follows after you. He doesn’t know how to explain the blood on your clothes away and hopes he won’t have to. The man running the place, thankfully, doesn’t have many questions. He looks disturbed but keeps his qualms to himself when Arthur slips him a little extra cash. 

Arthur guides you up the stairs with a light hand on your back, opening the door of the bath for you. “Alright, here’s your room key. I’ll be out for a while so, just,” he sighs, taking in the blank look on your face and shaking his head. “Try not to cause any more trouble.” You nod and close the door behind him. 

There’s no worries that you’re going to make a run for it again. He’s sure whatever happened in those woods was scarring enough to make you want to go back to the city and never see country folk again. He wouldn’t blame you, there are some nasty people out here. Himself included, but he could never imagine hurting a woman like that. It just ain’t right. 

He heads to the shop across the street, buying some new clothes for you that actually fight properly. The horses are brought to the stables and he goes ahead and gets a paper for your mare under your name. Diablo will be faster tomorrow if he doesn’t have to carry the weight of two people. You might make it to your handler in time. 

Arthur still doesn’t feel right about this whole thing. Leaving you with a man you’ve never met feels even worse knowing what happened to you today. He doesn’t think you being so calm about it all is a good thing. Shouldn’t women react?

Dutch likes to tell him women are a more sensitive breed. He’s seen some tough ones in his life, but this seems like the time to be in hysterics if there ever was one. He heads back to the hotel, planning on just leaving the change of clothes in your room. 

He passes by the bath and hears an odd sound seeping through the cracks. Frowning, he presses his ear up against the door. A man passes by him, giving him a disgusted look as he goes into his room. Arthur sighs but he stays where he is. 

It’s clearer now, you’re crying and it’s hard to listen to. It's the type that makes it hard to breathe. That sort of crying makes your ribs ache and bruise. It’s wrong to keep listening to such a vulnerable moment. So, he does what he planned, drops the clothes in your room, and then heads to bed himself. 

Sleep comes easier than he thought it would. It’s not as restful as he’d been hoping but it draws over him faster than it normally does. He’s always been a light sleeper, though. It comes from years of having to be on guard in case some O’Driscoll is gonna try and slit his throat while he’s asleep. 

When he hears the door creak his hand is already on the trigger of his revolver as he shoots up in bed. The glow of the lamps outside illuminates what’s clearly a woman’s form. But he can’t see your face until you take a step further into the room and the moonlight provides some light. 

“Arthur?” You whisper his name, peering into his room. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” he grumbles. With a sigh, he shoves the gun back under his pillow and runs a rough hand over his face. “What'd ya want?”

You let out a low breath and rock back on your heels. “I’m sorry,” you mutter. “I just, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking he’s gonna creep out of my closet or bust through the door, I-”

You cut yourself off but he can hear the emotion thickening your voice. He clenches his eyes shut in irritation, arguing with himself over what he’s about to say. “You wanna sleep in here?” He mumbles reluctantly. 

You close the door immediately, practically running towards his bed. “You don’t mind?”

You’re not really giving him a choice, but he’s not going to say that to you. “No.” He grabs a pillow and blanket off the bed and rounds the end of the mattress. You frown as you watch him toss everything to the ground. 

“Well, what’re you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” He snaps, angrily gesturing towards the floor. “I’m givin’ you the bed.” 

You bite your lip and he feels horrible instantly because you look like you’re about to cry. He’s not trying to be rude but you woke him up in the dead of night. What’d you expect him to say?

“I was sort of hoping we could share the bed.”

His eyes widen and he glares at you in disbelief. “You mean-”

“No!” You cut him off with an aggrieved sigh. “You fool, that’s not what I mean at all. I just don’t want to be alone, alright?” 

“Look,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m the man you want to bunk with for company, alright. I’m not that kind of guy.” You glare at him and snatch his pillow and blanket off the floor. 

“Don’t be so damn stubborn.” You aggressively fluff the pillows, throwing the covers back and gesturing towards them, your brow set in anger. 

“Right,” he huffs, “I’m stubborn.” He reluctantly crawls into bed and you follow behind him. It’s not that he minds sharing a bed with a pretty lady. He’s just not the sort of guy you should be coming to for comfort. 

He doesn’t think he can provide whatever it is you need at this moment. But you seem to think otherwise as you inch towards him slowly. He lays on his back, arms under his head as he watches you out of the side of his eye. You think you’re being subtle, slowly moving into his side until you’re flush against him. 

He doesn’t say anything to object and you don’t bring up the proximity. He doesn’t want to admit it but it is nice having someone else beside him. He’s so used to camping out on his own. He hasn’t had anyone beside him in a long while. He lost interest in women of leisure a long while ago. And ever since Mary, he’s given up on any sort of intimacy. 

He hates to admit it, but he finds himself easing towards the warmth you provide. The second you feel him reciprocating you’re inching a tentative hand around his waist, cuddling closer to him. He recognizes it for what it is. 

He’s always been looked at as someone who can protect, at least by the gang. He’s their muscle. To most others, he incites nothing but fear. It should be the same for you. But after what happened today, you just see someone who can keep the monsters in the dark away. 

He doesn’t mind being used like this. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and waits until he feels you settle to ease into sleep again. 

Arthur figures you should both get breakfast in town while you’re here. He reasons you should enjoy a hot meal before you’re on the road again. You don’t point out that you know he’s just trying to ease you into the day. 

You appreciate it, honestly, but yesterday wasn’t your first run-in with men like that. It’s become incomprehensibly normal in day-to-day life, even for a city girl like yourself. You’d cried everything out in the bath once you’d scrubbed your skin raw. 

You don’t think Arthur will ever understand just how much his presence helped you last night. If you’d been on your own, jumping every time you heard the wood creaking outside, you’d have driven yourself over the edge. He protected you, even if there was nothing to be protected from. 

You don’t think he gives himself enough credit. Ignoring the situation you’re both in and what he’s taking you to do, he’s a good man. While the caliber of the men you’ve met is questionable at best, he’s one of the best ones you’ve ever known. At the end of the day, he disagrees with the whole situation, but he’s doing this for his family. That’s admirable in its own way. 

But, god, does he have poor conversational skills. “So, yesterday.” You glance up from your toast, brows raised in question. He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and his food like he can’t choose what to focus on. “That man, did he…”

He trails off and you feel your hackles rise. “Don’t worry,” you hiss, a bite to your words, “I’m still pure for my husband. Your pay won’t be docked, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His hand clenches around his fork and his eyes bore into yours, “That’s not what I meant,” he growls. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he snaps, “I was worried ‘bout you, woman.”

You take in a deep breath, actively biting your tongue from saying something spiteful. He wasn’t being rude, that’s just what you’re used to. “I’m sorry,” you concede lowly. “Nothing happened,” you repeat without the attitude. 

“Well,” he huffs and goes back to his breakfast, “good,” he settles on dully. 

“Good,” you agree quietly, pushing the rest of your food around. You find your appetite dulled and you push the plate away. You lean back in the booth and stare out the window. The horses seem to be getting on well enough. “Did you name her?”

Arthur gives you an odd look and you nod towards the mare hitched next to Diablo. He swallows the food he’d been chewing and takes a swig of his coffee. “No, figured you’d want to do it.”

Your brows furrow and your lips quirk in confusion. “Why?”

“She’s yours, ain’t she?” He grouses. 

You shake your head, “Nope,” you tell him, popping the p. “I just took her so I’d have something to get me to town.”

“Yeah, well,” he sounds less sure of himself and he’s looking like he made a mistake. “I thought she’d be nice for you to have with you in the city. A way for you to get around without relyin’ on someone else.”

You can’t help but smile, something in your chest easing away at the kind gesture. “I appreciate it,” he lights up a little at your approval, but you crush it in an instant. “But I can’t keep her, I won’t be allowed to. I’ve tried to have my own horse before, hard to control something that can get away from you,” you tell him blankly. There’s no emotion in your voice because it’s something you’re used to. 

He looks slightly horrified at how blunt you are. He can’t comprehend not having that freedom but he fails to recognize that he’s got a leash of his own. You doubt a man like Dutch would ever let his main asset just run off to wherever he wants to. 

A few people walk into the saloon, the women giving you odd looks when they see the pants on your legs. You smile cheekily at them, reveling in what you know will be a short-lived experience. You’ve never been on the receiving end of a judgmental look like that. 

You’ve always blended in. Been the perfect wallflower for the men in your life. You were never something to gawk at or cause trouble. It’s a relief to stick out for once, to break the mould for the first time in your life. 

Arthur clocks the interaction and chuckles. “Missin’ the skirts yet?”

“Not one damn bit,” you tell him, smiling as you take a sip of your coffee. “I’m going to miss being able to run around without having to lug an extra four pounds of fabric behind me.” 

“Ya know, you could just wear some pants, you’ve got a choice.”

You grin patronizingly at him, propping your head on your chin and watching him finish the rest of his breakfast. “You don’t know city men very well, do you?”

“Glad for it,” he grumbles, distaste clear in his tone.

A laugh breaks through your chest, the first real one in a while. “I’m going to be marrying one, Arthur. I won’t have a choice in much of anything anymore.” You can tell he wants to object, tell you there’s always a choice. 

He’ll never truly understand what’s going to happen to you, though. You’re no longer human once you’re married. You’re cattle and property, meant to be bred and shown off. You accepted your fate a long while ago. And after you’re failed escape attempt, you’ve realized this is what you were always meant to be. There’s no point in fighting fate. 

“Don’t apologize or argue,” you tell him, no spite or bitterness in your tone, just the honest truth. “I don’t mind anymore, really. What place is there for me in this world, anyway? I can’t exactly take care of myself.”

“You did a damn good job yesterday,” he snaps back quickly. He doesn’t seem too keen on the way you’re talking about yourself. But you’re not lying. Yesterday was a wake-up call. If you let yourself get screwed over by a hillbilly that quickly then how were you ever going to make it on your own? In your defense, you were raised to be dependent, you never had a chance. 

“Sure, but that was a one-off incident. I’m not going to run again, Arthur. There’s no point. And there’s no point in fighting against the way things are, they’re never going to change for me.” You take in a deep breath, the easy mood ruined by your sincerity. 

“I’m just gonna wait by the horses.”

You slide out of the booth, leaving Arthur to stare pensively at his plate. You’ve nearly slipped through the door when Arthur calls out, “You should name her.” You pause at the doorway, glancing back at him. He’s settling the bill at the front and you walk back out to the horses. 

The mare picks her head up as you walk towards her, ears perked and tail flicking. “Hey, girl,” you run a hand over her muzzle, admiring the sleek silver of her coat. “I guess I should name you.”

You run a hand over her mane and swing yourself onto the saddle. “How ‘bout Bullet, it’s how I got you, anyway.” A dark joke, but it eases the macabre feeling hanging around you. 

Arthur walks out of the saloon, tucking his money away into his bag. He lifts himself onto Diablo, glancing over at you with a knowing glint. 

“Name her?”

You resent how smug he sounds. “Bullet,” you answer reluctantly. 

“Bullet?” He questions, tone incredulous. 

You grin at him, “It’s how I got her.” There’s a slightly stunned expression on his face before it slacks away into something more amused. 

He shakes his head and nudges Diablo forward, Bullet follows alongside him eagerly. “Clever,” he mutters.

“Not really,” you snort, running a hand over her neck lovingly. “But I think it works for her.”

“Your husband’s gonna have his hands full with you,” you know he means it in jest. The lightness of the conversation turns into something heavier. Realization sinks over both of you and the smiles slowly drop away. “I-”

“How much further to Strawberry, anyway?” You effectively cut off whatever train of thought he was going to follow, distracting you both from the truth. 

“Half a day,” he tells you, frowning when you refuse to meet his eye again. Half a day. That’s all you’ve got to enjoy the last bits of freedom you have. You’re gonna take your damn time getting there, that’s for sure. 

You slow down from the steady trot Arthur had led the horses into, easing Bullet into a slow walk. You’re slowly getting the hang of riding a horse. It’s easy when she’s so intuitive. By god, though, your ass is sore. 

Arthur shoots you a questioning glance at the slow pace and you shrug. “Might as well take the time I’ve got left.”

“You’re actin’ like you’re on death row,” he chuckles. 

“Aren’t I?” He falls silent and you don’t know what’s bothering him but you don’t have the energy to inquire. 

He’s slowing you down on purpose, he knows it and you know it. Neither of you says a damn thing about it but it’s bugging him. He shouldn’t be this bothered by a job. He knows how to separate himself from what he does. He just can’t this time. 

There’s something about you that glows. You’re sitting beside him on the peak of a hill, overlooking the roads below you, and laughing as you make up stories for the people that pass by. It’s a far cry from the beaten-down woman he’d seen at Crane’s house. 

Even after what happened yesterday, you somehow manage to seem happier. There’s nothing about it that makes him happy. This feels like the last goodbye of someone who knows they’re going soon. The last bout of happiness before they just give in. 

You’re not gaining your spark back, you’re just giving in to what you think is inevitable. But it doesn’t have to be inevitable. You could fight back you just refuse to. He’s sure growing up the way you have, you don’t think it's possible to stand up for yourself. 

But you don’t have to give in like this. You don’t have to roll over and let someone else dictate your life. Which is rich, coming from him. He’s practically Dutch’s lap dog now. Even when he disagrees he still follows along behind him. 

He shouldn’t even be thinking like this. He can’t criticize you for not standing up for yourself when he’s the one thing standing between you and freedom. “Not hungry?” You nod towards the uneaten meat on his knife. 

He shakes his head, plucking it off the blade and passing it to you. You give him an odd look before popping it in your mouth. “Ya know,” you mutter around a full mouth. You take a moment to swallow it down before smiling over at him. “I’ve grown up with private chefs my whole life, but there’s is something infinitely more satisfying about this.”

He takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair. He snorts at your comment, “I find that hard to believe.”

“No,” you shake your head, insistent, “I mean it. Being out here, hunting the game myself, I don’t know, it’s nice.” You shrug and lean back on your hands, gazing across the way at the trees and river. 

“You can always get a bow and go hunting.” He speaks to you like it's a cut-and-dry truth that you’re just not accepting. Your face screws up and you give him an annoyed glare. 

“No. I can’t,” you tell him again. Where your words were patient before, he can tell you’re growing irritated at how much he’s pushing this.

“Yes, you can,” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep yourself boxed up in some manor in the city. Get out, woman, do something with your life!” His voice echoes through the air and you flinch back from it, lips pulling down into a sneer. 

“You know, that’s really easy for you to say, Arthur. You have a goddamn choice. Sure, I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, little miss rich girl crying about being pampered.”

He lets out a rough sigh, “That’s not what I meant-”

You cut him off, getting to your feet and glaring down at him. “You got to grow up with a choice. What to do with your body, your life, your career. You get to have an education if you want it. Every goddamn door is open to you. You don’t get hated for not wanting to have a family. You get to choose. And as much as you insist I can too, you will never understand the position I am in.”

You kick dirt over the fire and head back towards Bullet. “It’s a double-edged sword, Arthur. Sure, my life might be comfortable, but it’s never really gonna be my life.” He stays there on the ground, too stunned to get up. 

You glare down at him, impatiently waiting for him to get a move on. This isn’t how he wants things to end. He doesn’t want you to go off thinking he’s just some ignorant fool. But he is, much as he denies it, he’s always been a fool. 

He should never have thought he could make a difference in your life. Not when he’s the one backing you into this corner. He could have helped you escape the very first night he saw you. But he was too selfish to let you go, now you’re both paying for it. 

He mounts Diablo and you both head back to the roads silently. You’re moving faster now, leaving him behind if he lingers in one area for too long. You’re too pissed off to enjoy the rest of your day and he hates that he ruined it for you. You, at the very least, deserved a slower journey towards your future. 

You’re in Strawberry before he’s ready, he’s sure you aren’t. “Hey, we could-”

“I think that’s him.” You cut him off before he says something stupid like spend another night in town before you go. He’ll miss you, he thinks. Odd, he’s known you such a short time but it’s been so different having someone beside him as he rides. It was nice, what he wished he and Mary could have had. 

Arthur follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh. Sure enough, some prim and proper ass is standing in front of the ticket station, foot tapping impatiently. He’s got a large bag beside him, gaze wandering around expectantly. He doesn’t doubt the man who looks like he’s got a five-foot stick up his ass is Mr. Crane’s associate. He’s got the same slimy glint.

You slide off Bullet and Arthur follows suit, taking the reigns of both horses and leading them towards the platform. The man’s eyes narrow in on you before lighting up. He calls out your name and it’s like a mask being dropped over your face. 

The spark is gone once more, a subdued and demure smile resting on your face as you wave at him. “I apologize for my dress,” you tell him as you walk up the steps. “Pants were more conducive to such a long ride.”

He takes your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles that makes Arthur roll his eyes. “No apologies necessary, I brought you a change of clothes. I figured you would be less than put together after such a journey. I’m only sorry I couldn’t accompany you.”

You scoff and nod along, “Okay,” you mutter, not believing a word of his bullshit. You take the bag from him and move towards the saloon to find a room to change in. They both watch you leave, though the other man with a much more devious glint in his eye. 

Arthur’s hands tighten on the reigns of the horses, anything to keep him from reaching for his revolver. He’s already getting a bad feeling about this. There’s nothing trustworthy about the man in front of him. 

“Mr. Finch,” he holds out his hand and Arthur gives it a distrusting look before reluctantly shaking. Finch attempts to squeeze the life out of his hand but Arthur can barely feel it. He tightens his own grip and revels in the way Finch’s face blanches. 

“Arthur Morgan.”

Mr. Finch looks him up and down in the same way Crane had. He sees a commodity, not a person. “I trust,” he drawls, “nothing unsavory happened.”

Arthur feels rage bubbling in his gut. The only damn thing he cares about is whether or not you’re “pure.” Not if you were okay or injured during the journey. If he told him that he’d punched you out for talking back Finch would just ask if you were bruised. 

“She’s fine,” Arthur grits out. 

“Oh, good, good. Glad everything went smoothly.” Finch has a way of talking he’s found most self-important men do. He draws everything he says out, and forces you to listen to him speak. Makes you pay attention so he can pretend he has power for a moment. 

His gaze darts behind Arthur and he turns just in time to see you slipping out of the saloon. The dress Finch has provided you is ridiculously large. It poofs out at the waist in a way that makes Arthur wonder how you’re going to fit into your seat. 

You look beyond uncomfortable. Grimacing as you join them again. You try and plaster a smile on but it’s a struggle. You look to Arthur, a finality on your face that makes him want to throw you over his shoulder and run. He’s doing this for the others, he reminds himself. They’ll be on a boat to Tahiti in a week. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan, for everything.” The smile you leave him with is real, if just barely. Something lurks under your words that Mr. Finch will never understand and Arthur knows it will drive him crazy. 

“Let’s go,” Finch grabs your hand, looping it through his arm and tugging you towards the doors of the station. 

“Wait!” Arthur calls out, feeling foolish when you both look back at him with perplexed expressions. “You’ll be wanting Bullet, won’t you?”

Mr. Finch answers for you with a condescending tone, “She won’t be needing a horse, thank you.” You give him a knowing smile, turning away and slipping through the doors of the station and onto the train. 

Arthur stays rooted where he is, something crawling up in his chest and rooting around restlessly. The whistle blows and the wheels start cranking slowly forward. Arthur just barely catches a glimpse of you through a window as the train chugs past. 

“Shit!” He hisses. He tugs himself up onto Diablo’s saddle and urges him after the train. He was born a fool, he’s always going to be a damn fool. But he’d have to be a complete moron to just let you go. 

Mr. Finch keeps a painfully tight grip on your elbow, jerking you through the passenger cars and practically throwing you into your seat. You land with a thud, your arm bouncing against the window painfully. You keep a stoic expression, trying not to let him break you so soon. 

He takes a seat beside you, straightening out his jacket and tugging on his tie. Something white flashes in his jacket pocket and you lean forward, perplexed when you realize what it is. “What is that?” You question, not quite believing your eyes. Finch glances down at the thick wad of cash in his jacket and grins. 

“Oh, this? Mr. Morgan must have forgotten to collect the rest of his payment.” He sends you a condescending smile and you flinch away in disgust. “He was too enamored with my fiancee to pay much attention, I’m afraid.”

“That’s his money,” you snap, the volume of your voice catching the attention of a few other passengers. Finch sends them apologetic smiles, making you seem like a mad woman. “He earned that!” You object, eyeing the money warily. 

His hand snakes out, gripping you tightly around the arm and dragging you towards him until your noses are nearly touching. You nearly gag at the smell of his cigar-infused breath. It’s not like when Arthur would smoke one, you didn’t mind that. But this was making you sick to your stomach. 

“Let's get a few things clear, I will not be dealing with an obstinate wife. You can either get yourself in order or I’ll do it for you.”

Your lips pull back in disgust and you jerk yourself out of his grip. He’s not as strong as he pretends to be and you’re not going to be scared into submission again. “I’m not your wife yet. My father still has time to pay.”

He laughs at you, spittle flying from your lips and sprinkling across your cheeks. “He has time to pay, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be getting you back, sweetheart.” Your eyes widen with the realization and you want to throw yourself off the side of the train. 

You never had any chance to get out of this situation. Mr. Crane was always in control of it all. To even think of having a hope of getting back home was foolish. To believe for a second that you were going to escape this had been utter idiocy. 

He sees the crestfallen expression and sinks into his seat with a satisfactory look on his face. He thinks you to be subdued. But now you’re nothing more than a cornered animal with no other choice of escape. You’ve got nothing left for you, nothing to hold onto. 

As much as you’d thought you’d bonded with Arthur, you were still nothing more than a job to him. You were nothing more than a commodity to be traded between men. You would never have a say over your life. 

You have nothing, you doubt you ever actually had anything left for you. You glance over at the man beside you and feel a cool dread blanket itself over you. Nothing left to lose. 

There’s a solid weight tucked into the bodice of your dress. Its cool metal has been warmed by your skin. Its handle curves around your ribs and it only has one bullet left. You reach down the front of your dress, fingers curling around the revolver you’d stolen from a dead man. 

Finch glowers at your inappropriate behavior “What are-” You pull the gun out, turning it on him. He jumps back in shock and throws his hands in the air on instinct. “Please-” you revel in his pathetic pleading only for a moment. Pulling the trigger a second time is surprisingly easy. The screams that ring out through the train car are less enjoyable. “Shit!” He cusses, hands coming up to try and staunch the flow of blood pouring from his stomach. 

You slip your hand into his blazer, stealing the money before he can object. You run out of the passenger car, leaping to the flat car with all the cargo. It will take a few minutes for them to catch onto what happened and figure out where you went. 

You don’t know what you’re going to do now. You’re stuck on a moving train, there’s nowhere for you to hide. You hadn’t thought when you’d shot him, you just wanted that smug look on his face to disappear. 

“Where is she?” You hear the guards shouting out your name, flipping over crates to find you. They’re still at the front of the train, but you don’t have long until they start moving back here. 

God, what have you done?

You just know, if you made it to that train station, you were never going to make it out. His men would be waiting there to transport you. You’d be watched every second of your life, you can’t do it again. You can’t be locked in a gilded cage, that’s not a life worth living. 

There’s no escape for you. Nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide. You glance over the left side of the train. There’s a slight dip into a deep ravine. The crashing water looks almost peaceful from up here. 

You don’t know if it would be a quick death but you know it would be merciful compared to what’s waiting for you at your last stop. You keep your eyes on the water, see yourself taking control of your life for the first time, and take a step up on the rail. 

Someone shouts your name from the right side of the train and you gasp, arms circling wildly as you almost go toppling over the edge. They shout your name again, panic laced in the tone. This doesn’t sound like Finch or any of the other guards. You whip around and find Arthur riding his horse beside the train. 

“What the hell are you doing, woman?” 

Your brows furrow in confusion and your eyes dart between him and the ravine. “Jumping! What the hell are you doing?”

His gaze narrows and he shouts to be heard over the rumble of the train tracks. “Stopping you from being a goddamn fool. Get over here!” You hear the guards getting closer as they storm down the rest of the train. 

You don’t have long to make a decision, you can already see his horse struggling to keep up with the speed of the train. There’s a bridge coming up in a moment, he won’t be able to go any further and they won’t be able to come after you. 

It’s a split-second decision, one that has you pushing off the railing of the car and rushing towards him. You don’t have time to doubt yourself or plan this out further, you take a running leap off the train, towards his outstretched arms. 

He barely catches you in time, jerking on the reigns of the horse and bringing him to a sudden stop before all three of you go tumbling into the water. Shots fire off on the train, but they’re gone before they can do any real damage. 

Your chest heaves as you dangle from his arms, fingers digging into his shirt desperately. Your heart is pounding so hard against your chest that you almost can’t hear what he’s saying, but you get the gist of it. 

“The hell were you thinking? Trying to jump off the damn train! You’re a fool, woman.” He tugs you onto the saddle the rest of the way. As much as he tries to sound angry you can feel his relief in the way he squeezes you close to him. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, head sinking into his neck and breathing in the familiar scent. 

He sighs, struggling between yelling at you more and just enjoying the fact that he got to you before you did something neither of you could recover from. “You’re welcome, just,” he pauses, holding you a little closer, “don’t be so damn stupid again.”

You laugh and it’s a little wet as tears start to pool in your eyes. “I’m not planning on it.” You sit up, easing away from him and glancing over your shoulder. You watch as the train grows smaller until you can only see a plume of smoke and nothing more. “What the hell are we going to do?”

He sighs and turns the horse around. You maneuver yourself around, facing forward and pushing back against him.  “I don’t know. Dutch ain’t gonna be happy about you comin’ back with me.” 

You bite your lip, a hundred different possibilities swirling through your head. You’ve never been able to make a choice before, faced with it, you’re overwhelmed with options. You can’t pick one so you blurt out the first coherent thought you have. 

“What if we don’t go back?”

Arthur stills behind you, “What?” His tone is low and filled with something you know means he’s ready to say no. 

“Just for a little while,” you rush the words out quickly, trying to fight for a chance to get him to listen. “We can send this to the camp,” you tug out the wad of cash you’d stolen from Finch and Arthur barks out a laugh. You feel his chest tremble behind you and it makes you grin. 

“Did you steal his money?”

“Your money, technically,” you correct, grinning over your shoulder at him. “Besides, he doesn’t need it anymore.” He gives you a concerned look but you just wave him off. “We can send the camp some money and go off on our own for a while.”

“I don’t know, kid.”

“Don’t call me that,” you interrupt, glaring at him. “It’ll only be for a little while, Arthur. Come on, I’m free for the first time in my life, enjoy it with me.”

He looks uncertain and you know it’s an odd notion to him, putting himself first instead of the camp or Dutch. You’re sure he’s never done it before. Breaking away from them instead of going about like the loyal soldier he is. 

“Just a little while?”

You nod, turning just enough to tuck the money in his pocket. “Just a little while,” you swear.

“John Marston!” You frown, turning away from the oven and glancing out the window. Arthur’s grinning by the gates of the horse pen, leaping over the wood, and walking out to greet someone. You abandon the stew, heading towards the door of your home. 

Outside are two horses, one with a woman and her son, and an abandoned one. The owner is currently bringing Arthur into a brief embrace, John, you presume. Arthur’s told you about him a bit. They weren’t always close but it was getting better before Arthur went away. 

Sometimes you feel bad, having dragged him away from everything he was familiar with. You meant it when you said you only wanted to be gone for a little while. You knew if you went back immediately there would be hell to pay with Dutch and you’d both be put to work. 

You’d be going from one owner to another. All you’d wanted was a few weeks on the road on your own. But a few weeks turned into six months and then a year, and it was Arthur telling you he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t stand what the gang was turning into. What Dutch was turning into. All you’d given him was an excuse to finally get out before it all blew up.

You walk down the steps of the home Arthur built, wiping your hands off on your apron. You give a brief wave to the woman you assume is Abigail. She waves back, slipping off the horse and helping Jack down. 

Arthur pulls away from John, turning towards you and motioning you forward. John gives you an apprehensive look. “Do I know you?”

Arthur gives him your name, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in closer. “That job Dutch got from Crane.” John’s face lights up with recognition and he smirks. 

“I see,” he shakes his head and gives Arthur a knowing look. “It’s always a woman with you, isn’t it?” You snort at how aggrieved Arthur looks. “Well,” John turns towards you and smiles, “nice to finally meet the woman that got him under control.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you smile lightly at him, pulling away from Arthur. “Are you going to be joining us for dinner?”

“No, he’s not,” Arthur answers at the same time John says, “I would love to.”

Arthur and John share a look you can’t understand. You glance past John and wave Abigail forward, “Come in, please. I’d enjoy the company.”

“Forgive my obstinate husband, he tends to linger where he ain’t wanted.” She brushes past him and you lead her inside your home. Leaving Arthur and John to bicker outside. Jack stays outside, smiling up at Arthur. You know he’s missed the boy, you’re sure he’s okay entertaining them for one night. 

Abigail helps you set the table while Arthur and John catch up over a bottle of whiskey. Arthur tried to pull out a cigar but you’d shut that down quick. He’d had a cough a little while ago and the doctor advised cutting down on tobacco if he wanted it to go away. You know it’s hard but you’re cracking down on how much he smokes. 

“We got the money you sent,” John’s telling Arthur as they come over to join you all at the table. Jack eagerly hops into the seat beside Arthur before you can snag it and you grin. “Dutch blew it all and wouldn’t tell us on what. He kept saying we still needed another score.”

John shakes his head and the distant look in his eyes makes your stomach churn. “You’re a lucky bastard you got out when you did, Arthur, truly.”

“Hosea?” Arthur questions and you grimace at the look on John’s face. You can see Arthur deflate as John shakes his head. 

“There was a bank robbery, Molly told the Pinkertons we were going to be there, he didn’t make it.”

Arthur’s hand clenches around the fork and you wish you could say something that would make him realize it’s not his fault. “I should have been there,” he mutters. 

“Wouldn’t have done anything, man. Hosea had given up in the end. We all had. It was so damn divided, the family was gone.”

“Still.” Arthur insists, glaring down at his plate like it had offended him. 

“No,” to your surprise it’s Abigail that snaps. “Dutch was gone and that bastard Micah just kept pushing him over the edge. The only thing you would have done is get yourself killed. You’re damn lucky Arthur Morgan.”

You’re sure he’ll still blame himself later. Reason a hundred times over that had he been there something would have been different. Even if it was him on the other end of the gun he’d be happier knowing someone else hadn’t died when it could have been him. You couldn’t stand that these self-sacrificing ideals Dutch had drilled into him were still present. 

But you know Abigail and John help ease the guilt slightly. It’s on Arthur to let it go entirely, though you doubt that will happen anytime soon. John picks up on the change in mood, he’s reluctant to let the night sour so soon. 

He turns towards you with a look that makes you feel like you need to prepare for trouble. “So you did all that to escape getting married. And then you marry this moron?” He motions towards Arthur and you can’t help but laugh. 

“John!” Abigail snaps but he only smiles at her. You can see the way she fights the twitch of her lips and it makes you smile in turn. 

You correct him, “We’re not technically married-”

“Might as well be,” Arthur argues, glaring at John. You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours and gently squeezing. You can’t help but laugh at him. 

“Yeah, we might as well be,” you agree. “But it was never about not wanting to be a wife. I just wanted to have a damn choice. That’s what I got out here. I can hunt or cook. Sew or go out and make some money. And it’s a lot nicer being a wife out in the country than it is in the city, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Here’s hoping,” Abigail mutters. She glances towards Arthur, “That’s why we’re out here. We got word from a few people that you might be lurking around here. John’s thinking of getting a house, really settling down.”

Arthur sighs, leaning back in his chair and glaring at John. “That’s why you’re here? You want a handout,” he accuses. 

“No!” John snaps. “Dammit, Arthur, why you always gotta assume the worst of me?”

“Because it’s usually true,” Arthur mutters. “If that’s not what you want then what is it?”

John purses his lips and lets out a spluttering breath. “A loan,” he lands on, struggling to find the right word. 

Arthur barks out a laugh, slapping his hand on the table and poking a knowing finger into John’s chest. “I knew it!”

John swats his hand away and glares. “Look, Morgan, I only need a little. Just to buy some animals, get started on the house.”

“What’d ya want Marston, my whole damn house?”

Abigail lands a gentle hand on your arm and nods to the porch. “They’ll be at it for a while.” You nod and leave the table, following her to the swing out back. She settles down on it with a sigh, gazing out at the trees that line your home. 

“You’ve got a nice life out here.”

You smile fondly, “I like to think so. We’re thinking about getting a few cows, maybe starting a proper ranch.”

Her face lights up at the idea and she laughs. “That’s what John wants. It’s unbelievable how similar they are, they’re too thick-headed to see it.”

You can still vaguely hear them bickering inside the house. You peer inside and see Jack sitting at the table, watching them both with an entranced expression. You can’t help but grin at the look on Arthur’s face. He’s laying into John but he looks happier than you’ve seen him in a while. 

You know he’s missing everybody, has been for a long time. Maybe if Abigail and John are close by he’ll have that sense of familiarity again. “The others,” you start, turning back to Abigail. “Charles and Sadie, what happened to everyone else?”

“A few of them are living good lives, some of them aren’t. Most of them are drifting, not ready to give up the outlaw life just yet.”

“It’s hard to watch the world change while you’re still stuck in the same spot.” You brush some hair out of your eyes and smile at Abigail. “Me and Arthur are gonna help you and John. But I’d like it if you were both close by. It would be nice to have someone familiar near us, we’re pretty lonely up here.”

She gives you a brief smile back, “I think that would be nice.”

John’s voice picks up from inside and you jump, “Oh that’s a load of bull-”

Abigail’s smile drops and she leans over your shoulder to shout, “Watch it!” at John. You laugh when you see the perturbed look on his face. She motions towards his son and Arthur gives John a smug look. 

“You gonna help him?” You ask Arthur as you settle into bed later. He opens his arms, pulling you into his embrace once you’re settled under the covers. 

“John?” You nod, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course I’m gonna help him. But there’s nothing wrong with jerking him around a little bit first.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, tucking yourself under his chin. You almost think he’s asleep but then he’s speaking up again. “We should really do it.”

You pull back, brows furrowed in confusion. “Do what?”

There’s a certain look in his eyes that causes something to swirl in your stomach. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, just an excited one, “Get married.”

You give him a bewildered look, shaking your head in disbelief. Nearly five years you’ve both been living out here and he’s never once mentioned getting married. You never thought you two actually needed it. You always knew what you were to each other, how much you meant to one another. 

You were each other’s salvation. There’s no telling what graves you would be laying in were it not for Dutch bringing you both together. You hadn’t thought he wanted to be married, he always told you he’d given those dreams up. “You really mean that?”

He shrugs like it’s the easiest decision in the world. “Might as well, right?” 

You shake your head, but there’s no fighting the way your lips curl up. “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.”

He nods, dipping his head down to press a gentle kiss on your temple. He treats you so gently, it makes you want to cry. But then he goes and says something ridiculous like, “Yeah, a fool for you,” and he makes you laugh. 

You tug him down, lips nearly touching his. “Yes,” you whisper, “I’ll marry you.” You were always scared of living a life like this. Being tied to one man for the rest of your time on earth. But he’s not some city man looking to make you into a pet. He lets you live, breathe, and be free. He’s a partner not a warden and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

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 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[joelscurls]

I wanna show you off

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 4.1k

summary: The women who live in your building aren't subtle in their hatred for you — or their affection for your boyfriend, Joel. You decide to set them straight.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, porn with plot, no outbreak, established relationship, implied age gap, horrible neighbors, general cattiness, all the ladies want Joel, alcohol consumption, fluff, explicit smut, possessive!reader, exhibitionism, dirty talk, oral (m receiving), facefucking, unprotected piv, creampie, one (1) spank, use of pet names (baby, angel, darlin', etc.), I think that's all? lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: idk what happened. I saw one too many tiktok edits set to the song agora hills by doja cat and blacked out. anyway, enjoy!

If it weren’t for your rent-controlled apartment with a perfect view of the downtown skyline, you would’ve moved out of your building by now.

Your neighbors don’t like you. You’re certain of it. You can tell by the way the ladies stick their noses up at you in the elevator and whisper to each other the second they think you’re out of earshot.

It had started, you suspect, because of your age. You’re a lot younger than all of the other residents here, your apartment left to you by your grandmother after she passed away.

The building is prime real estate, situated in the heart of one of the city’s most desirable neighborhoods. Most of the people who live here have done so for ten, twenty, even thirty years. And it seems that time has festered a sort of social hierarchy: one which places you at the very bottom.

You shouldn’t care. And you hadn’t, for a while. But their eyes have started to feel like daggers, pointed directly at you at all times, and you feel as if you can’t even enter the building without judgment.

You’re not a bad neighbor. You’re not. You’d learned through living in a dormitory in college how thin shared walls can be, and, as a result, the proper volume at which to keep your music; how you should always be cautious to not let your door slam closed on the way in; that you should never vacuum after eight pm or before eight am.

You never leave trash in the hallway, and you park your car only in your allotted spot, despite the fact that it’s the farthest away from the building.

Even so, the lack of weathering in your face makes them look at you like you’re less, like you’re a greedy little thing who has taken something she isn’t worthy of.

It’s the same way they look at you when they see you with your boyfriend, Joel, for the first time.

They leer when you walk into the foyer, hand-in-hand with an older man. He’s handsome, rugged, something out of Nicholas Sparks novel. And you’re you.

Joel thinks you’re being paranoid at first, says they couldn’t possibly hate such a sweet, friendly girl. The girl he loves so damn much. But it doesn’t take long for him to notice it too: the glares, the scoffs, the misplaced judgment — never set in his direction, only ever yours.

One Sunday afternoon, as he sits on your couch watching the Cowboys game with a sweating bottle of beer in his hand, you step out to grab your mail. You’re close to tears when you return, flinging the door open, envelopes slipping from your trembling fingers. 

He leaps up as soon as he catches sight of your face. Your expression is stuck somewhere between sadness and rage, bottom lip tucked between your teeth so firmly he worries you’ll draw blood.

“I hate them,” you sob as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his broad chest. You’re wetting his shirt, the one he just bought the other day. But he won’t let you lift your head. If anything, he holds you tighter.

“Wanna tell me what happened, darlin?” he asks, leading you toward the couch. You sit down together, your body still wrapped in his, and you groan.

“It’s stupid.” Your voice is muffled by cotton. He loosens his grip on you only enough to let you turn your face. “I was getting my mail, and they were down in the lobby,” you sniff. “The woman who lives right next door – the one with the outdated perm, and the one across the hall with the yippy little dog.”

“Mhm,” Joel soothes, running his thumb gently along the tense line of your jaw. “Did they say somethin’ to you?”

You huff. “No, not to me. They didn’t see me there.”

Their hushed voices still ring in your head like a fire alarm in need of new batteries: relentless, infuriating.

Don’t know what in the world a handsome gentleman like that is doing with a little girl like her. You’re tellin’ me. What a shame. Such a young thing – she can’t possibly know how to handle a man like that. He needs a woman his own age!

“They said I’m not good for you,” you weep. “That I’m too young. That I — I c-can’t be what you need.”

“Darlin,” Joel drawls. He fishes the tv remote off of the coffee table and flicks the screen off. Drops it somewhere next to him on the cushion. The apartment is noticeably quiet now, apart from your shaky breaths and the dull drone of an idling truck engine from the street below.

“You know I love you, right?” 

You sniff again. Nod. 

“I don’t give a shit if people think you’re too young for me,” he huffs. “You’re a grown woman. You give me everything I could possibly need and then some.”

“Yeah?” you squeak. You know deep down that Joel wouldn’t stay with you if he had any reservations about any aspect of your relationship. But after months of no reprieve from stinging glares and brash insults, you feel as if you’ve been broken down, reduced to an anxious, overwrought version of yourself. 

Joel repositions himself, sprawling back on the couch and pulling you with him so that you’re laying against him. “Yeah,” he repeats, stroking your hair. He tucks a loose strand behind your ear, away from your glassy eyes. “Those ladies can get their asses in line.” 

You laugh, then — a real, genuine laugh — the kind that Joel can somehow always pull out of you, even in the most inopportune of times.

You’re so grateful for him, for his innate ability to calm you down when it feels like the world is crumbling below your feet. Grateful that he’s yours.

You lift your head. Prop yourself up by the elbow on Joel’s thigh. Wipe away the lingering wet on your cheeks with a deep, settling breath. 

“Does it stroke your ego, having a fan club of women who wanna fuck you?”

He smirks. Pulls you closer to him with a hand cradling your face. 

“Maybe a little,” he whispers, his lips ghosting yours. “Does it stroke your ego, bein’ the only one who gets to fuck me?” 

And in truth, it does. You’re the only one who knows where he likes to be kissed, how he likes his cock stroked, how to make him cum embarrassingly quick with just your mouth.

You’ve learned him intimately, every inch of him.  Ruined him for any other woman.

So in a fucked up kind of way — it does.

“Yeah,” you admit. You suck his bottom lip into your mouth, silently reveling in the way he immediately moans, the way he bends to you.

“These all mine?” You bring a finger to his lips, sputter on a shaky exhale when he unexpectedly parts them and sucks the digit into his mouth.

“Mhm,” he hums around you, takes your free hand in his and guides it down his body, across the expanse of his torso, the plush of his belly, pausing when you reach his crotch. 

Your pulse quickens, then, a dull throb forming at the base of your neck. You extricate your finger from his mouth with a gentle pop.

“This too,” he whispers, canting his hips up toward the flat of your palm.

He’s half-hard, his clothed bulge pleading for attention. But he pulls your hand away quickly, not letting himself get carried away at the feeling of your fingers grazing him through denim. 

Instead, he re-situates it against his chest so that you can feel his heartbeat where it hammers under skin, against flesh and bone. “This is all yours too,” he says, voice so low it reverberates in your skull. 

“All of it — all of me. Don’t gotta worry your pretty little head with anythin’ anyone else has to say about the matter. Got it?”

His words are spoken with so much conviction that you have no choice but to believe them, to let them stick in your brain like anchors in sand: deep and immovable.

Yours, yours, yours. 

And nobody else’s.

“Yeah,” you smile into the column of his neck, inhaling his scent: mostly him, but with notes of you. 

“Got it.”

It’s two weeks later when she makes a move on him: the woman with the perm. Joel is taken aback by her boldness, with you just a few feet away, digging your key into the lock of your mailbox. 

“You must work with your hands,” she purrs, grabbing one of his wrists and examining his calloused fingers with such little integrity, his mouth actually slips open at the unabashedness of it all. 

“Uh-”

“I’m Sheila,” she hums, raking her fingers through tight, blonde curls. “And you are?”

“Joel,” he grunts noncommittally. Wrenches his arm back. He doesn’t miss the way her eyebrows twitch in offense. 

But she’s insatiable, this woman. She bounces back like a rubber band, not-so-subtly pushing her breasts together, the zip of her sweatshirt slipping down an inch and her mouth curving into a salacious grin.

You just about stop dead in your tracks when you round the corner to the lobby, junk mail in hand, and see her, her body turned towards Joel’s, chest pushed out and hip popped. She has a bedazzled tote bag full of groceries slung over her shoulder, a head of leafy greens poking out the top.

“Hi neighbor!” she smiles mockingly at you, all lipstick-stained teeth, when you sidle up to Joel. “I was just telling your friend here what nice, strong arms he has.” She’s not looking at you, eyes locked firmly on Joel’s biceps, nearly drooling at the sight of him. 

Heat spools behind your ears, red-hot.

“Not her friend,” Joel corrects before you can. “‘M her boyfriend.”

“Oh,” she says. “Boyfriend.” Her lips wrap loosely around the word, like it’s some fanciful thing. “You’re too old to be someone’s boyfriend.” 

Joel takes a step away from her, closer to you, and splays a steadying hand across your back. “Man-friend, then.” 

You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because this entire conversation is fucking awkward. 

Sheila pays you no attention.

“Well,” she sighs, overtly staring at the exposed skin of Joel’s chest, where the top two buttons of his flannel are undone, “Joel, if you’re ever lookin’ for a good meal, I’m just next door.” She flits her eyes up to his and smirks. “Know a big man like you has gotta eat.”

Your vision blurs scarlet. 

Joel is equally as infuriated. The disrespect of this woman, to so openly flirt with him in front of you. His fists ball tightly at his sides. 

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he gruffs. “Anyway, nice to meet ya ma’am-“

“Sheila,” she reminds him. 

“Sheila,” he repeats, only to appease her. He turns to you, squeezing your waist affectionately. “We should probably get goin’, right sweetheart?”

You’re still fuming, barely able to register Joel’s voice next to you through the thick haze of pure fury clouding your mind, but you manage to nod, spit out a hurried yeah.

And with that, Joel is turning on his heels, pulling you with him toward the elevators. You don’t dare look back at her, but you can feel her eyes boring a hole in the back of your head. 

Her footfall fades into the mailroom and you breathe a minuscule sigh of relief. At least she’s out of your sight.

“Please just move in with me,” Joel begs when you’re finally behind closed metal doors, the inspection plaque situated above the buttons suddenly extremely interesting as you try to focus on not thinking about setting this woman’s apartment on fire.

You’ve talked about living together a few times. It’s just — you’ve never considered it so seriously until right now. 

“I can’t let them win,” you mutter, agitated. 

You hate how they’ve made you feel, like you’re some helpless animal tucked in the corner, hiding from them. Just waiting for the next ambush. 

With the passing of each floor, your anger simmers, bubbles into a silent rage in your stomach, one which threatens to boil over at the next underestimation of Joel’s devotion to you. You need to make it known, once and for all, that he’s yours. 

Words from your grandmother play on a loop in your head, ones she repeated to you often when you were a child: if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. 

And then you have a thought — a devious thought — maybe you don’t have to say anything to get your point across. Not to them, anyway.

Your mouth is on Joel the second you’re back inside the four walls of your own apartment, slotting against his pulse point and sucking a desperate bruise there.

He’s not expecting it — why would he be? You’ve just been seething the entire elevator ride up to your floor, the entire walk down the long, winding hallway to your unit. He’d practically been able to see the steam billowing from your ears. 

So the switch-up is more than a bit dizzying, to say the least.

“Whoa, darlin’,” he pants, his large hands draping over your shoulders. “What are you-”

“Joel.” Your voice is stern; it demands his attention. “Do you trust me?” 

Your hand trails down his body languidly, in a straight line to the waistband of his jeans. And fuck, of course he trusts you — more than anyone. But this is wrong, fucked up, for you to make him feel good when you’ve been made to feel so small these past few minutes. 

Still, his cock doesn’t get the memo, twitching in his jeans as you place another open-mouthed kiss on the underside of his jaw, your fingers beginning to fiddle with his belt buckle. 

You give him no choice with the way you’re touching him, the way you’re looking at him when you pull back, all pleading eyes and parted mouth, but to resign all protest. He’ll give you the world, and if right now you want to use his body to blow off some steam, who is he to complain about it?

“Yeah baby, of course,” he breathes. “What do you need?”

You smirk at him audaciously, tongue smoothing over your teeth. “Need you to be loud,” you purr. Your voice is so innocent in juxtaposition to the words you spew. It sends a chill down the column of his spine. “Let them know who makes you feel good.” 

He nearly cums in his pants untouched, grasps at the fabric of your shirt with clumsy hands and nods. “Fuck, okay.”

His belt falls to the floor with a clang.

He lets you take control, then. Lets you mark him with your tongue and your teeth, lets you back him to the door with deft fingers working his shirt buttons open before sinking to your knees in front of him, freeing his hardening cock from the confines of his jeans and boxers.

It’s already weeping for you when you pull it out, precum beading at the tip. He’s so big, growing heavier in your hand with each passing second, and you lose yourself for a moment, hypnotized by him.

“Always so eager to please me, aren’t you, pretty girl?” Joel’s voice pulls you back to earth, soft and adoring.

“Louder,” you remind him. Plant a kiss right over top of his leaking slit.

“Fuck,” he hisses through his teeth. One of his hands flies to the crown of your head, anchoring himself with fingers in your hair. “Dirty fucking girl.” 

His voice fills the entranceway, confident and filthy. 

“Mmm,” you hum approvingly.

“Yeah? You want me to tell ‘em? Tell ‘em you’re making my cock drool for you? That nobody — shit-” You enclose your lips around his tip, suckling on it as your fingers wrap around the base of his length and you begin to stroke him lazily. “-that nobody has ever made me feel this good?” 

Footsteps echo down the hallway and the sound makes you reflexively pause, your hand stiling on Joel’s cock. It’s followed by the jingling of metal, the click of a key in a lock, the opening and closing of a door — all close enough that you can pinpoint the source, can tell where exactly it’s coming from. 

Sheila is home. 

Perfect.

It’s probably worrying how excited it makes you, the prospect of her hearing, of her sitting alone in her apartment, at her empty dining table, and listening to Joel fall apart at your hands. Maybe they’ve driven you to and over the edge of sanity with their words, her most of all. Regardless, you can’t help the way it makes your cunt flutter around nothing. 

You lick a slow stripe up the underside of Joel’s cock, starting just above his balls and dragging the flat of your tongue up, up, up to his tip. His breath shudders, his grip on your hair tightening, and the subtle sting at the center of your scalp gives you another idea. 

“Do you wanna fuck my face, Joel?” 

“Do I wanna — fuck — you’re gonna kill me, angel.” 

“Go ahead,” you encourage, unhinging your jaw as wide as it can go, letting your tongue droop over your bottom lip. 

Saliva pools in your waiting mouth and Joel groans at the sight of you, so malleable for him, begging to be used. 

“You sure?” 

It’s not that he doesn’t think you can handle it. He knows you can. You’ve taken him down your throat more times than he can count. Always so fucking eager to please him, you are — just one of the many reasons he feels so goddamn lucky, so infuriated that anyone would think otherwise. 

But still, he can’t help but worry that he’ll hurt you. 

You nod, eyes locked on him, confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt that you want this. He nods back, beginning to feed his cock into your mouth, easing it in slowly and halting when his head hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag.

You don’t pull away, don’t show any indication of displeasure. In fact, you dig your fingers into the meat of his thighs, bearing down on him as you push forward. Mascara tears stain your cheeks as you choke on him, laser-focused on relaxing your throat so that you can accommodate more of his length. 

Joel pulls back, retreating entirely before pushing in again. He slowly increases his pace, your eyes hooded, so doelike and innocent, as his cockhead bruises your larynx. 

The sounds he’s pulling from your mouth are absurdly lewd: muffled gags and frantic inhales of breath. And then there’s him, moaning wildly, not sure if he’d be able to shut up even if he needed to be quiet. Your mouth is good, too fucking good and he’s going to — fuck, he’s going to cum if you don’t stop. 

He pulls out abruptly, a string of drool and precum tethering the tip of his cock to your swollen bottom lip. You’re panting, coughing, still bracing yourself against his legs when you fucking smile up at him. 

“Christ,” he says. “Fuckin’ angel, you are. Mouth feels like goddamn heaven.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I need to cum in that perfect little cunt,” he breathes, pulling a strangled moan from the back of your rawed throat. 

He helps you up, spins you around to face the door. You brace both hands on the wood, humming as he pulls your pants down to your knees. His breath is on the back of your neck, trailing up to the shell of your ear with one whisper just for you, because he can’t help it. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?” 

You shiver, responding with a tilt of your head, inviting him in with a needy little mewl. He cradles your face in one of his large hands, the other rubbing over the curve of your ass as he kisses you passionately, tasting himself on your tongue.

The hand on your ass trails lower as he deepens the kiss, two fingers pressing against your clothed seam. You’ve all but soaked through the fabric, wet cotton molding to his knuckles as he caresses them along your pussy before pulling your panties down in one swift motion.

You whine into the kiss, desperate and dripping for him. “Please,” you breathe against his lips. “I’ll make you feel so good, I promise.”

“Know you will,” he coos, mouth parting from yours as he straightens out and lines himself up with your entrance. You arch your back, rocking onto the balls of your feet as he teases you with the tip.

His cock is so thick when it finally notches into you. It’s always so devastatingly thick, no matter how wet you are for him. The stretch stings, a jolt of warm pain coursing through your walls as he stills halfway in. 

“You okay?” he asks, one hand resting at the small of your back, the other on your hip, fingers gripping to you only tight enough to hold you in place.

“Yes, fuck — yes,” you whine. “Need you to fuck me, Joel.”

“I’m goin’ to baby, don’t worry,” 'he promises, pushing in another splitting inch. “Pussy’s so goddamn tight, ‘ts suckin’ me right in.”

It feels like hours pass with Joel’s cock motionless inside your aching cunt, his warm breath fanning across your back as he focuses on not cumming. You’re whimpering, begging under the weight of his body, to please just fucking move.

When he finally obliges you, pulling all the way out and then bottoming out in one deep thrust, it nearly punches the air out of your chest. You scrabble for purchase on the door, fingernails scraping against chipped paint. “F-uucckk,” you moan, eyes rolling back in your head as he sets a dizzying pace.

The sound of his balls slapping against the back of your thighs is enough to attract attention on its own, the loud smacksmacksmack going straight to your cunt. Joel growls behind you, driving into you even harder, the tip of his cock brushing against your g-spot. 

“Oh, shit,” you cry. Your pussy inadvertently squeezes him and he curses at your back, low and deep. 

“Not going to last if you keep doin’ that,” he warns. “Cunt is too fuckin’ good. Best I’ve ever — uuuhh — had.”

He’s not just saying it for show. It’s true. You know it is, too. He’s told you before, both under the influence of your pussy and not. Waited too many goddamn years to feel like this, he’d said once.

“It’s — fuck, it’s fine Joel,” you mutter. “I’m close too, just keep going, right there.”

A door across the hall creaks open. A pair of footsteps patter across tile. 

Do you hear that?  Yeah; what is that noise?

Joel laughs darkly behind you, snaps his hips up, forcing a guttural moan out of you. 

“Think they caught us, darlin’,” he says. “Caught you takin’ my cock like you’re fuckin’ made to.”

Oh my word!

Joel is unrelenting, pounding into you despite the voices right outside your apartment, and you fear for a moment that you’ve created a monster. One of his hands leaves its place on your waist, cracks down on the center of your asscheek with a slap, the flesh recoiling under his palm and you gasp. 

The feeling travels between your legs, straight to your neglected clit. It pulsates under the hood with every pass of Joel’s cock over your g-spot, and you feel yourself hurtling toward the edge dangerously fast. 

If these people don’t leave, they’re going to hear you cum. Do you want them to hear you cum? Yeah, you think, clit jumping again at the thought, I think I fucking do.

“Joel, fuck-”

“You gonna cum?” he goads. “Yeah, can feel you squeezin’ me — you’re gonna cum, aren’t ya?”

This is vulgar!  We should file a noise complaint. C’mon.

His hand snakes around your front then, finds your throbbing bud, and with a few passes of his calloused fingertips, you’re gone, vision whiting out and all noise around you muted. 

Joel keeps you upright between him and the door, his grip on you tightening as your muscles slacken. He follows closely behind, cumming inside you with a carnal noise from the back of his throat, rope after rope of his spend filling your cunt. 

He pulls out with a grunt, immediately collapsing on the floor. Without his support, you topple over too, falling onto his lap with a satiated giggle. 

A banging comes from the other side of the wall then, shaking your kitchen cabinets a few feet away, the clanging of glassware jolting you.

Keep it down next time! I don’t need to hear that!

And then you’re laughing like teenagers, Joel pulling you in for a sloppy kiss, all tongues and teeth. 

“Think they’re really gonna make a noise complaint?” Joel asks when you finally come up for air. 

“I dunno,” you smile. “Does your offer still stand — for me to move in with you?” 

“Always,” he vows, forehead resting against yours.

end notes: ty for reading! pls consider commenting or reblogging if you enjoyed <3

[logaenhowlett]

hi arya :3

any thoughts on cowboy!logan?

plenty. i’ve got plenty of thoughts. you’re gonna have to restrain me from this motherfucker. 18+ only.

— COWBOY!LOGAN HCs

Cowboy!Logan reigns terror over your heart.

The first time he saunters into the saloon you work at, he fixes you with those piercing eyes and purrs, "Now, darlin', what's a pretty thing like you doin' behind this bar? Should be dancin' with me, makin' all the other fellas jealous."

Whiskey? He never orders it. Every time, it falls from his lips as a suggestion, like it's a shared indulgence between the two of you. "A lil' somethin' to take the edge off a long day, wouldn't you say, sweetheart?"

Soon enough, you realise that he could charm the spurs off a rattlesnake if he so desires.

As he becomes a regular, all the glassware behind the counters starts looking a little too shiny since you're polishing them with the furious energy of a woman trying to ignore a wildfire—as if you could erase the memory of his last wink with enough elbow grease.

Ridiculous.

And he's got this lazy drawl, as though time spins between his fingers, where every word is a carefully placed lasso meant to reel you in.

Despite your better judgment, you find yourself anticipating Logan's arrival after each sunset. A fact you'd rather swallow a cactus than ever admit.

Devilishly clever, that man. Taken to accidentally dropping poker chips near your feet, just to watch you bend down and retrieve them. Leaving little sketches on napkins, rough caricatures of other patrons. Or sometimes, a remarkably detailed portrait of you minding your business.

Those stay tucked in your pockets for a while until your bedside drawer becomes their new home.

One night, he teaches you how to spin a coin on your knuckles, the brim of his worn Stetson tilted low, making you wonder if the slight pressure of his thigh against yours is part of the lesson or a happy accident. "Now, imagine that was a ring... wearin' it on the wrong hand, of course, but I reckon I could fix that."

And somehow, even though you could practically hear the ghostly whispers of every woman he's ever charmed, foolishly, your heart still does a little two-step.

As thunder rolls, so does the poetry from his lips. A small leather-bound volume from which he recites verses of silken touches and midnight trysts.

Whe he finishes, calloused fingers lift your chin slightly. "They say that thunder's the sound of the sky fallin' in love. And look at that... it's fallin' for you tonight, just like I am."

A kiss, not rushed, but a slow burn. Vaguely stirs memories of bourbon sipped by a campfire. Smokey, yet mischievously sweet, his lips part yours with a gentle demand. "Tell me somethin', sweet girl," he murmurs. "You ever ride a cowboy? 'Cause I'm thinkin' we find ourselves a quiet corner, and I'll show you a thing or two 'bout holdin' on real tight."

And in two shakes of a lamb's tail, Logan carries you to the backroom, away from all the raucous and the ruffians. He slides the bolt home, the click deafening in the suddenly small space. Only a single lantern to witness your sins, a rough wooden table your makeshift altar.

A lasso, strong and supple, twists around his palm. "Reckon you got a taste for the finer things. Right, darlin'?" He ties the knot, drawing your wrists closer, snug against your rear. Not in a harsh bind, but a tender restraint. "Just enough... to keep you entertained."

Loosened buttons and hiked-up skirts aside, his hand snakes between your legs, grazing your clit as he stretches you six ways to Sunday.

"Fallin' apart so soon, sugar?" Logan clicks his tongue thrice, and your hips instinctively buck. "Well, ain't that somethin'?" Eyes wide from genuine surprise. A whistle, cocky and clear, hits your cheek. "You're takin' to this faster than my prize-winnin' mare, and she's been broke in proper. Guess you're a natural, darlin'. Or maybe," he whispers, hot against your ear, "you just know how to please your cowboy."

A loaded six-shooter springs up as his jeans fall open, teasing your cunt with his slick, glistening head. No more can his patience bear the force of his desire.

Thrust after thrust, you wither from the glorious onslaught. There's a wild need to touch him, toss the hat and tangle your fingers in his hair, feel the rippling muscles he'd so gracefully shown glimpses of. Only the rope makes it agonisingly impossible.

Soft whines—which he takes the utmost pride in provoking—turn into ragged gasps. As your cunt clenches around him, milking him dry, Logan spills inside you with shallow grunts. "Sweet mercy," he chuckles, kissing you something stupid. "Now, just what am I gonna do with you, doll? Makin' a fella like me consider settlin' down."

Dramatic, in the way he sighs, Logan curls his arms around you. "Or, we could just elope. Less fuss that way."

Gently, he unties the lasso, soothing the faint red marks along your wrists. "Sleep tight, gorgeous. And dream of me."

Yet, he's the reason you have trouble sleeping at all.

so, i got majorly carried away with cowboy!logan. very tempted to turn this into a proper fic.

[utterlyazriel]

this ribbon of blood that ties us together

a/n: i luv ignoring my wips and going feral and emerging from a doc 48 hours with this word count: 6.3k synopsis: Once upon a time, a high-society girl, you were to be wed. Two years on, you live a much different life alongside Arthur Morgan, an outlaw life, despite your squeamishness to blood, killing, and the like. But when the past won't stay buried, you learn just how far you'll go to protect the man you love. hurt/comfort, mutual pining, friends to lovers, period-typical sexism & canon-typical violence

By all accounts, according to Arthur, the two of you should not be friends.

Not that you weren’t lovely company! And nor was it that you couldn’t stand his long, sullen silences, even if he had trouble believing you were enjoying yourself, just sitting by him.

But there was a clear difference between you — one that Arthur felt sorely.

He hadn’t wanted to call you innocent, ‘cos you weren’t the naive type and you weren't stupid neither. But for running with a gang of outlaws? Your hands were remarkably clean.

See, you hadn’t killed a thing, ever: man or beast.

You got squeamish if you were on cooking duty when Pearson was butchering up the latest hunt, eyes hastily averted. You had pouted all day when John tread on a butterfly, even if it was entirely by accident. You passed off darning shirts to Tilly if they were too blood-soaked, nausea evident on your face.

Well, passed off is the wrong wording. More like, tried to sew without looking at your hands til Tilly took pity and offered to switch with you.

You weren't naive, you just didn't like to see things die. Not an awful hill to die on, Arthur had to agree. Neither did he in most cases.

Micah liked to grouse that you were definitely not cut out for gang life—said with a predatory curl of his lip, eyes shining with malicious intent. Probably was dreaming up all those ways to frighten you, or ruin your "innocence", just for the hell of seeing you shriek.

But Micah was a bad man. You knew that.

It’s why Arthur didn’t understand why the hell you tolerated him.

Watching you over the fire, the air bending in the heat, Arthur relents with a sigh. You did much more than tolerate him. If he wasn’t feeling so sour-faced, he probably go as far as to say you liked him, good and proper.

Besides, he could admit he was a better man than Micah; even if only in the faintest of ways.

He killed just as much. He’s beat men to death with his bare hands, blood flying and bones crunching. He doesn’t hesitate to send a bullet into any unlucky bastard getting between him and the next score for the gang.

Arthur knows feeling guilty doesn’t absolve him of nothin’.

At least he helped people too. Stopped when a lonely straggler needed a ride, retrieved stolen bags, and hunted down herbs and flowers. He enjoyed being the good thing riding into town, even if at time it took a hell of a lotta patience.

That was something he had, that Micah did not.

It just wasn’t enough for Arthur to understand why you might care for him.

But Arthur Morgan is not one to look the gift horse in the mouth and so despite how unlikely it should be, the two of you were friends.

It means being greeted in the early morning with a cup of coffee, the cup pressed into his hand before he’s even wiped the sleep from his eyes. You don’t linger, not any longer than you need to make sure he’s not gonna drop the hot mug.

The first time you had offered it, Arthur had been so surprised he had nearly dropped it.

You had laughed, hands darting out to steady the cup, and looked up at him through your lashes. “Hold tight, cowboy. That’s important stuff in there.”

Arthur had wondered then if this was what it was like to be struck by lightning. Each atom of his body fizzed, coming alive with a hum.

He had opened his mouth, then closed it, uncharacteristically flustered by the gesture.

You had laughed again, softer this time. Arthur finally reined himself in and tipped his hat in appreciation—mainly to hide the colour on his cheeks.

“Thank you kindly, miss.”

“You’re very welcome, Mister Morgan.” You had mused, amusement in your smile. Then you departed, other chores calling your name, with nothing more than a smile thrown over your shoulder.

For him, your friendship means finding the little gifts of the world to bring back. He hadn’t thought too much of it before, passing through homesteads and general stores with only fleeting glances.

However, after a week of hand-delivered cups of coffee, Arthur had begun to hunt for something of equal calibre he could give in return.

Several flowers sat in his tent, wilting and drying in the sun, in the grasp of a man too unsure of himself to gift them. He bought sweets, an extra chocolate bar in his satchel, before it was eaten in gnawing worry of what you’d think.

He was a brute. Trying to gift you nice things from his violent hands was downright laughable.

It wasn’t until he found a hair-pin, silver and slender with a delicate flower atop it, did Arthur manage to finally give back. He’d bought it before he could chicken out and once he had it, he thought it would be far stranger to keep it than to gift it.

You liked wearing flowers in your hair. That had been why Arthur picked them for you—but this, you could wear always, without it wilting.

He’d handed it over as you had passed him his morning coffee, pressing it into your palm as nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he hid his smile behind his coffee at your delighted gasp, your joy infectious and unmistakable.

You had thanked him profusely, for the first time not calling him Mister Morgan, but instead Arthur. His name had never sounded sweeter than falling from your lips

And that there… that was the one other, really good reason that you and him shouldn’t be friends.

Because as sure as the sun rose every morning, Arthur Morgan rose with it, undeniably in love with you.

—

You had been engaged once before.

Not by choice—an important distinction you hold fast to. Even if Karen likes to make passing jokes about you being a woman already spoken for, you’re thankful when Abigail quickly shoots her down with a piercing glare.

There is, after all, only one real reason a woman like you ends up on the run.

Rufus Hugo is your particular reason. A man up to his neck in wealth, pilfering the land for oil, and, as last you knew, looking for a fourth wife.

You’d once thought him unlucky, your poor fiancé.

How is it one man can be followed by such tragedy? Three young wives, in the space of a couple years, each found violated and slaughtered in the back alleys of Saint Denis, red smiles cut into their throats.

You’d once been a fool.

The papers and Sheriff had to be under his thumb, considering the blind eye and frilly stories they turned out. The rumours told a different, darker tale — ones that fell on deaf ears, too twisted up in your own plastic assurances.

Your father wouldn’t have organised this if he knew. And— and he couldn’t know, because it simply couldn’t be true.

Rufus treated you like a jewel, plying you with expensive gifts and decadent clothing, more than you’d ever had before.

When the nag in your gut didn’t leave, he had coaxed it out of you — the fear of some maniacal killer, out for the blood of Mister Hugo’s betrothed — and then he assured you with a feline smile of a wolf.

No one’s going to lay a hand on you, treasure. The only man who gets to touch you is me.

Adoring at the time.

Stomach-churning in hindsight.

You’d overheard entirely by accident, a fact that makes your heart skip stutter if you think about it too long.

Pure luck saved your life. Pure chance that you’d overheard them, wandering the halls at one of the many parties held in the honour of your engagement.

His nasty habit revealed to you in a manner of words, floating out the keyhole.

His sickening tone, lusty and humorous at once, you heard him tell the other men at the party how there was nothing better than how tight their cunts had got when he dragged the blade across their jugular.

Your stomach had plummeted. Bile crawled thickly up your throat.

The version of the world you knew contorted painfully, upside down and suddenly all wrong.

And like the vicious pain of stepping into a bear trap, the hinges of it sweeping up with sharpened blades, you knew if you stayed that you would undoubtedly be next.

You ran.

With nothing but the clothes on your back, frenzied like an animal being cornered, you ran. It was thankful you managed any coherent ideas as you tore down the stairs, pushing through the party, uncaring of the cries that followed you — but stealing a horse was probably the only reason you survived.

Though you sparsely knew how to ride it, you rode for two long, hard days before exhaustion caught up.

No amount of distance felt safe enough to slide off your dead-tired horse but you were given no choice. Your stomach ached with the growl of hunger and delirium had begun to creep in from your lack of sleep.

You were parched beyond relief and still in your god forsaken party dress, when you let your horse slow to a stop in a shallow river.

Then you’d fallen off in one spineless lump.

Caught somewhere between physical exhaustion and sleep, the freezing water had been quite the wake-up. More so when you surfaced, spluttering, and there was a man standing before you — muttering something about a strange damn woman.

It was the very first night you laid your eyes upon Arthur Morgan—soon after which, you promptly fainted from exhaustion.

The same night you disappeared from Saint Denis — becoming a ghost before you were doomed to become one at the hands on your to-be husband — you were reinvented in the warmth of a gang on the run.

—

Two years on, you stop wondering if Rufus Hugo still hunts for his fourth bride.

There would have been search parties for you, you’re sure of it. Even if half the party could attest to you fleeing of your own accord, a rich man doesn’t give up his prizes so easily.

But somewhere along the way, you’re not sure when, you stopped looking over your shoulder. You no longer tensed at every new, unfamiliar figure on the horizon, certain it was your past crawling back.

You’re not sure when—but you sure as hell know why.

Sliding off his horse in one fluid motion, Arthur hitches the reins on the post out front the general store with a grunt.

It’s a blazing day in Rhodes, the desert sun overhead. A mirage pools in the distance, along the main road. There’s little wind to cool you, just the buzz of flies around the horses.

It’s just you and Arthur travelling today.

An unnecessary journey for the sake of enjoying each other’s company; under the guise of camp work, of course.

You two are friends. Arthur kept his distance from most gang members, happier on the outside of the circle, which you knew.

It meant that when you got these moments — Arthur inviting you along for a journey to a town, the myriad of gifts he seemed to find for you — you couldn’t help but… hope.

You steal a glance at the cowboy, drinking in his rugged profile. He’s due for a shave, his beard a little longer than you know he prefers, but you gladly enjoy the sight.

Men in the city were groomed and clean-shaven. There’s something much more real about the ruggedness of Arthur’s appearance, his blue eyes flashing your way from beneath his hat. You catch the hint of his smile too.

Watching him subtly, he takes a moment to coo his praise to his mare, Hypatia. She nickers affectionately, searching for a treat that he dotingly gives. His rough voice whispers lowly of how he spoils her, even as he brushes her neck gently.

Sometimes, you really think Arthur likes horses more than he likes people.

It doesn’t bother you—how could it? How could you feel anything but soft-hearted when you see him dote on his horse, all his corners softened?

Besides, you think it’s a good show of character.

You’ve heard how he talks to himself sometimes, self-deprecating mutterings of how he’s a bad man, unworthy of your kindness.

But you’ve met worse men before.

Arthur may have killed, but never senselessly. Never for pleasure.

“I think,” Arthur says, his southern drawl thick. He tips his hat to the general store ahead of you both. “The spices will be second floor.”

Can’t hunt, can’t kill, can’t thieve — but god, can you cook.

It had been nice to have something to bring to the gang, considering your general squeamishness. Arthur decided long ago it was worth heading further south for the better spices closer to the city.

“I gots to pick up some more ammo, but I’ll meet ya in there.” His gaze finds the gun store across the street before tracking back to yours. He checks, “That alright?”

You nod to him, as your own mare butts your shoulder gently, making you laugh.

“Yeah, that’s alright, Arthur.” You affirm, reaching back to give her a pat. The sweet smile you wear is equal parts for her as it is for the cowboy before you.

“See you in a minute,” you say. Arthur nods, boots kicking up the red dirt as he begins to make his way down the main street.

The worn steps of the general store creek underfoot as you make your way up them, already mentally flicking through what you’d wanted to buy.

Salt, oregano, thyme… maybe some cumin, knowing how much Arthur seems to like it. Nodding politely to the shopkeeper, you head for the second story stairs — missing the flash of someone familiar through the window, peering in.

These wooden stairs are far less worn than those outside, but the traces of countless boots are evident all the same. Hand on the railing, you ascend slow, mind wandering off easily.

It’s venison for dinner, if you aren’t mistaken, from the latest hunt Charles brought in. Maybe tonight you’ll make convince Pearson to make the stew your way—spiced heavily and just the way Arthur likes it. (He hasn’t told you that half the reason is because it’s you making it.)

You approach the lined shelves with a hum, eyes dancing from colourful tin to colourful tin. Spotting your first target, a trusty tin of salt, you miss the creek of the floorboards behind you as you reach for it.

“Treasure.”

Your hand falters, fingers outstretched, halted in the place. There’s the unmistakable heat of a body behind you— but even so, the scrape of a knife leaving its sheathe confirms it.

A shuddering exhale forces from your mouth as the knife is suddenly beneath your chin, hovered above your throat. You lock in place, hand still held out. A hurricane of harrowing dread howls through you.

It couldn’t… it couldn’t be him.

No way could he have found you now, after years of your disappearance — no way was he still fucking looking for you.

The well of horror in your chest caves in, growing like a sinkhole, as your mind repeats the same word over and over: no, no, no, no, no.

The blade moves up, the cool edge of it pressing to your chin. You inhale sharply and feel a tremble start to take your body as your face is forcibly turned, pulling your gaze to a sickeningly familiar face.

“My, my,” Rufus croons. “My little bride to-be. Been lookin' for you a long time.”

Your nose wrinkles at the title, one you’d renounced the minute you'd fled, all those months ago. His dark eyes narrow at the motion and travel to your outstretched left hand, eyeing it with a glint.

“No ring.” He tuts, letting the knife fall back against your throat and resting it there.

You snatch your hand back in, hands flying to his arm and pulling with all your might—a fruitless battle against his strength. All it earns you is the sharp edge of the blade pressing further into your skin and you stop moving quickly, another gutted gasp pulled from you.

"Do you even know," He hisses into your ear. "How much goddamn money I spent on you? On trying to track you down?"

The venom in his voice leaks out, replaced by a charismatic purr you're far more familiar with. Once upon a time, it had voiced believable assurances from a man who would happen to be your husband.

Now, it only widens the sinkhole in your chest.

"You've cost me a fortune, treasure. Now I've come to collect what I'm owed."

A finger draws an idle line on your back, creeping forward along the stroke of your waist. Try as you might to suppress it, a shiver skitters through you and your throat presses ever closer to the knife again.

It's enough to pierce the skin, just a sliver, before the finger on your waist turns is joined by four others, clamping tightly.

Your balance wavers as you're forced back, the hard line of his body pressing flush up against you.

Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck are you going to do?

Eyes screwing closed, you force your breath to remain even. You— you have your own revolver but if you move, you don't doubt Rufus has any qualms with painting the shop-floor with your blood.

If he wants you, he'll have to move you- he— he'll have to leave the shop and then, you can try—

A loud clatter sound and your eyes fly open, catching on to what's been dropped — your stomach following suit quickly. Your revolver glints back at you.

"Here's what's going to happen," Rufus begins, as if he's merely discussing the weather. "You and I are gonna—"

His voice drops at the intrusion of noise, a squeak from the stairs behind you. In an instant, you remember the person you're waiting on. Arthur.

A desperate mixture of terror and relief shoves up your throat. It's a warning and a cry for help simultaneously.

When the knife shifts, you have no choice but to shift too, your body and Rufus twisting deftly—his other hand drawing his revolver in an instant, the barrel directed at Arthur. He's already drawn back the hammer.

There's no keeping your breathing even now. Not as you get to watch Arthur's distracted gaze tug upward, seeing the horror seep into his expression. His body becomes deathly still.

You don't come along on jobs for good reason. Even so, you aren't so naive as to think being an outlaw has no risks. You know Arthur has been on the barrel-end of innumerable weapons, that he risks his life on the daily.

You've just never had to see it with your own eyes before.

The scene unfolding before you feels like a honest-to-god nightmare, ripped from the most fearful parts of your mind and thrust into reality.

A slush of hysteria churns within you at the realisation you may very, very well watch Arthur die today. The man who had been the first to hold out his hand, to offer you aid, to pull you from the life you were running to escape.

The one you hold too closely in your heart, in your affections.

The thought triggers something to seize terribly in your heart — and you know suddenly, without doubt, you'll do anything to stop it from happening.

There's a long moment where nobody breathes. You watch as Arthur's sharp eyes dart from the gun, to the knife on your neck, up to your face in rapid succession. You watch his horror bleed into a vengeful fury, one like you've never seen before.

"You don't want to do that."

The words come out so low it's nearly a growl. Arthur's hand moves, drawing back to his holster when Rufus interrupts.

"Uh, uh, uh," He taunts, quickly turning the barrel of the gun to your head. The barrel of it butts against your temple.

Arthur freezes.

"That's right. You're going to drop your revolver."

It's a staggeringly long moment as Arthur wrestles with what to do, his hand still hovering, fingers twitching. Then the knife nudges closer and the single trickle of blood down the column of your neck is enough to have him complying.

It lands with a thud against the floor. It feels like the nail in the coffin.

"Why are you doin' this?"

The revolver in Rufus' hand lolls forward to aim back at Arthur, the motion almost lazy. He smiles.

"She didn't tell you?" His attention switches to you, using his thumb on the knife to stroke along your neck. "Is this who you replaced me with, treasure? He's hardly an upgrade. Hell, he looks—"

The words die off as Rufus' head snaps back to Arthur, his passive grip on his gun changing in an instant.

For one long moment, he studies the outlaw across from you both and then, horribly, you feel the moment he starts to laugh.

"Oh, treasure," He all but coos at you. You see Arthur bristle across the room. "You're precious. Runaway with the outlaws, did you? This day just gets better and better."

He focuses his gaze back on Arthur and lines up his aim, hand steady. "I've seen your wanted posters, Mister Morgan. A fine five thousand to bring you in. My bride and my money all in a day's work."

He grins like the goddamn cat that got the cream, finger adjusting on the trigger.

And even though you know he knows, even though you know you told him, you can't help how your focus snaps to Arthur's reaction. Your stomach swoops in a horrible twist.

Because you can't but wonder if you're worth the trouble. As if you think, that now, as he realises who this man from your past is, he'll relent. He'll hand you over.

Understanding flickers across Arthur's face, the word bride sinking in with a sting. Then, somehow, the lethality rippling from his very being grows, expanding tenfold.

He's downright murderous, looking every bit of the immoral, malevolent man he believes himself to be.

He is never going to hand you over, you realise, the fear dissipating in the air like smoke.

Another one takes its' place. It's a terrible truth; he'll get himself killed trying to save you.

"Best of all?" Rufus hums. "You're wanted dead or alive, Mister Morgan."

He'll kill him.

You act without thinking. Distracted enough, Rufus' strength is beaten as your wrench the arm holding the knife back far enough to bite down into it, hard. Blood springs up beneath your teeth, the hard lines of sinew snapping beneath the force.

Rufus howls in pain. The revolver drops Arthur from its' sights as Rufus shoves against you fiercely, the butt of the gun slamming against your temple in a loud knock. You both hurtle to the ground in a desperate struggle—and all you can think of it the blade in his hand.

It presses forward, aimed for your neck, and you rip your teeth out of his arm, taking a pound of flesh with it. Rufus wails again and the knife surges forward, intended for your heart.

You twist frantically and escape the hold, scampering up and with nothing but pure instinct, your urge the blade into his own chest, pressing with all your weight.

It sinks in with a satisfying, bubbling gurgle. Blood rises quickly to spew from the wound, a river of red spilling out.

He's going to kill him—he's going to kill Arthur. The manic thought has your hands prying the knife out and driving it back in again, over and over, his body making soft squelching as gutted sounds drag from his mouth.

Blood sprays wildly, coating your face and clothes, but you can't stop. You can't stop, he's going to kill Arthur and take you away from him. You can't let it happen— you can't—

Hands pull at your arms and you seize wildly, dropping the knife and thrashing away, but in doing so, Arthur swings into vision.

It's him. He's alive. He's the one touching you. He's speaking, his lips moving, but no words are reaching your ears.

Your chest is heaving, hyperventilation wracking your body. Your ringing ears finally tune back in.

"—alright, you're alright. It's me. He's dead. He's dead. You're okay." Arthur murmurs, almost nonsensically, his hands held out, palms up. He's crouched before you and he barely knows what he's saying, but you're staring at him like a wild animal, drenched in blood.

"It's okay," He says again, desperate to help you in any way he can, blue eyes locked on you. "You're okay."

There's still blood in your mouth from the chunk you've taken out of Rufus' arm and a bright red splatter of it sprayed across your face.

"I—" The word coughs out of you.

Your gaze falls into horror as you take in the body growing cold on the floor next to you. Arthur watches the panic set in as the realisation of what you've done sets in.

"I- I had to, I had to," You begin to babble, terror threaded in your tone. "I had to, he was— he was gonna kill you."

"Hey, hey," Soothing sounds fall from his lips as Arthur shifts forward, reaching for you desperately. You grip his forearms, eyes wide, as if you need to make him understand.

"He was gonna—" Your words are interrupted by your own choking sob, breathing coming too fast. "Arthur, he was gonna kill you, I-I had to."

"I know, I know," Arthur croaks out, his throat thickening as his own realisation dawns. This hadn't been an act of rabid self-defence, as he thought. You had killed Rufus for him.

You, who can't stand the sight of blood, who gets queasy at the butchers, who doesn't like to hunt or kill — but will for him. To protect him. If he wasn't already there, the sheer display of love would send Arthur crumbling to his knees.

But he just moves his hands, his violent hands, to cup your face. The blood smears. "I know, sweetheart."

You’re staring him, your eyes still wide and wild, looking frantically for something in his face. Forgiveness? Absolution?

Arthur will gladly absolve you of this, a crime that was barely a crime at all. Saving his life and your own, at the cost of the life of a killer.

There's blood on your eyelashes and in your hair. Your breathing slows but your bottom lip quivers with a fierceness. In the smallest voice he's ever heard from you, you whisper, "I had to," then crumble.

Arthur's large body cradles yours easily, one hand tucking around your middle and the other shifting to cup the back of your head as you sink into him. Your head tucks away in the crook of his neck, soft sobs spilling out easily now, and something awful aches in Arthur's chest.

"I got you," He repeats, a promise, a goddamn oath he swears to keep. "I got you, you're okay. You didn't do nothin' wrong."

He feels downright evil to move you so soon but his ears prick at some commotion below. Casting his eyes back to dead body, Arthur knows the large pool of blood has made its way through the floorboards. It's only a matter of minutes before the Sheriff will be here.

"Shit." He curses. He strokes a tender hand along your hair, calling gently for your attention.

"We gotta move. People are comin'. Can you walk?"

You dig your face out of his neck, movements sluggish. The exhaustion from the terror has drained you, your eyelids already drooping, limbs heavier.

Arthur makes the call for you.

Hoisting you softly into his hold, he keeps you nestled against his broad chest, arms tucked behind your back and the bend of your knees. He's almost thankful you can't stand, if only so he can feel the puffs of breaths that escape you against his neck, a reminder you're still with him.

Arthur eyes the locked door in the back corner. It'll lead around the back of the general store and out to the street but Hypatia and your own horse were still hitched out the front. Gritting his teeth, he prepares himself for a wild run, hoping the element of surprise is enough.

It will be enough. It has to be enough.

It's with a charging sprint that he makes it down the stairs, his boots slamming against the wooden floorboards. He doesn't pause to take in the shop-keepers aghast reaction, nor the sprinkling shower of red from the ceiling.

He bursts out into the daylight. Eagle eyes scanning the streets, it's clear that, for now, he's ahead of the law.

With less gentleness than he'd prefer, Arthur pushes you up onto Hypatia's saddle, keeping one hand on your waist to keep you upright and on. His other reaches for the reins hitched over the post and he snags them free, quickly doing the same for your horse.

There's a yell down the street, loud and demanding. Arthur doesn't spare a glance, vaulting himself up onto the saddle behind you.

With a hyah! and a loud, practised whistle, Hypatia breaks into a sprint, quickly followed by your own horse.

Two horses tear down main street, hooves thundering, a fearsome and unstoppable silhouette against the western sun.

The townspeople bleat their fear, barely leaping out the way in time as the horses rush by. Dust kicks up a red-dirt storm. Soon, when it settles, gone will be the only proof you were ever there.

Arthur rides.

The weight of you, slumped back in his chest, is less of a comfort than he would like.

He wants to— no, needs to see your eyes, needs to intercept every foul, wicked thought running rabid in your mind. You’re clawing at your soiled conscience, he’s sure of it, trying to tear the new stain on it from you.

Ruined yourself—for him.

A spidering guilt cloys in his chest, darker than ink and sharper than any blade or bullet he’s ever felt before. His chest aches.

Arthur knows he’s a bad man. He just never imagined he might drag you down to his murky depths.

Swallowing heavy, he grips the reins tighter. Leather bites into his palms. He welcomes the punishment.

He feels, more than hears, your sudden shuddering gasp as you come back to yourself. Your exhaustion must have dipped away enough and it’s clear, for a moment, you struggle to place yourself and your surroundings.

The jostle of a horse beneath you is a giveaway but even so, Arthur feels your hand curl across his toned forearm. Your grip is tight, nearly masking the tremble in your fingers. Nearly.

“It’s me,” Arthur assures, raising his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear over the rumble of galloping. “I got you, it’s Arthur.”

The grip on his arm loosens, his works sinking in, and you nod wordlessly. You let him cocoon you in safety, surrounded in his arms.

Unknown to Arthur, the ride is far too reminiscent of the journey you’d taken all those years ago; the long, hard ride with no goal but putting distance between you and where you were running from. Who you were running from.

Except this time, the one you're running from is dead. He’s dead and you killed him.

It’s unclear how far he travels, the sun sitting lower in the sky, a pinkness blooming on the horizon, before Arthur pulls Hypatia into a slower trot.

You hadn't been followed out of Rhodes, he knows, but he’d still taken you as far as he could, likely further than necessary.

But now, out of physical danger, his priority switches on a dime, all of his senses zoned in to you before him. You, still wordless, still vacant, still painted in a glaze of scarlet.

The decision come easy, Arthur using his keen skills to trot towards the sound of water. A thorough check ensures you'll have no company and Arthur wastes no time, tugging the reins to a halt with a quiet click. He dismounts, large hands reaching for you before his boots even hit the dirt.

You’re willing, your hands seeking him, finding his shoulders and allowing him to help you off Hypatia. There’s a dulled look in your eyes and Arthur knows he will do anything—anything— to change that.

Feet on the ground, you’re level with his chest and you blink slowly, staring forward.

For a moment, Arthur waits, his brows drawn together in his concern. He gives you the moment. If you need to cry, to scream, to blame him — he'll take it, weather whatever storm you have brewing within you.

But you only drag yours eyes up to meet his, voice still small, "I got blood on you."

Another fracture in his chest, another ache of misery. Arthur sighs, gaze softening immeasurably, his hand coming up to cup your cheek tenderly. The blood smears beneath his touch.

"That's alrigh', sweetheart." He murmurs, sweet as he can. He tilts his head slightly, towards the lazy, roving river, blue eyes never leaving you. “Will ya let me clean yer up? In the river?”

You seem to just notice the riverbank you’re standing upon, head twisting to peer at the roaming water of the river.

A nod, minuscule and unnoticeable, if he wasn’t tuned into your every movement.

His hand on your face shifts, reaching down to tangle with your own. It's an anchor in unsteady seas, solid and unflinching.

Your eyes take in your hands, intertwined, and trail up to his face — and you know, with a sudden burning intensity, you can't regret what you've done today.

Not if it means having him. Not if it means saving him.

Arthur leads you down to the water, slow and steady. You follow, hand clutching his tightly, like a devoted follower who trails a messiah, your salvation ahead.

Stopping only to remove your boots and his own, along with his hat, Arthur bites back his hiss at the chill of the water as he wades his way in, fully clothed. The water licks up his calves, thighs, rushing around the sudden intrusion. When it reaches above his waist, he pauses, letting you catch up.

The sun kisses the horizon in the distance, a mellow and amber light cast far across the landscape. Strange how much had happened, had changed, in a manner of hours.

Crickets chorus. In the nearby trees, an owl hoots a soft lullaby.

Arthur doesn't let go of your hand. With the other, he brushes it across the surface of the river and then reaches in, letting it pool into his palm. He brings it your face and lets its run across your hairline, loosening the blood that's crusted there.

It's a slow, dedicated process.

Hands, scarred and calloused, pass over your skin the softest of touches. His thumb works gently at your hair, washing the blood away into the river. You close your eyes when he asks you to, in a low murmur, and the cake of sin is cleaned from you in the most tender of motions.

"Will I ever be clean again?"

A whispered question, eyes still closed. The blood may be leaving but you can still feel it spraying across your face, hot and thick. It's sunk in, you're sure of it—evidence of your crime just an inch beneath your flesh.

"You are not unclean." Arthur grunts, his hand still moving as he speaks. His thumb passes over your jaw. "This— what you did, it don't dirty these hands, you hear me? You did what you needed to do. You did nothin' wrong."

The assurances feel heady and heavy and you want to shake them off. You're not yet sure if you deserve them.

"I'm not mad he's dead." You say. He has to know this.

"I'm not mad I—" Your voice wavers terribly, even if your mind is set. "—killed him."

Eyes fluttering open, you gaze up at Arthur, reverent and resolute. "I... I would do it again, Arthur."

The for you is unspoken.

But if he looks, if he peers between the lines, you know Arthur would find it, beside the I love you hidden within your earnest words.

It's barely a secret—not when you want him to see it. You've been torn open today, a festering wound split down your middle, and somehow nothing feels more crucial than him knowing.

Him knowing and loving you still, seeing you unchanged, despite it all.

The water rushes around you, carrying your transgressions away, and his hand in yours, dwarfing it, does not falter. Arthur's eyes graze across your face. He seems to find what he's searching for.

"You won't ever have to, sweetheart." He says, voice nearly a whisper.

His lips find your hairline, scraping a delicate kiss against the clean skin there. Then he presses his forehead against yours, soothing and intimate, a lifeline. An understanding and a reciprocation.

A sudden urge possesses you, the words clawing up your throat in a frenzy.

You need to tell him, need to say the words aloud and make him understand, as you had on that shop floor.

What if he doesn't know?

His forehead shifts against yours, the tips of your noses nudging together, your interwoven hands grasping each other just as tightly as the other. A warmth rises in your chest, glowing and fizzling, and despite the day, your lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

He knows.

[inlovewithpandora]

₊˚⊹♡ — Love Letter #1: UNDER THE STARS

Fearturing — Cowboy!Miguel x Farmer’s!daughter!reader

Lyrics — After discovering you’ve never had a “real” Valentine’s Day Miguel makes it his mission to make the day special for you. When you see the thoughtful setup he’s planned and how much effort he put in, you thank him in a way he wasn’t expecting.

Duration —3.8-4.0k

Music Advisory — Fluff, Smut [mature audiences only], country!au, takes place on Valentine’s Day, implied situationship, kissing, oral (blowjob/handjob) [m!receiving], implied p in v, allusions to sex, slight face-fucking, semi-public sex, implied exhibition kink [if you squint]

Words From Artist — This is my first fic for my Valentine’s Day event and I’m so glad I’m finally posting it because it took me a while to finish. I’m working on other fics for this dynamic but I really wanted to make something for the season of love. Always feel free to comment and reblog, I love reading y’all reactions! I hope you enjoy!!

₊˚⊹♡ — If you would like to read more of the Cowboy!Miguel and Farmer’s!daughter!reader click here!

Current Platforms — Valentines Day Event M.list • Main M.list • Special Events Taglist

The sun has just dipped below the horizon, leaving a constellation of stars hanging above the wide, open sky. The night is quiet except for the sound of cicadas in the distance and the soft rustling of the wind through the trees. It’s the kind of peaceful evening that makes everything feel right with the world.

But somehow tonight feels different. You can feel the shift in the atmosphere, a knot tying in your stomach, a tinge of unplaced excitement, and a strange feeling you can’t shake. Maybe the reason is because it’s Valentine’s Day and love is in the air, or maybe it’s the way your thoughts have been lingering on Miguel all week.

Miguel isn’t one for holidays, at least not the popular ones that everyone adores. Flowers, chocolates, fancy dinners, all those things never really mattered to him since he’s considers himself a simple man. But when you told him that you’ve never really had a proper Valentine’s Day, the kind with the romantic gestures and filled with the classic clichés, his heart ached. To him you deserve that, you deserve all the sweetness in the world even though he’s not great with grand gestures or romantic words, so once he’s done working around the farm he starts planning a simple yet special night for the two of you.

He spent the last few hours preparing, scouting out the perfect spot on the acres of land and after searching he found a hill just far enough from the ranch. The place was perfect, the stars would be bright, the cool air would breeze through, and it’s in a secluded area so you both can have your privacy. It’s not much, but it’s his way of showing you that you mean something to him.

Now, with his horse saddled and ready, Miguel is making his way to you. The rhythm of the horse’s steps matches the pounding of his heart as he thinks about how he’s going to approach you and what he’s going to say. He’s never been the type of man that gets nervous but when it comes to you and romantic situations like this everything feels different.

As he reaches your house, he finds you outside, sitting on the porch steps while your attention is focused on your phone, your face illuminated by the soft glow of the porch light that’s shining above you. When you hear the sounds of a horse trotting you look up, surprised to see him since you thought he already went home for the day. “Miguel?” you ask, raising an eyebrow while standing up and placing your phone in your pocket. “What are you doing here?”

He smirks, trying to keep his cool, but there’s an edge of nervousness in his voice that he can’t hide from you and you most definitely take notice of it. “C’mon, cariño. Got somethin’ to show you.”

“What is it?”

Miguel extends his hand to you, giving you a small smile. “You’ll see,” he says, trying to sound casual even though his heart feels like it’s about to beat out your chest. “Get on.” he gestures his head to the horse, wanting you to ride with him instead of taking your own horse like when you two usually go out together.

You instantly agree and allow him to whisk you away, grabbing his hand and swinging yourself onto the horse before wrapping your arms around his torso. The night air feels cool against your skin, and the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves hitting the dirt path fills the silence between you and Miguel and allows your rampant thoughts to roam your mind, wondering where Miguel could be taking you.

After almost twenty minutes of making small talk and sitting in a comfortable silence when neither of you could find the words to say, you finally make it to your destination. Miguel stops the horse, swinging his leg over and allowing his feet to hit the ground. “We’re here.” He helps you down, his hands firm on your waist as he slowly lowers you to your feet.

The warmth of his touch lingers even after he pulls away, and you can’t help but smile as he takes your hand, leading you toward whatever surprise he’s prepared. Within a few seconds you start seeing items spread out on the ground and once you're able to get a closer look at what Miguel set up, causing a soft gasp to leave your lips.

You see a large quilt covering the ground to act as a place for you and Miguel to sit, there’s a basket filled with your favorite snacks and drinks, including some moonshine that you enjoyed the last time you and him went to a dive bar. He knows how much you liked the sweet burn of it, the way it made you giggle and feel carefree, so he made sure to bring some for you both to enjoy, and so he could tease you once you start feeling the effects.

There’s a small lantern placed nearby that he brought from the barn, providing ample amounts of light to shine around you two so you can see since it’s dark in the countryside. But what makes your heart flutter is the bouquet of flowers resting beside the basket, the same ones you pointed out to him a few days ago when you were in the city and told him it was a beautiful arrangement.

You walk over to the quilt, running your hand over the soft material, your voice soft with appreciation as you soak in the scenery. “Miguel, this is beautiful.” You weren’t expecting anything tonight, especially not from him. You had convinced yourself that Valentine’s Day wasn’t something you needed to care about, that it wasn’t worth the trouble when you and Miguel weren’t even official yet.

You two have been dancing around whatever this was for months so neither of you had put a name to it but now, standing here, looking at everything he’s put together just for you, makes a warmth fill your chest.

“You said you never had a real Valentine’s Day, so… I figured I could make it happen.” As Miguel speaks he shifts his weight while crossing his arms, sort of downplaying the effort he put in. It’s something about the way he says it, like it’s just a simple fact, like he hadn’t spent hours preparing and planning, like he hadn’t gone out of his way to gather all your favorite things and create the perfect atmosphere.

When you hear the nervousness in his voice, and notice how he’s trying his best to keep a steady tone, it makes you realize that this is his way of saying he cares. Miguel is a very calculated man, he has his own way of dealing with his feelings, confronting situations, and sometimes he has his walls up so seeing him do something sweet like this makes you feel special.

You turn to face him, and the look in your eyes softens. You smile at him, the same smile that makes his heart skip and his stomach twist in ways he still isn’t used to because it shows how deep his feelings are for you. Without saying a word, you close the space between you, reaching up and placing your hand on his face and pulling him down to your height.

He stiffens for a second, his breath hitching while his eyes flicker between your eyes and lips, and then you press a soft kiss to his lips. It’s not rushed or desperate. The kiss is slow, lingering, like you’re savoring the moment, like you want to physically show him how much this display of affection means to you. Miguel instantly melts into it and your bodies come together, his rough hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you in so he can feel the warmth of your body against his.

When you pull away, your fingers trace absentmindedly along his jaw, loving how he makes you feel and that he’s slowly seeping into your heart. “You’ve made this the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had.” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his torso and pulling him into a hug, wanting him to know how much you appreciate the effort to make today special for you. “Thank you, Mig.”

Miguel exhales a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, his arms instinctively tightening around you as he buries his face into your hair. Your warmth, your scent, the way you just fit perfectly against him, it all makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn't quite know how to handle. He never thought much about Valentine's Day before, never cared for it or celebrated, but standing here, holding you, feeling your love radiating off of you, he realizes that maybe it's not about the holiday itself. Maybe it's about who you spend it with.

"You don't gotta thank me, cariño." he murmurs, voice low and husky as his lips brush against the shell of your ear, making your body instantly quiver. "Just wanted to do somethin' nice for you."

You smile against his chest, your fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing lightly over his warm skin. "Well, I still think you deserve a thank you." Miguel looked so sexy tonight, he’s wearing a worn denim shirt with his sleeves rolled up which shows his muscles, a pair of dark jeans, his favorite cowboy boots, and of course his signature cowboy hat. With how attractive he looks and all the feelings that are coursing through your veins you want to express your appreciation to him in a physical sense.

Miguel pulls back just enough to look at you, raising an eyebrow at the teasing glint that’s shimmering in your eyes. He doesn't miss the way your fingers linger against his stomach, nails lightly scratching against his abs, a gentle touch that’s creating a slow heat to emerge in his groin. "That so?" He’s surprised that this is what you meant by ‘thanking him’ but he doesn’t mind one bit, he loves seeing you on your knees for him so he knows he’s about to enjoy what comes next.

"Mhm." You tilt your head up at him, your voice gentle yet playful as you lead him towards where the quilt lies on the ground. "And I think I know exactly how to show you just how much I appreciate all this..." Once he’s where you want him your hands move to his jeans, unbuckling his leather belt and unzipping his pants, a small smirk spreading across your lips when you see the outline of his hardened cock that’s ready to be released.

When your hands slip inside his pants, pulling his boxers down just enough for his heavy cock to spring free, sends a shiver through him from both your touch and the cool breeze flowing by. Miguel’s eyes are solely focused on you, watching you get on your knees and toss your hair over one shoulder, before spitting on his cock, using your palm and spreading it on his shaft and slowly stroking his length. For him, you have to use both hands. Since his cock is so large and thick you need both to make sure there’s full coverage and no part of him is neglected.

“Fuck, cariño.” He mutters, his hands resting on the back of his head to keep them occupied, feeling his cock pulse as you strategically maneuver your hands on his shaft. He loves when you give him head, there’s something special about the way you tend to him, it’s delicate, thrilling, and sensual. No other woman can make his body react the way you do and that alone makes him want to spray you his seed down your pretty little throat.

“You want me to suck it, cowboy?” It sounds like a rhetorical question but you’re truly looking for an answer despite you already knowing the answer by his body language. You love a vocal man and that’s definitely Miguel, plus you know that he loves hearing your cute country accent and you want to do anything that’ll drive him closer to his peak.

“You know I do, querida.” And with that you switch techniques. You give his tip a light kiss, allowing your saliva to pool in your mouth before sticking out your tongue and allowing it to drip onto his tip, making his cock nice and slippery so you can give him the sloppiest blowjob possible, just the way Miguel likes.

The kisses and little kitten licks feel incredible, he enjoys the satisfaction it brings his body when he feels you drag your tongue up and down the underside of his dick, how the tip of it glazes over his prominent veins and makes him shudder but he absolutely hates the teasing. Usually he’s a patient man, allowing you to move at a comfortable pace but tonight he doesn’t want to wait. “Come on, baby. Don’t tease me.”

“Fine, but only because you’re cute.” You reply with a soft giggle, obeying his wishes and placing your plump lips over the tip of Miguel’s pretty cock, allowing your tongue to run over his slit, causing his mouth to fly open from the unexpected sensation. Things started off nice and slow in the beginning with slow strokes with your hand around the base of his cock, dragging the flat of your tongue around his tip, and gently caressing his balls to make things a little more spicy.

Soon things escalate quickly, Miguel’s hips jerk and he throws his head back with a groan when you hollow out your cheeks, taking a few more inches of him in your mouth and allowing your hand to cover the area you couldn’t reach. It’s so hard for the cowboy not to just shove your head against his pelvis and force all of him down your throat, so instead he starts to lightly thrust, causing you to gag around his length and the warmth of your mouth to engulf him.

As you hold onto Miguel’s meaty thighs to help you keep your balance, you can feel them trembling, one of the few signs that he’s about to bust. To match the rhythms of his lazy thrusts you bob your head up and down, licking the pre-cum that leaks from his tip and allowing it to settle on your tongue, enjoying the salty taste of him on your palate. The wet noises that you’re making are going straight to his dick and seeing the small spit bubbles that are forming in the corners of your mouth, makes it twitch between your lips.

You look up at Miguel through your lashes, you’re pretty hypnotizing, eyes locking with his dark one’s, wanting to see every face he makes when he cums. By looking at him you can tell he’s holding back for reasons you don’t understand. Miguel always sees you as a delicate flower that should be cherished which you adore but you can tell he wants things a little rougher and frankly you’re not mad at it, you would actually love for him to get rough with you.

When you notice him lowering one of his arms to lightly pull up his shirt so it doesn’t get in the way of your performance, you take his hand and place it on the back of your head, silently granting him access to fuck your throat. Once Miguel feels his palm against your hair it unlocks something inside him. His hand tangles in your hair, pressing your head downward, causing his tip to repeatedly press against the back of your throat.

“That’s it, cariño… just—fuck, like that.” He groans with a strained voice, not being able to hold himself back anymore. Miguel loves this feeling, especially when your throat opens up for him to go deeper and the vibrations from your cheeks are getting stronger the more he pushes your head towards him. Once he pushes you to your limit, taking one hard thrust and causing your nose to press against his pelvis, you moan loudly around his cock and your nails to slightly dig into his skin trying to brace yourself from the unexpected movement.

"Shit, baby... 'bout to-" Miguel warns, his stomach clenching as his high creeps up on him fast. You don't let up, doubling down, wanting to see him fall apart completely. The cowboy shudders, his grip on your hair tightening, his cock pulsing in your mouth while spewing lines of his thick seed down your throat, making a series of moans, praises, and a few curses in his native tongue fall from his lips.

You can’t really understand what he’s saying, due to you not knowing a lick of Spanish but by the way his mouth hangs open and his brows knit together you can tell he’s enjoying himself. Once he comes down from his high and he feels you swallow the remaining ounces of his seed, he slowly pulls away from your wet and swollen lips that are coated in his juices.

Miguel doesn’t even give you a chance to clean yourself up before he wraps his hands around your waist, picking you up and walking further towards the middle of the quilt before gently laying you down, placing his hand on your back and lowering you onto the soft fabric, his broad muscular physique hovering over your smaller frame.

His eyes, dark and heavy with lingering desire, trace over your face, memorizing every flushed detail in your features. His fingers graze your cheek before trailing down your jaw, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips, a silent reminder of what just transpired.

Miguel exhales deeply, his breath warm as he begins to press a firm kiss on your neck, another on your collarbone, and then one right above your cleavage. His movements are slow and deliberate, savoring each reaction he draws from you. His hands, strong and calloused, explore the curves of your body, fingertips ghosting over your ribs, your waist, before settling at your hips, making his way to the waistband of your shorts so he can take them off.

His fingers hook onto the fabric, tugging the material lightly, giving you a moment to stop him but you don't. Your breath catches as he peels the shorts down your legs and tosses them to the side, his touch igniting a trail of heat down your abdomen that goes straight to your core. When you feel his fingers tug at your panties, about to pull them down and reveal your pussy, you grab his hand, feeling a little nervous for a second.

“Mig, what if someone comes out here and sees us?” Your voice comes out in a hushed whisper, laced with both nervousness and excitement. The thought of being caught by anyone in your town is mortifying, especially since gossip spreads like a wildfire around here but you and him already went halfway when you sucked his dick so you don’t understand why your nerves are eating you up now.

Miguel chuckles softly, the sound low and smug as he leans in, his lips brushing gently against your jaw. "Now you're worried, querida?" he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement, thinking it’s funny that you’re now worried about peeping Tom’s after you just finished deepthroating and slobbing all over his dick with no hesitation.

Your stomach twists, a mixture of nerves and exhilaration bubbling inside you. The logical part of your mind knows this is reckless, dangerous even, but the way Miguel looks at you a unrelenting hunger, like he wants to devour you until tears are rolling down your face, makes it hard to care about the consequences. You've already crossed the line, let yourself be consumed by him, and the thrill of it all is just as intoxicating as the man himself.

His lips trail down your neck, peppering kisses that make your breath hitch, making your nerves slowly disappear. "You weren't shy a few minutes ago," he teases, his fingers skimming over your exposed skin, tracing slow, deliberate patterns. "I think you like the risk."

And maybe he’s right, maybe you do like the thrill it brings. Maybe that's why you don't push him away, why your fingers tangle in his hair instead, pulling him closer to your body. "Plus no one's gonna come out here but even if they did.." His voice deepens slightly, his lips ghosting over yours in a mesmerizing manner. "Let them see how good I make you feel."

Heat pools between your thighs at his words, but you still bite your lip, unsure of what to do which Miguel notices, always being attentive when it comes to you. "If you don't want this, just say the word," he adds, his voice softer now, wanting to make sure you’re comfortable before he takes things further. "'I’ll stop."

His sincerity, how he cares about how you feel and won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do makes your heart flutter. You trust him, more than anyone you’ve ever been with and right now, with the stars above you, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and his heavy cock resting on your stomach, makes the thrill of the moment outweigh the risk of being seen.

Swallowing your nerves, you slowly loosen your grip on his wrist, allowing his fingers to slide past the waistband of your panties. Miguel watches you carefully, searching your face for any hint of hesitation. When he doesn’t detect any, his smirk returns. "That's my girl," he whispers before pressing his lips against yours, his fingers finally pulling them down and allowing him to feel your wet pussy, your juices smeared across your folds, practically begging to be licked.

Miguel groans at the sight, his pupils blown when your alluring scent fills his nostrils as he takes in every inch of you. His large hands slide up your thighs, spreading them apart with a firm but gentle touch. The cool night air brushes against your exposed skin, sending a shiver down your spine, but it's nothing compared to the heat radiating from Miguel's body as he settles between your legs.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before he finally touches you where you need him most, drawing a gasp from your lips. He watches your reaction closely, reveling in every small sound and movement you make, as if he’s memorized by them.

The thrill of the moment, being out in the open, of surrendering completely to him and allowing him to be in control, slowly overwhelms you. Your body arches instinctively, pressing into his touch, silently begging for more, wanting his cock to reach the depths of your womb until you're filled with his seed. Miguel leans down and captures your lips in another yet kiss, swallowing every whimper and moan he pulls from you.

Miguel’s lips pull away from yours, but his touch remains, tender and firm. His thumb gently strokes your cheek as he looks at you with a softness that contrasts the intensity of his earlier actions. You both share a quiet moment, basking in the warmth of each other’s presence before taking things to the next level.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, cariño.” he whispers, his voice low and affectionate, wanting you to know that he cares and has a place in his heart reserved just for you.

You smile, feeling warmth spread through your chest at the simple yet heartfelt words, looking at him with pure love in your eyes. There's something in the way Miguel looks at you that makes everything feel perfect, and you can't help but feel a sense of love for him. "Happy Valentine's Day, Miguel." you whisper, your voice full of affection. It's simple, but at this moment, it means everything.

His smile deepens, and you realize this is exactly where you're meant to be, together, sharing something real and special. No expectations, just the two of you, and for once, everything feels right.

Fanbase — @Yoitsseulgi @migueloharasoulmate @novaaahearts @d0ubl-tr0ubl3 @tater-tot0423 @theitgurl2 @miguelsesposa @maxlynn17 @iwanttogohomeandtakeanap @kxllanxtdoor @ban-al3x @miguellover6969 @beargracecanbeanyone @taylormarieee @h3art-l3ss @mellagzz @em-x0 @3zae-zae3 @onlyloaksgf @popeheywardssecretgf @solanawrld @baizzhu @soilmayo @savagemickey03 @honey-bee2002 @str4wb4ries @kodellyy @hellokittyontop @sin4tra @mrs-pondwater19 @simp2537 @kissestothesuun @ilovegodfr @bala-bala3 @postcardgirl425 @regan18 @aistelloom @syd-bii @wildflowerkive @angel-of-the-moons

— all rights reserved © INLOVEWITHPANDORA 2025. all fanfics belong to me, do not copy, translate, repost nor recommend on tiktok any of the works seen here.

[littlediscoveredstars]

I have a fanfic idea that I haven’t really committed to writing, so you can have it here.

Idea: Batman and Superman decide to finally put the bro-mance to rest and go on a proper date. The thing is, they both plan to reveal their identities at the restaurant.

Bruce focuses so hard on looking like Bruce Wayne, but also more himself that he does at galas. He’s wearing a turtleneck and his comfy work shoes. His hair is less organized and he lets himself slouch.

Clark isn’t sure whether to slick back his hair like Superman but keep the glasses or keep everything Clark Kent but leave the glasses home. He decides to just wing it and go as much like himself as he can: jeans, boots, and glasses. After all, he’s a Kansas farm boy under every layer of identity he’s created.

So, then comes the day for them to meet. They expect to see each other, be a little surprised, then go about their date as normal.

It turned out…not like that.

With neither knowing what name the table was reserved under, they both assume they’ve arrived first and watch every man that fits their date’s general build pass them by.

Clark sees Bruce Wayne and thinks, “Wow! What are the odds Bruce Wayne happens to be at the same restaurant? Funny.” Then he sits down at a booth and waits for Batman.

Bruce, to his credit, watches Clark pass by with suspicions. The guy looks kind of like Superman but those curls are so dense and he honestly cannot imagine Big Blue dressed like a cowboy, so he waves it, especially when the man doesn’t stop to confront him. He just stares the way everyone else has after seeing a celebrity out in public and moves on.

An hour passes. Then two. Both are sitting a few tables apart, looking around desperately for their hero coworker to show.

Bruce gets impatient first. He understand Superman has a lot on his plate and a single free night is a lot to ask. Maybe they’ll try again. Or they won’t, since Bruce has convinced himself this was stupid to begin with.

It’s as he’s preparing to go that he sees that cowboy again. The gorgeous man is looking down, crestfallen at also being stood up.

So, Bruce does something a little spontaneous. Bruce sits in front of the guy. He blames it on the glasses of wine he had while waiting.

Bruce: “I’m Bruce. May I be blunt?”

Clark, blinking in surprise: “uh, sure?”

Bruce: “I watched you walk in over an hour ago and no one has accompanied you. Seeing as my date did the same, I’d like to fill the space.”

Clark, again, surprised he’s even being talked to by a billionaire outside of his job: “Y-yes? Yes! I mean, sure! By all means!”

It’s not like Batman’s going to come crashing in from the window. Well, he could, but Clark’s been listening to the city around them. No sign of Batman’s grapple.

So, Bruce and Clark meet. They fall into conversation easily, even make each other laugh. It’s so effortless and slightly suspicious, but they’re having a fun time and Bruce isn’t self-sabotaging enough to break away now. Not when he’s needed this for a while.

Then, at the end of the date, Clark listens for Batman’s heartbeat. He tries to hear where his friend might be, to understand why he didn’t show, but the heartbeat is standing right in front of him. There, in Bruce Wayne’s chest.

And/or, Clark removed his glasses to clean them and it clicks in Bruce’s mind. He reaches out to smooth all of Clark’s hair back and a single, rebellious curl pops out.

They’re both so furious, Clark has to fly them to the roof to properly shout about it.

[lvnleah]

I've become obsessed with Dancing With The Stars and the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders because apparently I'm a sucker for American reality TV shows despite being from the UK and them being impossible to find half of the time 🤦‍♀️😂

So how about Leah with American reader who is a part of one of those?? Either a dancer for the DWTS or a cheerleader and just a fic about their relationship with the time difference, maybe Leah introducing her to the team and them going to a live show/'football' game

distance | Leah Williamson

thank you for this request! I loved writing it <3

It was a typical night, but you weren’t complaining. The late-night FaceTime calls with Leah had become the highlight of your days, no matter the time difference. You were used to it now—navigating your schedules, adjusting to the reality of a relationship in two different countries. But tonight felt special. It always did, knowing you’d soon be together again.

You stretched out on your bed in Dallas, feeling the weight of a long day of cheer practice and events with the Cowboys. It was your third season, and even though the intensity had become second nature, the exhaustion still crept up on you. Your mind was running, though, thinking about the months you’d spent apart from Leah and the fleeting moments you’d shared over the phone.

You glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight in London, but Leah’s face was already lighting up your screen as her call came through.

“Hey, you,” Leah’s voice came softly through the phone, a mix of warmth and exhaustion. It was late for her, too.

You smiled, propping yourself up against the pillows. “Hey, babe. You look good, even for someone who just got home from a match.”

She grinned, rolling her eyes. “I wouldn’t say good, but thanks. How was practice?”

You laughed, a little embarrassed, “It was good. We’re prepping for the big game next week, so it’s a lot of rehearsals and stunts. You know, the usual. But honestly? I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Leah’s smile softened, “I miss you so much. The time difference sucks, but I wouldn’t change it for anything. This time apart is just… it makes me want to hold you even more when you’re here.”

You felt your heart swell with her words. “I know. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it. We make it work. We always do.”

You and Leah had met last summer in Ibiza, you weren’t very clued up on women’s football so had no clue who she was. However, she knew exactly who you were. You both hit it off instantly and before you knew it you’d spent the whole holiday together and were parting ways. 

Both of you stayed in contact and late-night FaceTimes became a regular thing. After a month of being apart, you flew out to spend the weekend with Leah where she took you on your very first date together. It wasn’t long before you were being split up again and your life in Dallas resumed. 

You didn’t see Leah for two months after that but you two were constantly FaceTiming. Leah managed to fly over to Dallas in January where you were able to spend two weeks together and that’s when things became official. 

After those two weeks together in Dallas, you and Leah kept FaceTiming constantly. You had date nights over FaceTime and often fell asleep with each other on the phone. 

Early February rolled around and your season was officially over. You had until May off so decided to fly out to London where you spent four months living with Leah. It gave you a proper idea of what life with Leah would be like in London and you completely fell in love with it. 

When May came, you flew back to Dallas and didn’t see Leah until August when Arsenal came to Florida for a preseason friendly. You were able to get those two weeks off to spend with her. Since then you hadn’t seen her but that was all about to change. 

It was now October and you had a bye week, meaning you had no games whatsoever so was able to fly to London to spend it with Leah. 

A comfortable silence passed between you two. You could hear the soft hum of Leah’s apartment in the background. “You still coming this weekend?” she asked.

You grinned, nodding eagerly. “Yes. I can’t wait. I’ve got a few days off, and I’m flying out to London. I’m counting down the hours.”

Leah smiled again, a glimmer of excitement lighting up her eyes. “It’s going to be so good. I’m going to make the most of the time we have.”

The conversation flowed easily from there. You caught up on each other’s days and talked about everything and nothing. As usual, the call was filled with laughter, teasing, and the underlying knowledge that you wouldn’t have to rely on technology for much longer. 

Days later, the reunion finally arrived. You stepped off the plane at Heathrow, jet-lagged but buzzing with anticipation. Your suitcase rolled behind you as you made your way through the terminal, eyes scanning the crowd for the woman who had stolen your heart.

And then you saw her. Leah stood there with that familiar smile, her eyes locking with yours across the crowd. She was wearing a simple jacket and jeans, but at that moment, she might as well have been wearing a crown—because to you, she was everything.

You dropped your suitcase with a laugh and rushed toward her, your heart racing as you reached her. She met you halfway, wrapping her arms around you in a tight, relieved hug. The scent of her perfume, the warmth of her body, the feeling of finally being together again—it was better than you had imagined.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Leah murmured into your hair, her voice thick with emotion.

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, holding onto her just as tightly.

The warmth of her embrace made everything else fade away, and for a moment, all that mattered was the two of you standing there, holding each other.

The next day, Leah took you on a tour around London. The day passed in a blur of laughter and sightseeing, but Leah had something else planned for the evening. She led you to Arsenal’s training ground, where you were about to meet some of the people who meant so much to her. Despite being together for a while you were yet to meet them properly. 

“Ready to meet the team?” Leah asked as she guided you through the familiar halls of the facility.

You smiled, feeling a little nervous, but mostly excited. “I think so. I’ve heard a lot about them from you.”

Leah grinned. “They’re gonna love you.”

You followed Leah through the training ground, her hand warm in yours as she navigated the halls with ease. The faint sound of laughter and chatter grew louder the closer you got to the team lounge. Your nerves bubbled under the surface, but Leah gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, her calm energy helping to steady you.

As you entered the room, a burst of energy hit you like a wave. Teammates sprawled on couches, some laughing, others mid-conversation, all looking completely at ease in their home away from home. The sight of Leah caused a ripple of acknowledgement to spread across the room.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Beth’s voice rang out first, a teasing grin on her face as she spotted Leah. 

Leah chuckled and pulled you closer. “Everyone, this is Y/N. Be nice, or else.”

The room erupted in laughter, and you couldn’t help but smile at how relaxed everyone seemed. The first to approach was Beth, her grin warm as she extended a hand.

“Hi, I’m Beth. I’m sure Leah’s told you all about me,” she said with a wink, pulling you into an unexpected hug before you could respond. “It’s about time we met. She talks about you constantly.”

You laughed, surprised but comforted by her immediate warmth. “Good things, I hope.”

Beth grinned mischievously. “Mostly.”

Leah groaned playfully. “Beth, don’t scare her off.”

The introductions continued, each offering their blend of humour and friendliness. The team’s camaraderie was palpable, and though you’d been nervous, their welcoming nature quickly put you at ease.

As the evening went on, you found yourself in conversation with Beth, who was easy to talk to and shared a similar sense of humour to yours. Leah watched from a distance, her heart swelling at how seamlessly you fit in.

“I can see why Leah’s so smitten,” Beth said at one point, nudging you lightly. “You’re good for her. She’s been different—in a good way—since meeting you.”

Your cheeks flushed at the compliment, but you felt a sense of pride, too. “She means a lot to me. I’d do anything to make her happy.”

Beth nodded approvingly. “Good answer. But you’d better get used to having all of us around. Leah’s family now, and we’re part of the package.”

By the end of the night, you felt like you’d known the team for years. Leah pulled you aside as you were leaving, “See? I told you they’d love you.”

You smiled, leaning into her touch. “I can see why you love them so much. And I can’t believe I clicked with Beth so quickly. She’s amazing.”

Leah chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist as you walked to the car. “Told you. Now you’re stuck with all of us.”

You laughed, resting your head on her shoulder. “I think I can handle that.”

The weekend soon arrived, and with it came a sense of anticipation as you made your way to the stadium with Leah’s family. You had attended a few matches with them before, and each time, you felt more at home in the chaos of the crowd and the electric atmosphere of the stadium. 

Leah’s mum, Amanda, greeted you with a warm smile as you arrived at the box. You had always got on with Amanda, her kindness and openness making it easy to feel like you belonged. She had a way of making you feel comfortable, even in the most high-energy environments.

“Y/N, it’s so good to see you,” Amanda said, pulling you into a hug. “I’m so glad you could make it today. It’s going to be a great match.”

“Thanks for having me,” you smiled, returning the hug. “I’m excited to be here, especially with all of you. I’ve missed this.”

As you walked into the box, you were greeted by Leah’s grandma, Berny, who was already settled in with a cup of tea. Her eyes sparkled with warmth as she waved you over.

“Come sit, love,” Berny said, patting the chair next to her. “We’ve got a good view for this one, haven’t we?”

You settled into the seat, and the conversation flowed easily. You and Amanda chatted about life back in Dallas, while Berny made lighthearted comments about the match that had everyone laughing. It felt natural like you had always been part of their little circle.

As the match progressed, you found yourself absorbed in the excitement, cheering with Leah’s family and sharing in their joy when Arsenal scored. The atmosphere in the box was electric, and you couldn’t help but feel proud of Leah, watching her play with such intensity and grace.

During halftime, Leah’s brother Jacob joined you all in the box after running a bit late. You had met him a few times before, and the two of you had hit it off instantly. His easygoing nature made it easy to get along, and today was no different.

“Hey, Y/N,” Jacob said with a grin as he stepped into the box. “How’s it going?”

You smiled, giving him a quick hug. “Good to see you, Jacob. How’s everything been?”

“Same old, same old. Just here to cheer on the sis,” he replied, plopping down beside you. “Nice to see you here!”

You chuckled, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. And, of course, Leah’s match.”

Jacob grinned. “Yeah, she’s got a pretty good track record. Can’t wait to see her out there. She’s been on fire lately.”

You both turned your attention back to the game, cheering along with the rest of the family. The match was thrilling, and by the time the final whistle blew, Arsenal had claimed a solid victory. The excitement was palpable, and you could see the pride in Leah’s family’s eyes as they clapped and cheered for the team.

After the match, Leah made her way up to the box, her face glowing from the adrenaline of the game. She immediately caught your eye, and her smile softened when she saw you there with her family. She waved and made her way over to join you all, her arms wide open for a hug.

“Hey, babe,” she said, her voice warm and filled with affection as she wrapped her arms around you. “How’d we do?”

“You were amazing as always,” you said, squeezing her tightly. 

Leah beamed, clearly pleased by your words, before turning to her family. “Did you all enjoy the game?”

Amanda gave her a proud smile. “We always do. You were brilliant, sweetheart.”

Berny raised her cup of tea in a mock toast. “Couldn’t be more proud of you, darling. You played like the champion you are.”

Jacob grinned. “You were on fire, Le. I swear, every time you step onto that pitch, you get better.”

Leah laughed, clearly humbled by the praise, but you could see the pride in her eyes as she looked at her family. It was obvious how much their support meant to her, and how much she appreciated having them there to cheer her on.

The rest of the evening was filled with laughter and easy conversation. You could tell Leah was content, surrounded by the people who loved her most. And as the night wound down, you felt a deep sense of happiness—being with Leah, in her world, surrounded by her family, felt right.

Later, as you walked back to the car with Leah, she took your hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“You did great today,” you said softly, smiling up at her. “It was so good to see you in action again.”

Leah grinned, her eyes twinkling. “Thanks, babe. But honestly, it’s just better when you’re here with me. Feels like everything’s right when you’re by my side.”

You leaned in for a quick kiss, your heart full of warmth. “Well, I’ll always be here. You’ve got me for good.”

The days flew by far too quickly, and before you knew it, your last evening with Leah had arrived. You both decided to keep it simple—just the two of you, no distractions, making the most of your time together. Leah insisted on picking up pizza from a local spot she loved, and by the time she returned, the smell alone was enough to make your mouth water.

You had already set up the living room for a cosy evening, draping blankets over the couch and lighting a few candles. Leah walked in with the pizza boxes stacked in her hands and a mischievous grin on her face.

“I got your favourite,” she said, setting the boxes down on the coffee table. “And maybe a little extra because I know how much you love pizza.”

You laughed, pulling her into a hug. “You know me too well.”

The two of you settled onto the couch, Leah pulling you close as you both dug into the pizza. The TV played softly in the background, but the focus was more on each other than anything else. You talked about everything—plans for the next time you’d see each other, the little things you’d miss, and the memories you’d made during your visit. It felt bittersweet, knowing this was your last night together for a while.

As the evening wore on, you found yourselves tangled up on the couch, Leah’s arms around you and your head resting on her chest. She absentmindedly traced patterns on your arm, her voice soft as she spoke.

“I hate that you have to leave tomorrow,” she admitted, her tone laced with sadness. “It feels like I just got you back.”

You tilted your head up to look at her, offering a small smile. “I know. I hate it too. But we’ll make it work like we always do.”

Leah nodded, her lips pressing gently to your forehead. “You’re worth it, though. Every second apart, every long-distance call… it’s all worth it for this.”

The two of you stayed like that for hours, soaking in every moment together. By the time you made your way to bed, it was almost midnight, but neither of you wanted the night to end.

The next morning came all too quickly. The soft light of dawn filtered through the curtains as you quietly got ready, trying not to wake Leah. But as you slipped on your shoes, you felt her arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“Trying to sneak off without saying goodbye?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

You turned around, cupping her face in your hands. “Never. I just didn’t want to wake you.”

Leah gave you a sleepy smile, her hands resting on your hips. “You could’ve woken me. I don’t want to miss a single second with you.”

Her words made your chest ache, and you pulled her into a tight hug, burying your face in her neck. “I don’t want to go,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly.

“I don’t want you to go either,” Leah admitted, her hold on you tightening. “But we’ll get through this. We always do.”

The drive to the airport was quiet, the weight of your goodbye hanging in the air. When you finally arrived, Leah walked you to the security checkpoint, her hand firmly in yours. The moment felt heavy, both of you trying to hold it together.

“I’ll call you as soon as I land,” you promised, your voice trembling.

Leah nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “And I’ll pick up, no matter what time it is.”

You leaned in for one last kiss, slow and tender, trying to pour every ounce of love into that moment. When you finally pulled away, you saw a tear slip down Leah’s cheek.

“I love you,” she said softly, her voice cracking. “So much.”

“I love you too,” you whispered, forcing yourself to take a step back. “Always.”

[cozymoko]

I really loved your yandere cowboy OC idea (Jamie) and is it possible to ask for a part 2 or something? You have me hooked👀

My Fancy Lady

Yes, anon!

Nav. Masterlist

𐚁 Pairing. Yandere! Cowboy x City Girl! Reader

𐚁 Warning(s). slight yandere themes, subtle jealousy from reader, overall just lovey-dovey though.

𐚁 Format, word count. Scenario, 2.2k words

𐚁 Synopsis. You're returning to your home back in the city, but you wouldn't dare go without your precious cowboy.

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!

Jamie wasn't one for small talk—'less it was his woman doin' the talkin'. So, nights like this? Big ol’ fancy affairs? They weren’t his scene. He’d rather be anywhere else, maybe takin' on some honest work in town or catchin' a rodeo a few miles out. Hell, anything that didn’t have him stuffed into this stiff suit, collar chokin' him half to death.

But, reckon he had it comin’. You get yourself tangled up with a city girl, and suddenly you're wearin’ city clothes, trailed by folks who don’t know a lick about good, hard work. He couldn't help but stay close, though. With a pretty thing like you on his arm, he had to be. Men were wolves in these parts, sneakin' glances like they’d never seen a woman before—especially one who wasn’t theirs to look at. Made him chuckle under his breath. "What a damn shame."

Chandeliers dangled high above like crystal-studded stars, throwing soft light around the room. Gilded columns lined the walls, polished up so fine they seemed to look down on everybody else here. Tapestries hung alongside big, expensive-lookin' paintings—probably worth more than his whole ranch. The floor? It was slick as a lake after rain, shiny enough he’d bet a nickel it could trip even the steadiest cowboy.

Then there were the folks. Struttin’ around like proud peacocks, laughin' in polished tones that came off a little too uppity for his taste. Colors swirled around him—reds as bold as a fight, blues like icy temptation—colors he'd never even seen before danced across the floor. Reminded him a little of berries and fresh tomatoes, and just the thought got a chuckle outta him.

He’d never fit into this world, but it didn’t stop him from admirin’ its quirks now and then. Even so, this whole scene was like a country mile from his real life. He was just as sure he’d turn you into a cowgirl one day, but until then, he could appreciate the wonders of what money could do, even if he wouldn’t spend his hard-earned cash like this.

But there was one bright spot in all this: you.

There you were, right in the center of it all, falling into familiar voices and easy laughter. This was your world, and you looked like you belonged in it, talkin' to faces from your past who sized up the man beside you with curious glances. And yet, you smiled at them all—good and bad. Weren't you just the sweetest thing.

The cowboy stands across the ballroom, leaning against the wall, one foot tucked over the other. It's not that he didn't want to greet your folks, but your mama was a spitfire — hammering the two of you with more questions than he can count. He loved her, and your pa too, but he'd rather keep the last piece of his sanity tucked in his belt.

High society folks rubbed him wrong. Spoiled sons and daughters who’d had everything handed to 'em, struttin' through life without a lick of sense about hard work. Obnoxious, entitled, without a care for anyone who hadn’t grown up just like them. Jamie couldn’t stand it.

Yet somehow, out of all the men you coulda chosen, you picked him. What a thief, he thought with a quiet chuckle, his dark gaze never leavin' your face.

Course, he wasn’t all that innocent either—he’d done his damnedest to pull you away from this pampered life, wanted to whisk you off to the country, to his life, his world. And he’d caught you, good and proper. But that didn’t stop him from feelin' that familiar heat, the sharp taste of blood on his tongue from biting back the urge to snap at every wolf eyein' you tonight.

“Don't make a scene,” he murmured to himself like a man clingin' to a thin thread of patience.

He’d be lyin’ if he said he didn’t want you all to himself. Seein' you wrapped up in those fine silks, hair swept back in that way you liked best, lips painted in a soft color that made you glow... God, he wanted you. If he had it his way, you’d be in worn-out jeans, maybe one of his old flannels, smellin' of him and the wide open fields.

But he couldn’t tell you no. You hadn’t seen your family in months, and it just about broke his heart to see you so homesick. Jamie ain't one to go on about his old man, but if he learned one thing, it was this: happy wife, happy life. And you may not be his wife just yet, but he planned on changin' that real soon.

So to hell with all these other women, these high-class dames flittin' around the room. He didn’t care one bit about their money or their flirtin' glances. Jamie toyed with the silver pendant around his neck, tappin' his boot in time to the music.

Just then, a young woman drifted up, not much older than you, lips red as blood and curving into a sly smile. “Excuse me, sir,” she purred, “would you like to—”

“I’d be careful, sugar,” he cut in smooth, twirlin' his whiskey glass. “My wife fights. And I'd rather not see you back at your surgeon’s tonight.”

A crooked grin played on his lips as he raised his glass to his lips, his eyes catchin' yours across the room. There was only one woman he wanted on his arm, and she was wearin' a ring that matched his own.

You never thought you'd see him in a suit before your wedding, but it was quite the surprise — a pleasant one, at that.

Standing there in front of you, Jamie looked like he’d stepped right out of a magazine. Broad-shouldered, lean muscle wrapped in a midnight suit that clings just right, standing out among the tailored suits and smooth accents. The crisp white dress shirt only made his deep auburn hair look richer, slicked back smooth with every curl in place, and those dimples peeked out just as he caught you staring. His boots clack as he shifts, whiskey swirling in his hand, that silver band on his ring finger catching the glint of the chandelier. The sight of it alone sends any would-be admirer scuttling off with barely a second glance. He’s your plus one for the night, and the whole room knows it.

When he smiles, there’s a glint of trouble in his eyes, and those dimples—well, they could make even the stiffest folks around here swoon. He looks like the kind of man who just barely tolerates a tie, tugging at it with a smirk whenever he catches your gaze, as if to say, “You really think all this makes me any fancier?”

He’s still Jamie through and through: rugged under all that polish, with a bit of a roguish streak he could never quite hide. And tonight, even though he’s dressed up to meet your family and stand in this world of chandeliers and silk dresses, he’s every bit the man you fell for—charmingly untamed, with a quiet confidence that makes you weak in the knees.

Your friends try to pull you into old stories and polite gossip, but your eyes keep drifting back to him. Jamie’s gaze is steady, unwavering, as though he has little interest in the things around him. There’s a hint of a smirk playing at his lips every time he catches you staring, his dimples deepening, and that mischievous glint in his dark, loving eyes. You know that look too well. It’s possessive, fiercely protective, as if he’s daring anyone to even think about taking his bride-to-be.

The more you look at him, the more it pains you to look away. You try to play it cool, but he knows you too well—knew what to say, when to say it, and how to say it. It leaves you with thoughts from earlier in the day, making your knees weak all over again.

“My, my, he cleans up rather nicely,” a warm, familiar voice whistles beside you. “Don’t you agree, dear?” You jump, blinking back into the present, only to find your mother smiling knowingly.

“Distracted?” she teases, twirling you around to face her, an amused smile etched onto her red lips.

She glides past the group of dazzling damsels, fanning herself as she casts an appreciative glance toward Jamie. “Lord, honey,” she whispers in your ear, amused. “If he’s not about the most handsome thing I’ve ever seen—and the way he looks at you? It’s like he’s afraid the floor might steal you away.”

You laugh, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, but her words are truer than she knows. Jamie tips his glass toward you from across the room, raising it in a silent toast. There’s something soft in his expression—a flicker of mirth in his dark eyes.

You almost let them drown you, submerge you in their warmth. If not for the grating sound to your left.

"Who might that be?"

"I haven't seen him around."

"Should I ask him for a dance?"

"Do you think he's spoken for?"

"Of course, look at the jewel on his finger!"

"I quite fancy him. Shall I pursue him anyways?"

"Oh, how shameful~!"

Some of the girls here are looking his way—of course, they are. Jamie has that rugged charm, like he was carved out of southern dirt and bathed in the evening sun, with the wild confidence of a man who knows he’s got nothing to prove. His auburn hair, slicked back in a style that both respects the occasion and still says he’s a cowboy first, gives him a sharp, roguish look that’s almost out of place here, like a tiger in a cage.

But despite the glances, the obnoxious remarks, no one dares approach him. The way his eyes follow you, even from a distance, says more than words ever could. He isn’t here to be seen; he’s here for you.

Yet, it doesn’t make it any easier to hold your tongue. You’ve hosted these parties since the age of fourteen and know how people behave here—their promiscuous ways, and the men who can’t help but leer. High-class harlots looking for any man to pounce on, taken or not. Greasy men following women’s every move, provoked or not. You remember too well. This was the yearly matchmaking party hosted by four of the wealthiest families in the city, your family being one of them. It wouldn’t look good if you didn’t attend the event your household had built its reputation around.

You knew Jamie would settle on keeping to himself, yet you hadn’t thought your rugged companion would be the talk of the party. That alone makes the joy blossoming in your chest wilt. For once, it feels as though he isn’t just your fiancé, but everyone’s. Of course, you want everyone to love him as much as you do—but without undressing him with their winged eyes.

Just then, Jamie makes his way over, his familiar smirk making your heart skip a beat. “Sugar,” he says, poking the soft flesh of your cheek, his eyes gleaming with a familiar, mischievous warmth. When he finally makes his way back to you, he tips his drink up, raising a brow. “Sugarplum.”

His words go in one ear and out the other, turning fuzzy and static as they pass through your mind. A deep frown settles at the corners of your lips as exasperation bubbles over.

“Jamie, stop it!” you huff, swatting his hands away. “You’ll ruin my makeup, you damn brute.”

“Yeah, yeah…” he murmurs, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. But he doesn’t bother moving his hand from the top of your head, his fingers gently brushing through your hair as if daring you to protest again. You turn away, cheeks flushed, doing your best to regain the poise you usually wear like a crown.

Jamie notices the pout you're trying to hide, his lips curling in amusement. For all your princess-like composure, you’re showing more than you realize tonight. He leans down, his voice low and teasing.

“Don’t pout, pumpkin. Fix your face.”

You glare up at him, crossing your arms, but he just chuckles, reaching for your hand. Before you can react, he pulls you closer, his grip firm yet careful, as if he were holding something precious.

“Remember, Sugar,” he murmurs, giving your kiss a long, playful smooch. MUAH! “You’re the main character.”

With a playful glint in his eye, he twirls you around, his hand never leaving yours as he guides you in a slow, elegant spin. You can’t help but let out a surprised laugh, your frown dissolving as he twirls you like with practiced ease.

Only then had you decided.

That night was quite the surprise indeed—

A pleasant one at that.

©CozyMoko, all rights reserved. Don't repost my work on other platforms.

[gwenphobic]

COWBOYS ARE NOTHING BUT TROUBLE.

(arthur morgan x pianist at a saloon!male reader)

a/n; sorry for not posting for so long!! gwen stacy x black cat reader will return but rn i’ve had this worm stuck in my head for a min so hold on on that. STAY with me now, this one is good i swearr

You’ve never found it especially appealing, the way cowboys hold themselves and yip and yell about. The way they loiter and accidentally make themselves family men. It’s always been quite annoying though you imagine it is what you would’ve been had your parents been present. Nonetheless, it is not envy you hold toward them but.. annoyance. Yes, that red warmth in your stomach and heat on your face is pure annoyance. And nothing more. Of course.

Your town is small, of no concern. It would never even be dotted out on a map, it is so unimportant. You’ve always imagined what it would be like to leave but have never had the strength. Your place is here at town saloon, fingers dancing around the keyboard. The man who’d taken you had been saloon owner Pete Carter who’d taken your street urchin mind and managed to shift it into something greater, or well, something that makes money. Perhaps, this is why your faith is so strong.

The heat of the day beamed even on your face and flooded the floorboards of the saloon. You sigh. Still, the saloon will open and still will you play away. An Irish woman came in for she was new to town, new to America in a way so obvious. Not much people were here, only the town drunk and a few of the working girls. You sat down with her as she weeped softly, her curly brown tresses falling into her eyes. Her face was bent and curved to her age. She was a mother, you knew and had seen her son and daughter around town often. Trailing upon her like ducks to a mom. Her son was sweet and her daughter, proper. Both young, you didn’t believe either were a day over 6.

“Sir,” she cried, accent thick in her mouth. You rubbed her back before taking her hands. “Yes?” you replied. The mother sighed as she stopped her tears. “I need to write a letter home, but I’ve made no sense of the alphabet. Please do help me, sir,” she said and prayed, “Please know to write.” She looked as desperate as she sounded. She continued, “My Mam has passed, and I don’t know— I need to send my Da a letter. Oh, please, sir!” You shushed her and went to find a piece of paper. That afternoon you’d spent helping her craft a letter home.

As you sent her off, the saloon wasn’t quite full but neither was it empty. A few sat in drunkenness, others sat in a buzz. Some old, some young. It was a comforting feeling, a saloon not so full but neither so empty. You adjusted yourself when you heard it. The sounds of immature folk coming into town. The hooves of horses didn’t stumble as the clambered onto the dirt road. You could feel your stomach tighten with annoyance. Cowboys. Or rather, outlaws. Nonetheless, both were strangely irritating to you. The leather, the boots and all the self-confidence. Can anyone really blame you for holding such disdain? You roll your eyes and sit on the piano bench, beginning to play a tune.

Eventually, the attendance of the church extends and the more proper day drinkers leave. The last to leave is Old Charles McDonald, the union soldier with a limp and a missing tooth. He’s especially fond of his granddaughter who helps him around. He said, some days, he feels crazy. You remember nearly everyone who comes into the saloon, everyone who shares their tale with you. Why would anyone want to forget such history? You begin to help clean up before the sound of jangling spurs throw you off. You froze, completely froze. You turned around;

And there, your worst annoyances stood, an outlaw with two others trailing just before him.

You hid the grimace and continued to wipe down the windows. He wouldn’t be the last cowboy to come out tonight. You just knew the cowboy was walking with some sense of self-importance. You’d only gotten a glimpse but found yourself reflecting on the man’s looks, body. His sandy blond hair and nice tanned skin. Those shining eyes that you were almost certain were a shade of blue or green. You swallowed. He must be popular with the ladies, you came to the conclusion. He’s attractive, alright? Even you can admit that. You pushed a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly feeling.. insecure of your appearance. But insecure isn’t the right word, maybe just.. very oddly aware.

“Play a good one,” the man shouted out, his more pale friend snorted while the tanner one huffed. You scowled. You’ll play what you want, not what some insolent outlaw wants to hear. Your fingers find the keys and continue the same tune you’ve been playing. The outlaw can deal with it. Faintly, you hear the drunken footsteps coming closer. The saloon is bustling with business now, outlaws and working girls all circulating about.

“Hey there,” he greeted, his voice was faintly reminiscent of a southern accent. He was pretty, his eyes at least. All green and.. nice. You shook the thought away and returned in a hardened voice, “Hi yourself.” The man looked a little embarrassed if not.. nervous. He looked down, his hat shielding his face. “You, uh, you play real nice,” he complimented and a fill of warm crowded inside your stomach. You returned, “Thanks.” You continued playing as he spoke, “I hope.. Uh, we ain’t causing too much trouble for ya.”

You wanted to say something mean, or snarky. Usually, you would. But staring at this.. outlaw— he’s an outlaw, remember— you couldn’t help but fumbling out, “Oh, don’t worry about it. Y’all ain’t no more trouble than a few drunkards.” He smiled nicely. Really, it was a nice smile if you ignore how beat up his teeth seem to be. “Alright,” he drawled, “good.” The sound of the piano and chattering of the saloon kept the scene from being awkward. “I’m Arthur,” he added like it was an afterthought. You told him your name. “That’s a nice one,” he said and looked as if he was about to say something else before one of his friends called him back over.

“It’s alright,” you said, “go.” Arthur smiled a little brighter and touched your shoulder. “This ain’t the last you’ve seen of me,” he said lightheartedly before stepping back and returning to the bar. You could feel your face all warm, you inhaled. What was that feeling? Hate, maybe. But hate doesn’t make you all flustered like that. He didn’t even do nothing! You grimaced.

It was gonna be a long night.

[pedrospookie]

Hi pookie 🎀

I always think about what Jack Daniels would be like on a first date with reader after his wife’s death, maybe years have passed and he’s ready to start dating again. I could just imagine how sweet he would be when he flirts with you, trying his best to get you to like him 😭 fluffy fluff please 🩷

Hi friend!

Thank you so much for your patience while I wrote this fic— life got the best of me going into the holidays and I had some unexpected international travel on top of it all. I was determined like hell to get this finished for you today. I hope you like it!

Your Song

Jack Daniels x f!reader

a/n: not canon, jack will never be dead in my world, sorry not sorry! it’s also severely unbeta’d and completed while maxed out on mucinex so please forgive me for any plot holes or spelling mistakes. I also fear I went a lil rogue and made it a lil more sexy than sweet (I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry pls don’t hate me)

tw: mentions Jack’s dead wife & child, otherwise it’s just fluff!

As far as first dates go, this one was special. This was the first date Jack had been on since the passing of his wife and unborn son.

Sure, in his time as a Statesman he spent the night in the company of lovely women, wining and dining, gaining intel, passing the time. But Jack was a lover at heart. Beneath this rugged, suave, confident cowboy exterior was a soft, sensitive man who missed coming home to his wife at the end of a long day. His career exhausted him over time, proving to him that he could no longer run from this empty hole growing inside his chest. What was the point in fighting and risking his life if there was no one worth fighting for anymore?

After many years of service and one faked death later, Agent Whiskey hung up his hat and retired from the service. He was ready to start his life over.

And today was one of the many new firsts in this new chapter of his life. Today he was getting back on the horse and going on a date. You had caught his eye awhile back, both reaching for the last heirloom tomato at the farmer’s market. Through a small, yet friendly exchange, in which Jack let you have the last tomato, you realized that there was something there. The twinkle in his chocolate coloured eyes lit a flame in you. It took Jack a moment to accept his growing interest in you, praying that his angel in heaven would forgive him for moving on, let alone help him find the courage to ask you out. After 45 minutes of chatting in the produce section of the tiny wooden booth, and a short mosey to the cash, Jack finally found the courage to ask you on a proper date. The cool, confident cowboy was now replaced with a sweet, simple boy who wanted to get it right. You found his nervousness endearing, the way he fiddled with his moustache while trying to spit out the words to invite you out. How could you say no to those big brown puppy dog eyes? It was decided. The following Friday, Jack would swing by your place to pick you up for your first date: drinks at the local watering hole. If he was lucky, maybe you’d even let him have a dance by the ol’ jukebox.

At the respectable time of 7pm— sharp —Jack arrived with a gentle knock at your door. The anticipation was slowly knotting in his stomach, him frantically trying to untangle each worry and nerve until his attention turned with the sight of you standing in front of him. Jack could have caught flies with the way his mouth was hanging open, basking in your beauty. The silhouette of your dress flowing ever so gently among the evening breeze, causing his heart to race in his chest and pulse to quicken. The gentle flowers on the fabric trickled down just above where the hem of your skirt kissed your knee. Jack could feel his cheeks redden as he tried to look away, but simply couldn’t.

“Darlin’, you are gorgeous.” He breathes, clasping a firm hand to his chest as he tries to catch his breath, shooting you a look that makes butterflies soar in your tummy and knees buckle softly beneath you. His big brown eyes pooling into you, trying to take you in under the glow of the setting sun and dull porch light.

The hazy bar was filled with the regular crowd. The hum of people murmuring about their day filled the space, loud enough to drown out the music playing the background, but quiet enough to enjoy a conversation with the person in front of you. Jack had grabbed you both a drink, smirking as he asked you to pick your poison and shooting you a cheeky wink from the bar. After a couple of rounds, small talk and a shared bowl of peanuts, influenced by the liquor you’d consumed, you felt brave.

“How ‘bout a lil wager, cowboy?” You chirp, chewing softly on the straw of your drink, eyes focused on Jack’s as his fingers slowly twine themselves in yours, resting on the sticky wooden table top.

He smirks, his moustache following the coiling trail of his lips. Jack had never been one to back down from a bet, he wondered if it was too soon to show his competitive side, this was the first date after all.

You raise a single eyebrow, eagerly awaiting his reply. Jack tilts his head with a crooked smile, intrigued by your proposition and encouraging you to share what plagued your mind.

“If you can figure out how to take these coins off of this bill,” you muse, making the cotton bill taught, “only using only one hand, then the twenty is yours.” You smile, placing the twenty dollar bill on top of Jack’s empty beer bottle and stacking the spare change from the counter on top.

“And if I don’t?” He asks, seduction curling around his tone, like smoke off of a rich cigar. Jack’s dark eyes fall on you, his gazing piercing yours with a focus so intense that it sends a warmth through your belly.

You could feel your mouth go dry, suddenly very aware of your tongue and the words you are trying to choke out. Jack had taken your breath away with this sharp turn, from southern sweetheart to cowboy Casanova. In need of moisture, you clear your throat, averting your gaze from his to try and gain composure over yourself.

“Then the next round is on you.” You murmur, bringing your eyes up to meet Jack’s again, feeling yourself wanting to back away and draw first in this unspoken showdown.

“Hm…I think I could raise those stakes.” he smirks, leaning back on his bar stool. “If I don’t figure out your little party trick, then the next round is on me, darlin’.” Jack says confidently, bringing your free hand up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the delicate skin. “But if I do, then you can keep your twenty.” He adds, shrugging as if it were a matter of fact.

“Keep my twenty? You don’t want twenty dollars?” You scoff, playfully pulling your hand away from his as you reach for another sip of your drink, using this opportunity to ground yourself during this intense kinetic exchange.

“Nah, you keep it sugar.” Jack’s sly smile creeps up his face as he leans in, resting his chin on his hand, supported by his elbow which was now glued on the sticky table.

“Come on there’s gotta be something you want, something to wager?” You instigate, trying to rev that fire growing in your belly, eyes narrowing as you try to intimidate the cowboy. Proving to him that you aren’t going to back away from him now.

He thinks for a second, pretending to come up with this idea on the spot, snapping his fingers to indicate his little eurika! moment. Little did you know, this is what Jack had wanted from the very moment you made this little bet.

“There is.” His dark, raspy tone murmurs, further coaxing your curiosity. Jack slowly leans closer, his scent swirling off of him; notes of amber, leather, musk and cinnamon, a delicious combination that makes your head feel light and knees weak.

“More valuable than twenty dollars? Cause that’s all I’ve got.” You whisper, the facade fading as you feel yourself slowly submitting to Jack and his dark gaze.

“Darlin’, it’s much more valuable.” He says softly, grazing your ear with his moustache. His calloused finger brushing a piece of fallen hair behind your ear.

“And what would that be?” You breathe, the words barely coming out louder than a whisper.

“A dance with you.” He nods towards the jukebox towards the back of the bar.

This was the one moment in a long time where Jack was thankful for his training. Without breaking eye contact, he playfully tugged on the dollar bill, pretending to pull it out from the side. For a moment, you thought you had Jack fooled— another man falling for your cute bar trick. The feeling of the last few rounds was already making its way up your body, a warm, cozy feeling wrapping itself around you. There was certainly no need for another round, and who were you kidding? Jack had already paid for every round until this point and you had a sneaking suspicion that regardless of outcome, he would insist on paying for another.

Faking a deep sigh, Jack licks his finger and swipes down on the dollar bill, freeing it from the mismatched metal weighing it down. With a smirk and the tip of his hat, he hands you back your twenty dollar bill, trying to repress a chuckle. The look on your face was priceless and all he needed in return for foiling your trick.

“Pick a song, darlin’.” He says, handing you a handful of quarters, leaning up against the fluorescent machine. You press the cool metal in as you try to think of the perfect song, nothing too cheesy or outdated, but just right.

The melodious sound of a piano playing a familiar tune starts to flow out of the jukebox. Jack’s eyes grow wide with pride as he starts to recognize the song. A flushed feeling floods your cheeks, as he reaches his large, calloused hand out, offering yours a spot in his palm.

It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside,

I’m not one of those who can easily hide

You slowly find your rhythm with Jack’s guidance, his firm yet gentle grip guiding you around the jukebox, building your confidence and chuckling softly anytime you would mutter a sheepish apology after stepping on his foot.

“I didn’t know you knew how to dance.” You breathe out softly, finally making eye contact with him.

A soft chuckle leaves his lips as he leans in closer to you, your body pressing tighter into his chest. “Then there’s a lot you don’t know about me, darlin’.”

You could feel his smirk against your ear, eyes locking as he pulled away from your close embrace.

And you can tell everybody

This is your song

It may be quite simple but,

Now that it’s done

His gaze was magnetic, dark yet sweet, delicious like molasses with an affinity to coax you in. His thick, rugged hands held yours with a featherlight touch and the gentlest pressure on your lower back as he guided you around the floor. This moment was trance-like, as if you were the only two people in the bar. There was something enchanting about Jack Daniels, his ability to make you feel like the only girl in the world was dizzying. With the faintest touch, or twinkle of his eye, he had you hook, line and sinker.

It was refreshing to be out with a man like Jack — an actual man, one who wasn’t afraid of sharing his feelings with you, a man who was respectful and appreciative of you, a man who found the balance of southern chivalry and the ability to roll with the new age. With every twang of his southern drawl, your heart crept closer and closer to his. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him and those deep brown eyes, the ones that were gazing at you longingly, studying the precious features of your face.

Unbeknownst to you, Jack was drinking you in.

You had kindled something in him, something long repressed from his past and aching to explode to the forefront. The way you smiled at him made him tongue tied, he knew you were beautiful from the moment he met you, but getting to experience your beauty up close was astonishing. He tried to stifle the growing flames in his belly, employing his fear to extinguish these feelings but it only stoked the fire more, sending those flames burning. God, he wanted to kiss you so badly. He had from the moment you opened that door.

You notice a cheeky look across the cowboy’s eyes, his guiding hand slowly pushing you back from your resting place on his chest. Suddenly, the entire bar was spinning around you, once, then twice, and then you were back home in your place on Jack’s firm chest. His eyes asking for forgiveness in a childish, playful way.

I hope you don’t mind

I hope you don’t mind

That I put into words

How wonderful life is while

You’re in the world

Completely enraptured by one another until the sound of a wild guitar solo brought you back down to earth, the song you shared long gone and replaced by the sounds of an 80’s hair band.

A smooth Casanova through and through, Jack slowly presses his hand to your back and he slowly lowers you into a dip, your arm gripping tighter onto the back of his neck, using his taught chest as an anchor. Jack’s lips are now inches from yours, his moustache ghosting over your bottom lip, as if he were testing the waters faintly before bringing you back up to your feet.

You couldn’t decipher the soft look in his eyes, the warm brown tone being taken over by the dark pools of his irises as his thumb traces the contour of your full lips. His hot breath skimming the surface of your face, his mouth desperate and hungry for something.

A slow smile grows on your face, grateful for the liquid courage, slowly pulling his face closer to yours, lips inches from yours.

“You know, Jack…this is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me.” You whisper softly, granting the old fashioned man permission, subconsciously knowing what his eyes had been asking. Within milliseconds, his plush lips crashed onto yours, wrapping you into a passionate embrace. The taste of mint, whiskey and something inherently Jack on his lips. You couldn’t get enough of it.

Jack slowly breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead gently to yours as he catches his breath. His stomach filled with butterflies, dragonflies and ladybugs, anything lovely and sweet that reminds him of you, going absolutely wild from the simple touch of your lips. You were magic, like a drug Jack had so deeply yearned for all of these years, and he couldn’t get enough of you. He said a silent prayer of gratitude, in complete and utter disbelief to have this second chance at love in this life. He wasn’t going to take you for granted.

banners by @saradika-graphics 🤍

tag list: @josephquinnswhore @syd-djarin

[fairyysoup]

cowboy like me

part two: takes one to know one

pairing(s): wild west outlaw!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: The strange man who stumbled into your hiding place is an idiot and also really pretty. It turns out trouble is something you have in common.

cw: mature themes, cowboy/wild west au, slow burn, enemies to lovers-ish?, past eddie x chrissy mention, guns, implied outlaw!reader, death threats, gunshot wounds, definitely inaccurate descriptions of frontier medicine, blood, some dark comedy.

word count: 2.7k

a/n: Behold the newest installment of Rose playing with barbies: cowboy edition. This is a continuation of an initial chapter I posted nearly a year ago now. I want to thank everyone who has been patient with me, since this year has been really terrible for my inspiration and creativity. I do my best to write when I can, but shit's been real hard if I'm honest. So thank you for sticking with me, even when I haven't been all that active on the writing front.

THIS ENTIRE FIC IS EXPLICIT. ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

part one | fic playlist for your listening pleasure

Once he loses consciousness, Eddie’s wound is fairly easy to dress. You find three old bottles of whisky hidden behind a false back to a cabinet, and uncork one to use as antiseptic. 

He hasn’t lost a lot of blood, to be fair. His blouse is ruined, but the blood had barely begun to saturate his coat, and the wound isn't more than a deep gash in his side. It seems that the bullet had only grazed him. 

It doesn’t help your predicament that Eddie is very, very handsome when he’s not actively creating an extreme inconvenience. The shadows make his cheeks look more sunken than they actually are, but his eyelashes flutter like he’s seeing a pleasant dream behind them. They touch his cheeks and make him look like a prince from a fairytale book you had as a girl. 

M’just doing whatever you tell me to, princess. 

He’s a regular damsel in distress, this Eddie character. You wonder what his end goal is. You wonder what he did to be on the run from Jason Carver and his goons. 

But this isn’t a fairy tale, you remember, and nor are you any kind of a princess, despite what he calls you. Nothing is more apparent when you look down at Eddie’s blood on your hands and dress, and you have to use a cut piece of your underskirt to tie against the stitches you gave him with a sewing needle you found at the bottom of a desk drawer. Sterilized with fire and a bit of liquor, of course.

By the time that Eddie finally stirs, night has fallen. You’ve already shed your bloody day dress and soaked it in some cold water from the well out back; which you harvested in the dark, mind you, because you don’t know if Jason Carver’s buddies are still hanging around to see if you actually are hiding a fugitive in here. The last thing you needed was someone seeing you come conspicuously wandering out of a cabin covered in blood, for no discernible reason. 

There’ll be a stain on the dress, but that’s nothing you can’t tie an apron over and call it a day. What you really wish is that the well was a bit more of a river, so you could jump into it and let it pull you downstream, away from all this mess, and take all the blood and grime of the day with it. What you wouldn’t give for some proper soap. 

Eddie groans, and for the first time in hours you find yourself genuinely scared. Scared that maybe his wound was worse than you expected. Scared that he’s gonna die of sepsis right in front of you. Worse, scared that he’s gonna ask you questions, and you don’t know what you’ll even say. 

Your gaze falls on the leather satchel by the door– the one that holds everything you have to your name inside of it. Everything that put you in this predicament in the first place. You have a mind to burn it on the fire, but you hesitate. There’s still hope for you yet, if you can just get out of here.

Eddie’s eyes blink open just as soon as you’ve turned toward your soaking dress, hanging from a pin on the mantle, and you reach to turn the wetter side toward the flames. There was just enough old wood in the cabin to build a half-assed fire, which is about the only thing you can be thankful for at the minute, considering the wind rips through the canyon quicker than a mustang and the cabin gets the brunt of it.

Behind you, Eddie coughs. And then he says something– or, he tries, but it comes out about as pretty as a braying donkey with laryngitis. 

“Hush,” you tell him, and hurry to pour him a cup of leftover clean well water. ‘Clean’ being a term used loosely. It’s water and it wasn’t used to clean your dirty clothes, but that’s about what you can say for it. 

He takes it graciously all the same. After he’s drained the cup, his head flops back onto the pillow in another cloud of dust, and he scrunches his nose up in a way that shouldn’t be as cute as it is. “How long was I out for?”

It’s the first thing he’s said that you can make out, but it’s a question that doesn’t make you cringe to answer it. “Couple hours. Patched your wound.”

“Oh, y’did?” Eddie cracks an eye open and peers down toward his hip– which is when he realizes the gravity of his state of undress. 

You see, the thing about hip injuries is that it’s really difficult to deal with them when there’s fabric blocking your access. And the thing about fabric on a hip is that it’s usually connected to a garment, which on men is usually a pair of trousers, which usually need to come off if you’re going to get anything done. 

Eddie yelps suddenly and yanks a pillow across his groin as a crimson blush blasts over his face. The torn piece of your underskirt is wrapped around his torso– but to get it to stay put, you had to take an extra length and fasten it around his thigh as well. Which means you got very familiar with his anatomy in the process. 

“Well, you, ah–” Eddie shivers, avoiding your eye like the plague. “You’ve been thorough.”

You snort. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a naked man. At least your bandages won’t go anywhere when you move.”

“You a nurse?”

The question makes you scowl, but you’re not sure why it does. Maybe because you don’t want him asking any questions about your life, but you can answer this one. “No. So thank Christ it wasn’t worse than that.”

Eddie chuckles, creases forming in the corners of his eyes. His eyes rake over you, taking in your corset and cotton skirt, now missing a few inches off the hem. The lacey bottoms of your combinations poke out from beneath the cut-off hem of the petticoat. 

“You’re real pretty, y’know that?” he murmurs sweetly, meeting your eye finally. 

You scoff at that, turning away from him finally. It feels a little like admitting defeat. “You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause I’ve taken your pants.”

“Well, I got your underwear around my waist, so I think we’re even.” 

He grunts as he struggles into a sitting position, still clutching the pillow against his pelvis. It doesn’t do much to cover him; when you turn, you can still see the trail of hair leading from his belly-button to his crotch, his thighs spread apart on either side of it. His legs splayed out across the old mattress, its sheets rumpled and dust covered beyond usability. 

“So, you’re not a nurse but you know pretty well how to dress a wound. So… what do you do?”

You bristle at that. “You shouldn’t move too much, you’ll tear your stitches.”

“Ah– avoiding the question. Okay, I know this one.” He’s overly pleased with himself, flashing you a sardonic grin. “You think I’m a pissing sonofabitch who’ll use anything you say against you, so you’re not gonna tell me anything about yourself, even though we’re gonna be stuck together for god knows how long–”

“And whose fault is that?” You snap. He looks taken aback by your biting tone, even though you held him at gunpoint just hours ago. “I could be miles away from here if you hadn’t fuckin’ waltzed in with all your trouble. I could be moving on. I wouldn’t be stuck here playing house with you. And you’re hogging the fuckin’ bed, so thanks for that, too.”

You huff and turn back towards the fire, smacking it with a poker a few times just for good measure. Sparks fly from the burning wood, emitting a cloud of smoke that billows out a bit, but then gets sucked up the floo. 

“Hey,” Eddie says gently now, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “Look, I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t know that anyone was here. I wouldn’t have broken in if that was the case, y’know? Usually when you’re on the run, you try to avoid people. I mean, what the hell kinda good is someone else…”

Eddie trails off as he’s talking, and your heart starts beating hard enough to reverberate in your ears. You’re still prodding the fire, kicking up sparks, even though it’s about as stoked as it’ll get. 

“You’re on the run.”

His voice is low. Hesitant, like he’s afraid of the answer. 

You nearly roll your eyes at how long it took him to come to that conclusion. You told him you were hiding, after all. “Don’t fuckin’ worry yourself about it now.”

“Aw, hell. Shit.” The bed frame squeaks. He’s trying to get up. “Fuck. Shit shit shit–”

“What are you doing?” You hiss, getting up to plant a hand firmly on his shoulder before he entirely gets off the bed. “Are you insane? You’re gonna tear those stitches and then I’ll have to fix them right back up. Stay. Still.”

“You’re on the run,” he repeats, gazing up at you wildly.

“We both are,” you tell him. “So don’t make it harder on the both of us, all right?”

“But what are you running from?”

You don’t answer him. You’re too busy fussing over the makeshift bandage around his waist, trying to tighten it even though you tied it rather well to begin with, and it hasn’t moved much. 

“What did you take from Jason Carver?” you ask him mildly instead. “He said that you took something from him.”

“Well. First of all, she wasn’t his property.”

“Oh.” You pause, eyeing him closely. 

“And second, I didn’t take anything. I only did what she asked me to.” Eddie looks away from you sheepishly. “And I loved her. Which is more than he can say, anyways.”

You don’t say anything, keeping your eyes downcast at the bandage around his middle. You feel your cheeks heating up in spite of yourself. 

“Not that there’s anythin’ to do about it now, y’know,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “He’s got her locked down in some pre-matrimonial agreement and she’s not gonna leave that big bad oil tycoon for some good for nothin’ piece-a-shit outlaw who can’t give her nothing no-how, so.” 

“You clearly have a high opinion of yourself. I’m sure you must have given her something she wanted, or else you wouldn’t be here,” you remark, and you pretend not to notice the crimson blush cresting his cheeks. 

Eddie takes a shuddering breath, his eyes roving around the room rather than looking at you. “Nah… I was just a good time for her. But– but Jason’s got it in his head that I forced her, y’know. That Chrissy didn’t… she wouldn’t have done it willingly. Which I didn’t. I would never.”

“Okay,” you tell him gently, pushing one hand on his bare shoulder to ease him back against the dusty pillows. “Don’t get worked up trying to sell your story, darling. As far as I’m concerned, if you’re not gonna throw yourself at me, that’s one less thing I have to worry about.”

“Who says I’m not gonna throw myself at you, sugar?” He fixes you with a wide grin, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes. They’re too sad for that. “I’ve been known to be real loose in my time.”

You give him a deadpan look, and then reach down to gently flick his hip with your middle finger. He jumps, yelps, and then readjusts the pillow against his crotch. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. No good times for you, slick.” 

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Eddie sighs in defeat, laying back like a martyr. “Well, I showed you mine. What’re you running from? Pretty thing like you… can’t imagine what kind of skeletons you’ve got hidden in that corset.”

“Closet, you mean.”

“If you insist.”

You stare down at him, breathing one long exhale through your nose. He’s infuriating, even when he’s just covering up his raw emotions. 

You think for a long moment. He may not be a direct threat to you right now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t turn you in when the fancy strikes for a good enough bounty. 

“Someone… close to me. Made some people angry. And now they’re after me, too. That’s all.” Your halting speech doesn’t lend much credence to your words, but it’s just succinct enough that it doesn’t really matter. Your eyes flit nervously around the room, the satchel in the corner over your shoulder nearly buzzing like it wants to get up and tell the story itself. 

That your brother is dead. That he left you a gun and some papers that could make or break you. And right now, all it seems to be doing is breaking you. 

Eddie doesn’t bat an eye. “Who made who angry?”

“That’s not really your business, now, is it?”

“It is if they’re comin’ after me, too, sugar.” He tilts his pretty head against the pillows, and the fire gleams in his eyes. “Why do they want you?”

“The details don’t matter,” you snap at him. “I’ve told you enough. Now you know. Everything else is personal, and frankly, I don’t trust you.” 

Eddie clicks his tongue. “Shucks. That really smarts, y’know. And here I thought, what with you playing house and seeing my junk and all, maybe we were on the way to some kind of understanding.”

You suck on your teeth. He grins at you like he’s just caught you bluffing in a game of cards. You’ve spent too much time in saloons to not know a grifter when you see one. He has all the personality of a gambler without any of the subtlety.

I play dice real good. Yeah, you bet.

“Go to hell, Munson,” you grumble, turning away from him spitefully. 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart. But what’s in it for me?”

You’re halfway to figuring out exactly what would be in hell for him, when a bullet bursts through the front door and past your shoulder, hitting the back wall of the cabin. It takes you half a second to register it at all, but by that time, three more shots have taken out the left window.

“Get down!” 

Eddie’s hand snatches your wrist tightly, and the room tilts. You gasp and find yourself on the floor, in a heap, with Eddie’s weight pressing down on you. 

A bullet hits the pillow where his head just was. You can’t help the scream that rips out of you, while feathers drift through the air and bullets fly overhead. Eddie’s hand cradles the back of your head, tucking your own against his neck. Your legs are tangled in his, which is tangled in the dusty sheets from the bed and your torn petticoat. In the madness, it barely even occurs to you that he’s shielding you with his body.

“Where’s my gun?” Eddie pants in your ear.

“What?”

“The gun!”

You swivel your head to the side and spit out a strand of his curly hair that had weaseled it’s way into your mouth in the ruckus. You’d put both his guns in your satchel, and the rifle by the door. You gesture in the general direction of it.

“Motherfuck-!” Eddie’s colorful retort is drowned out by another bullet ripping into the wall just over your heads, spraying wood chips across your face.

The gunfire stops abruptly, following several shouts from outside. Masculine voices ring out in the night beyond the now-broken window. 

Suddenly, a clear voice rings out over the uproar. “Eddie?” 

Eddie turns his head in the direction of the young man’s voice. There’s nothing but darkness beyond the window, but he seems to recognize whoever it is by the sound alone.

“Henderson?” There’s a murmur of laughter from several other voices besides the one that Eddie identifies.

“What’re you doing?” the one supposed to be Henderson calls.

Eddie shifts on top of you and grunts in pain. You turn your head to look at him and see the sweat on his brow. You figure his wound must be hurting him. You lay a gentle hand on his bare shoulder, and he almost flinches when he remembers that you’re underneath him. His skin burns hot against your palm.

“Uh,” Eddie calls, his eyes flicking between you and the window. “Trying not to get shot. What’re you doing?” 

More laughter. There must be four or five voices coming from all around the cabin. With a loud, humorous gasp, Henderson calls back jovially, “Tryn’a shoot you, of course.”

[aheckinmess]

Redamancy: A Mighty Valentine's Day

Part of @prominencesmashers Valentine's gift exchange! @actuallysaiyan was my valentine! I hope it fills your heart with so much joy!

Read on AO3.

Tags: Toshinori Yagi, All Might, Smol Might, Small Might, Reader, All Might-centric, Fluff, A Little Angst, And Everything in Between!, Nemuri Kayama Mentioned, Shouta Aizawa, Eraserhead, Hizashi Yamada, Present Mic, Thirteen Mentioned, All Might x Reader, Present Mic x Thirteen, The Three Dumbigos Included, Toshinori is Bad at Feelings, 5 + 1 fic, The five times Toshinori tried to confess his feelings to you, + the 1 time he succeeded, Gift Fic, Prominence Smash Valentine's Day

Word Count: 4,200 words

Summary: Valentine's Day is right around the corner, and Toshinori wants to admit his feelings for you before it's too late! Though he's got the spirit, he'll quickly learn that life knows how to throw some unexpected curveballs. Does that stop the Symbol of Peace? Absolutely not. OR The 5 times Toshinori tries to confess his feelings to you, and the one time he succeeds.

Author's Note: I've given the reader the name "Yin" (for, Your Name) and "Lyn" (for, Last Name) because I think it looks better than writing "Y/N," "L/N," "Name," or any other alternatives.

Attempt No. 1

All Might can do anything.

No matter how dire the situation, no matter how impossible the odds, no matter how strong his opponent, All Might perseveres and always comes out on top with a mighty fist raised high. 

Toshinori, on the other hand, is beside himself trying to wrangle the tangled knot of feelings in his chest. Valentine’s Day is right around the corner and he’s determined to ask you out before Snipe tries pulling out his rugged cowboy charms on you.

Considering he has zero experience with women and little to go off of aside from Midnight’s salacious soliloquies, he opts for a more classical option: flowers – which is why he’s currently thumbing through a bouquet catalogue with the local florist.

“And you said this one will be sure to catch her attention?” He points in the catalogue at a colorful arrangement themed with red, white, and pink flowers. 

“Oh, certainly!” The lady beams as she ties a bow around the stems of another bundle. “She’ll know what you’re trying to say for sure. This bouquet is well known in this area as the Matchmaker.”

“It is? Perfect! I’ll take these then.”

. . . . .

Toshinori sets up a time for the two of you to meet in the park as the venue for his timely confession. The wait for the bouquet isn’t bad, but actually having it in his hands prompts the Symbol of Peace to start pacing. Over and over he runs through what he’ll say, fumbling over his words even as he mutters them to himself. After a few moments, however, he’s worried he’ll ruin the bouquet and takes deep, cleansing breaths to center himself and pause.

Just be honest, like Aizawa said.

By the time he makes it to the meeting place in the park, he’s at his wit’s end. Facing villains suddenly seems much easier than this.

“Hello, my dear.” He plasters on a smile as his hands shake around the bundle of flowers behind his back. “I’m glad we could meet today.”

“Toshinori! I’m glad, too! It’s been a while since we’ve had a proper hang out.” The way your face lights up erases every single thought and essay he’d prepared this morning and the night prior. “What’s that you’ve got behind you? Is it a present for me?”

“Yes! W-Well, it’s nothing much. Just–”

BOOM!

An explosion rattles the ground beneath you both and screams in the distance send All Might on autopilot. If only he could think to hand you the damn bouquet in the meantime. 

But no. Instead, his fist tightens around it as he turns to you with frantic, blue eyes.

“Don’t move! Stay safe right here and I’ll go check it out!” He instructs.

The flowers disintegrate the moment he zooms in the direction of the blast, two blocks over. With a growl, he leaves them crumpled in the nearest blue bin as he sets his sights on the large bank robber sporting a hockey mask and massive paws. 

“You look like you could use a full serving of justice !” All Might laughs, whizzing over to the bank thief in record time, hoisting him up by the collar.

“A-All Might?! What are you doing in this district?!” The man squirms in the No. 1 hero’s grasp.

“My ears are always alert to the sound of villainy, no matter the distance!”

The bank robber is quickly subdued, as well as his lackeys trickling out of the bank behind him. By the time the cops arrive, a large group of grateful bank tellers and gawking civilians gather to watch their Symbol of Peace usher the culprits into the back of a police cruiser.

“Your finances are secure now…because I am here !” He grins wide while sporting a thumbs up.

When the cameras begin flashing, All Might knows he has to make a quick escape if he wants to conserve energy. “Thank you all for your continued support!”

In a flurry of wind, he jumps up to find the park again and stares at his empty palm. Damn. So much for the bouquet. His eyes land on the park and he drifts closer to the ground when another scream fills his ears.

“HELP!” A voice shrieks another block over. “Somebody help me!” 

Adjusting his course, All Might lands behind the offender, eyes glistening with determination and exuding a blue aura of menace as his feet stomp against the asphalt.

“Taking what doesn’t belong to you, hm? Looks like someone failed to teach you boundaries!” All Might’s dark smile paralyzes the fiend holding a stolen purse.

“All Might!” The victim chokes on a sob. “Thank you, oh, thank you!”

“Have no fear, ma’am. For I am here !” 

. . . . .

One hour turned to two until All Might’s watch flashes 12:00. He groans when he makes it back to the park and sees you’ve already left. To top things off, he’s used all but one hour of his energy, so he finds an alleyway to transform back to normal in a puff of steam. Shit.

He opts to walk home, having nothing else on the docket for the day and needing a much needed nap. On his way, he pulls out his cellphone.

I’m so sorry, Yin. Can we reschedule another meeting time and place? He sends the message all while kicking himself for the missed opportunity.

But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just leave others in harm’s way for a date. What might have happened if I hadn’t intervened? His mind wanders and worries until your text tone jingles in his ear.

Of course! I understand, Toshi. I had a meeting at noon, or I would have kept waiting for you. So don’t worry!

Toshinori sighs, both reassured and deflated at the sight of your message.

I’ll just have to set up another meeting and try to tell her again.

---------------------

Attempt No. 2

“You’re trying to confess to Lyn?” Hizashi doesn’t know ‘quiet.’ He simply can’t help himself as he walks with Toshinori to the nearest arcade and whoops, “My MAAANN!”

“Shh! She’ll hear you!” Toshinori hisses, eying the arcade and feeling his ears ring. “Is there a subtle way I can let her know how I feel?”

“You’re talking to the King of Courting himself, Mr. Yagi!” Hizashi laughs. “But in all seriousness, it’s all about being honest and poetic. Her eyes aren’t just beautiful, they’re…” Hizashi gestures for Toshinori to complete the phrase.

“...exquisite?” Toshinori rubs the back of his neck.

“No! Well, yes, but you’ve gotta dig deep, man! Her eyes aren’t just beautiful, they sparkle like a million stars! Her smile isn’t just radiant, it…”

“...puts the sun to shame?”

“Now you’re getting it!” Hizashi exclaims as they step into the glowing arcade. “Good luck, good buddy! Just speak from the heart.”

With a clap on Toshinori’s shoulder, Hizashi disappears towards a group that is unmistakably Aizawa, Kayama, and Shirakumo. Now, Toshinori is left to find you himself, so he takes a deep breath as his eyes skim the many different game systems while brainstorming different compliments to give you.

As soon as his eyes find you, however, all flirtatious comments vaporize from his mind. Not one coherent thought remains when you turn to him with a wide grin sporting an All Might dress completed with white leggings.

Ten silent seconds pass by, and then your cheeks turn rosy while he stands ogling like an oaf.

“I’m sorry. Is this too weird to you? I almost talked myself out of wearing it. I figured it was too weird or fangirly, but I’d been hoping it seemed more appreciative…”

“No, no! You look amazing! It looks better on you than it does on me!” Toshinori blurts, his own face exploding in shades of red. “N-Not that I’d wear that…I meant my colors…or um, ah. I-I just didn’t expect it to look so perfect on you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous now.” You snicker, finding him endearing. “Come on. Let’s go see if anyone has beaten our high score on Galaga.”

The bells and whistles of pinball machines mingle with speaker sounds of gunfire, space blasters, and racecars screeching around a pixelated track. As it turns out, you reach Galaga and a new set of initials sits at the top of the leaderboard.

“Oh, no way! This means war!” You pretend to roll up your sleeves before pulling back your hair and grinning up at Toshinori. “We’ll reclaim the title!”

“With your spirit and determination? It is impossible to lose!”

. . . . .

You’re far too gracious, in Toshinori’s opinion, when you type his initials as the “New High Score!” icon flashes celebratory gold. Even though he urges you to take credit where it’s due – he didn’t even touch the console! – you dismiss him with a wave and nudge his shoulder.

“What’s important is that we have fun together.” You laugh, leaning your head on his arm and looking up at him with wide, dazzling eyes. “Don’t you agree?”

Toshinori can’t possibly refute it. Just your expression alone clasps his heart in an iron-grip. He knows in that moment he would do anything for you; you make Toshinori feel just as valuable as All Might. 

Like he could do anything no matter how dire the situation, no matter how impossible the odds, no matter how strong his opponent.

You make him feel like living .

This is the moment. He’s sure of it.

“Yin,” He begins, clearing his throat. “Do you think maybe we could–”

“Oh my gosh, Yin! Hey!” A girlish voice screeches and suddenly he’s torn apart from you. 

The moment fades as a sinking feeling is ushered into his gut. Of course, he delights in seeing you so happy reuniting with some old friends, but he can’t help but believe he’s missed his chance. One glance around the arcade shows him an entire dating pool entirely in your league and out of his. Could you possibly even want him? 

“Toshi?” Your voice breaks through his spiraling internal monologue.

“Hm?”

“You don’t mind if I hang out with them for a bit, right? You can tag along if you’d like. It’s just been so long since I’ve seen them.” You reach across and squeeze his hand.

“You go have fun.” He chuckles, taking your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I have matters to attend to anyway, so it all works out. Be safe, wherever you decide to go.”

“Thank you.” You surprise him by rushing into his side for a swift hug. He can only stand there, semi-startled as he blinks and you pull back. “Text me if you need anything.”

“Likewise.”

-----------------------

Attempt No. 3

When you invite Toshinori out for a picnic three days later, he’s determined to suppress his feelings after two bitter failures. Or perhaps just letting his emotions bubble up to the surface naturally will yield better results than his previous two attempts?

That doesn’t mean Toshinori slacks in putting together his appearance, however. Normally wily locks of blonde hair have been tamed flat against his temple, complimented by a silky yellow button-up that accentuates his lanky frame. Pressed brown trousers lead into sleek dark loafers.

With one final look in the mirror and a glance at his watch, Toshinori hops up and down a few times to hype himself up before grabbing his phone, his keys, and starting a brisk jog to the beach. Come on. You’re the Symbol of Peace! You can have a cordial picnic with the woman you secretly adore.

Your blanket and large beach umbrella is impossible to miss on the searing sand. You’ve set up a dark wicker basket on a plaid blanket as you lay back in a lounge chair to soak up the sun. When you hear Toshinori approach, you crack open an eyelid with a shit-eating grin.

“Toshinori, you will never guess what I learned yesterday.”

Something about the way you’re looking at him prompts him to loosen another button on his shirt – or maybe he’s just winded from the jog over. 

“What’s that?”

You pull out a folder and open it, revealing a weathered news article with a picture of All Might face-planting into the streets of Shibuya. Immediately, Toshinori grimaces at the memory and turns to look at the ocean instead.

With a hefty sigh he grunts, “Okay, you’ve got your blackmail, what do you want?”

Laughter bubbles from your chest and you fall back against the lounge chair, pulling your sun hat over your face to muffle the snorting that follows.

“I don’t want anything!” You cackle. “I just thought it was funny! You’re always portrayed as this big hero who never misses a beat, never trips over his own feet; it’s nice to appreciate your humanity every now and then. I think it’s endearing. It makes you more approachable.”

“I’m not sure eating pavement would qualify as approachable.” Toshinori scoffs, taking a bite of strawberry as you both enjoy each other’s company.

“You don’t know that. Maybe someone with a really weird quirk out there has this very news clipping taped up in their room!” You taunt, ruffling his neat and tidy hair.

“Hey!”

“What? It’s too flat. I prefer it more when it’s a fluffy mess.” You shrug.

“I…wait, really?” He pats his hair and combs four large fingers through the wispy strands. “I didn’t know. I thought maybe I’d try to tame it since we were having a nice picnic – it seemed a formal enough occasion to me.”

“Toshi, I’ve seen you hold press conferences with a messier style.”

“Yes, but…I don’t know! I just wanted to see if maybe you’d like it better flattened down.” He grants you a smile. “But I’m glad you like it messy. It was starting to get suffocating.”

“No need to act out of your comfort zone for my sake.” You giggle, setting your chin on your palm as you smirk at him. “Though I’m flattered you did all of that for me.”

Toshinori meets your eyes and he wonders if he should seize this opportunity. This time, he just manages to open up his mouth when a gust of wind sends your hat flying across the beach and soaring towards the crashing waves.

“Ah! My hat!” You lurch up to run after it with Toshinori quickly taking point beside you.

Sand showers between the two of you as the hat glides and flutters on a different course every few seconds, always a fingertip away from your grasp. Toshinori nearly secures the prize when he trips and, in a fit of irony, lands face first in the sand.

He lifts his head, sputtering and spitting out grains of sand as you fall back, hat in hand, howling and holding your sides as you’re overcome with mirth. Once you calm down, belly still shaking with aftershocks of giggles, you help him blow out the remaining debris in his eyes.

“Thank you.” He exhales, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all while he dries his eyes on his shirt. “We speak of this to no one.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m keeping this experience all to myself.”

------------------------

Attempt No. 4

One week remains until Valentine’s, and Toshinori knows that if he wants to stand a chance in hell at getting heartfelt chocolates from you, he needs to step up his game. He’s tried flowers, he’s tried flirting, he’s tried a friendly outing on the beach, and now he’s got to resort back to basics again: dinner.

He follows the proper procedure, toeing the line between continued friendship and secret admirer as he holds your chair out for you and tells you how radiant you look this evening. 

“You’re a lifesaver, Toshi. This week has been insane and I need a good meal.”

Once he pushes your seat in, you roll your neck around and allow your muscles to relax and settle. The way your shoulders slump and your face smooths out leaves no question in Toshinori’s mind that tonight is the right decision.

“I’m glad to be of assistance. You’ve been looking overworked.” He admits, sipping from his water glass before the waiter comes to take his order. “Is there anything specific that’s been weighing on you? I-If you feel comfortable sharing, of course.”

You don’t miss a beat.

“Ugh, it’s just the kids have been crazy , lately. I swear there’s a full moon on the horizon.” You lean forward on the table as you invest yourself in the conversation. “Most of them are starting to understand press conference etiquette and I can see their progress. It’s just, I think they know the break is coming up and it doesn’t help that I’m at my wit’s end and getting burnt out.” 

Both of you pause as the waiter sets your orders in front of you. Toshinori waits for you to continue, except you’ve already dug into your meal. He chuckles when your eyes roll around in your head.

“I’m glad you like it. This place has udon that’s out of this world.”

“If I weren’t already so emotionally pent up, I would cry.” You admit between bites. 

Enraptured by your every word – and thoroughly impressed with his food – Toshinori sits across from you for an agreeable meal, offering himself as your ranting soundboard since you seem to need the release. Once he’s paid after dessert, the two of you stroll arm in arm towards your apartment. 

“I hope I didn’t steal the spotlight this evening.” Your hair curtains your blushing cheeks as you stare at your feet. “I didn’t intend to go on a whole tirade. You know you’re allowed to do the same thing with me, right?”

“Of course. My week has been amiable, and this week you needed me. So, I’m more than happy to be a safe place for you to fall.” He stretches a hand out to rest at your back, but clenches his fist as he thinks better of it and never makes contact. He stops outside your door while you fumble with your keys. “Have a good night, Yin. I,”  adore everything about you “hope you rest well and feel refreshed in the morning.”

As your gazes finally meet, unspoken tension crackles in the air. You rock forward on your toes and part your lips. Toshinori’s lashes flutter and cranes his neck toward you. Then, you tuck under his arm and squeeze him in a hug instead.

“Thanks for everything, Toshinori. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

-----------------------

Attempt No. 5

Empty cupboards and a scarcely filled fridge convince Toshinori to make a grocery trip after a fruitless search for eggs. The removal of the majority of his stomach might have shrunk his appetite, but didn’t erase it. He’s scouring the aisles when a flash of orange blossoms in his peripheral vision.

He lays eyes on a cute Valentine’s bear that he tosses into his basket without hesitation.

Hey, Yin! I was in town and figured I’d swing by, if that’s okay? I found something that made me think of you and I’d like to drop it off. Toshinori uses his white tee to clear the smudge from his screen as the grocery bags rattle on his arm.

Now free from the stuffy atmosphere in the store, he glides through the streets of Japan, bobbing and weaving through the clogged crowds in a race to reach your apartment. He’s just outside the door when your text tone chirps in his ear.

Hey, Toshi. I hate to tell you this, but I’m sick. Feel free to stop by if you’d like, but I don’t want you getting sick, too. Thank you so much for thinking of me!

Could this be it? His perfect chance to take care of you and demonstrate his affections, served up to him on a silver platter? Toshinori can hardly believe it, but he knocks on your door and steps inside anyway when you bid him to come in.

The pitiful display in front of him tugs at his heart, and he finds himself on autopilot when he sets down his grocery bags and strides over to press his palm to your forehead as you lay buried underneath a mountain of blankets on the sofa.

“You’re hot. Have you taken a fever reducer?” He chides, combing back a sweaty lock of hair. 

“Yeah, just a minute ago.” You reassure him, caressing his hand while leaning into his palm. “Don’t stay long if you don’t have to, Toshi, I can take care of myself. I don’t want to make you sick.” 

“Nonsense. I’ll be fine. I want to make sure you’re taken care of.” He tuts, shaking his head before remembering why he initially came in the first place. “Oh! That’s right, I’ve got something for you.”

He pulls out the orange bear with hearts sewn into his feet and a larger, matching heart tattooed into his tummy. The large golden text on his belly declares, “FUR-EVER YOURS.”

“Aww, Toshi! You didn’t have to do that.” You squeal, forgetting yourself for a moment and coughing so hard your chest aches. “Sorry about that. I love him. I’ll let you know what I name him when I’m coherent enough to give him a proper name.”

“I’m glad you like him!” Toshinori perks up, heading into your kitchen to search for tea-making equipment. “Would you like me to make you some tea for that cough?”

“That would be heavenly.”

You’re nearly fading when he returns with a steaming mug of ginger tea, complete with honey and lemon to help your, presumably, sore throat. Though your eyes fight to stay open, you have no problem taking the mug and setting it on the side table nearby.

“Thank you so much. I can’t stress enough how lucky I am to have you.” You sigh, readjusting your head against the pillows and succumbing to the heavy weight of your eyelids. “Lock the door behind you when you go, ‘kay?”

“I will.” He promises.

In another breath, you’re snoring, and since you appear fully submerged in your dreamland, he risks a kiss to your forehead before he leaves.

------------------------

Attempt No. 6

Over the course of the month, it’s become obvious to you that Toshinori is interested in you. Well, at least, you think so. The bashful comments, attempted gifts, and overall pleasant moods and outings you’ve shared within these two weeks guide you to one, daunting and exhilarating conclusion: your affection for Toshinori seems like a mutual one.

So, with the might of a thousand suns and the determination of an Olympic gold medalist, you pour all of your efforts into making him one of the best, and only, heartfelt chocolates you’ve ever made. You try the recipe not once, not twice, but three times to make sure they’re as delectable as possible. 

By the time you make it to the staff room on Valentine’s Day, your stomach ties itself in knots as the limited number of females exchange their own chocolates. Recovery Girl has polite chocolate for everyone that’s wrapped in cute, pink little mesh bags. Thirteen offers some heartfelt chocolate to Present Mic with blushing cheeks over in the corner, while Midnight offers a small bag of cheese to Hound Dog. 

“You giving Toshinori some heartfelt chocolate, Lyn?” Aizawa asks and scares the shit out of you in the process.

“I’m…gonna try.” You hope you sound more confident than you feel.

“Good for you.” It’s as much encouragement as you’ll get from the erasure hero. “For what it’s worth, I’m hoping I’ll get some from the librarian.”

“Oh, really? How sweet!” You beam, before turning to find Toshinori. “I’m going to go find–eep!”

The tall behemoth in question stands in front of you, blonde hair wily and fluffy as always. A plot twist you hadn’t expected? In his hands, he holds his own package of chocolates.

“Yin,” He greets you. “I know it’s not traditional for the guy to give chocolates until next month but…” He extends the small package of chocolates with shaky fingers. “I hope you’ll accept this as an expression of my affections.”

You accept the package and exchange it for your own, wrapped in his signature colors. He takes it and your smile illuminates the room so much it could be a new point of orbit.

“I have some for you too, Toshinori. I wanted to make sure they were perfect for you. I’ve been wanting to tell you for some time, but it never felt like the right time.” You confess, looking away.

His large hand comes under your chin to make you look at his luminous eyes, blue and twinkling in the light from the window. 

“I guess the right time found us, then.” He laughs, glancing down at your lips and back up to your eyes. “May I?”

“Please.”

Your hand comes up to rest on his chest like it was always meant to be there. His thumb caresses your neck so tenderly, as though he’s done it a thousand times before. Electricity sparks between the two of you even before your lips ever touch, and the world falls away in a swirl of desire and unrestrained need. 

In the quiet sanctuary of Toshinori’s cubicle, after immense effort and copious failed attempts, you both indulge in the shared reward of a final, successful confession.

[queerheadcanoncentral]

Satan's holiday (nsfw)

Pairing: Logan Howlett x male reader

Tags: Halloween party, pantie kink, cowboy hats, anal, top reader, bottom logan, slight degradation, use of y/n(it's hard to write m/m without y/n so that you know what's going on)

Summary: Y/n get's an idea for a couple's halloween costume while watching Brokeback Mountain and Logan spices it up.

a/n: i haven't watched any of the X-Men movies so this is purely based off of other fanfics and tik toks of people talking about him.

—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—⁠☆—

Logan had never celebrated Halloween in his life, which makes sense considering that it's a fairly new holiday and by the time that it appeared he was already a grown man who didn't have any friends to dress up with.

y/n only started to do something for Halloween after he joined Xavier's school. In his home country it's not very popular and is sometimes considered ‘the Satan's holiday’(hell-win. don't you know english?)

The first halloween, explained to him what the holiday is about only 2 days before, so his costume was a no-brainer - the devil. He already has horns, a pointy tail so he just bought a plastic trident and a way too small cape. Some of the kids were a bit disappointed at the simplicity of his costume but after learning thst it was his first they were very supportive.

His second halloween had a new addition - the Wolverine. Him and Logan had grown close over the last few months and some might say that they began dating (not them though. ‘cause god help that they admit to themselves and each other that it's more than just about sex and enjoying the time spend with the other)

This year, y/n thought about his costume for a while but nothing seemed quite right. It finally clicked when one night him and Logan were watching Brokeback Mountain, which one of the kids recommended them.

“Logan”

“Yeah?”

“I know what our halloween costumes are gonna be” y/n said with a grin looking up at the older man laying next to him.

“You really do that here? I thought only kids in the suburbs and big city college students did that.” y/n nodded his head vigorously

“We do and I really like it. I love all the spooky stuff and watching horror movies in costumes while shoveling fistfulls of candy in your mouth. It's the one night a year where we and the kids get to look ‘weird’ and not be judged for it.”

“Fine, but you're getting the costumes, and I'm Ennis.”

On the 31st y/n presented Logan with his costume, which was really just a cowboy hat, a new jacket and the rest was from his closet. He took them with a slightly condescending look in his eyes but a warm smile, and walked into their shared bathroom to put them on while his partner stayed in their bedroom to do the same.

“How do I look?”

Y/n forgot how to breathe for a second. He knew that he found cowboys attractive but Logan as one might just run him into his grave. The way his jeans perfectly hugged his thick thighs, the way the jacket framed his broad shoulders, and the hat - oh the hat. There was something about it that just drove him crazy.

“Good, very- very good, Lo” he said almost breathlessly, “how about me?”

“Also good, ehm, very handsome” y/n could tell that he had a similar reaction as him.

“Should we go to the kids ball now?”

“Yeah, let's go.”

The kids halloween ball at the mansion lasted from 7pm to 10:30pm, when the kids had to go to sleep. At 11pm the adult ball began, that's when they bought out the alcohol and started playing explicit songs. That's what the pair have been waiting for, they could finally have a proper drink and dance however inappropriately they wanted. Suprisingly it took Scott 3 hours to finally tell them to go and get a room, after they spent a large part of those hours basically grinding and shoving tongues down eachothers throats.

It didn't take a lot of persuasion to get them into their bedroom. The second they were past the threshold of the room, y/n’s hands and lips were on Logan pressing his back into the door and taking off his top. Logans hands followed suit “no no, leave the hat”asked y/n and soon he was completely naked accept for his hat. He slowly dragged Logan still in his pants, towards their bed. They came to a halt in the middle of the room and y/n broke their kiss. “Do you know about the cowboy hat rule?” “No” Logan was out of breath. “Whoever wears the hat, rides the cowboy”he punctuated his sentence by putting his hat on the other man.

“I also have something for you” the older man scoffed and took off his jeans, revealing a pair of black panties decorated with a lace around the top.

Logan was going to drive him insane. The combination of the hat, the panties and his boyfriends musky sweat, made something inside of him snap and he wasn't going to take it slow like he had planed and the other could see the shift. Y/n pushed Logan onto their bed and like a magnet his lips went to the wolverine’s neck, kissing and biting their hands were roaming all over eachothers bodies, Logan's head shot back in pleasure and pain a string of whimpers and heavy breaths left his lips as the other mans hand pushed his panties to the side and went to circle his asshole. He found that there was already a butt plug in there. Holding the base tightly he harshly pushed it deeper earning him a high pitched moan from Logan that was quickly stifled by biting his own forearm. Clicking his tongue y/n used his free hand to bring down the other's forearm. Holding eye contact he said in a low, almost growling voice “No, I want to hear you scream. Scream for me, because of me.”

He took the plug out and with the overflowing lube he slicked up himself and lined up with wolverine's hole. Without any warning he pushed himself in completely and began thrusting without letting the other adjust. He set a brutal pace, that thanks to the wolverine powers, he could take. Logan was on high heaven, dick staining and leaking in black panties, getting pounded by the man he loves.

“Fuck you feel so good. The thing that you do to me, makes me want to fill up that belly of yours with my cum. Such a sweet prince, you love to get fucked like that, don't you. You want me to use you like a human fuck doll? I bet you do.”

Logan was close, so fucking close and y/n could tell. “Go on, come. Paint those panties white like a good boy.” Two strokes of y/n’s hand was all it took for Logan to finish hard, thighs trembling screaming at the top of his lungs.

Y/n mercifully stoped his thrusts to let his boyfriend recover at least a little bit.

Once he recovered he flipped them over so that Logan would be on top straddling his hips. “You're still wearing my hat, so ride me.” He obliged and begun to lift himself up and down the shaft still inside of him, setting the pace himself. It was slow but sensual, the older man leaned down and locked their lips together, not stopping the movement. Soon logan picked up his pace slightly and it was all it took for y/n to come deeply inside of his boyfriend.

Logan tiredly pulled himself up and off of his partner to lay down next to him, who quickly got up and went into the bathroom and returned with a damp wash cloth to clean up the mess they made. Once everything was clean the wash cloth, along with the panties and the hat, was discarded somewhere in the corner of the room and y/n wrapped his arms around Logan and pulled him onto his chest.

[lucygxybaird]

warning: caliente cowboy content

your first time (ever) with billy

You had been so shy to tell Billy that you were a virgin. Although Billy is your first everything — your first date, your first kiss, your first proper relationship— you know that isn’t the case for him. Sometimes, the thought of him with other woman makes your heart ache, just a little; it’s beneath you, and you know that, but you can’t help it. 

It isn’t jealousy, so much as…as a longing to have him all to yourself. Your time with Billy is so precious; both of you are achingly aware, like two tightrope walkers balanced precariously in midair, that Billy can be taken away at any moment. 

You fully believe he’s doing the right thing, fighting against Riley and Murphy, against Jesse and his infernal gang. And you’re proud of him. But it means he draws danger down on himself as surely as a lightning rod will draw down a blazing bolt from the sky. 

Which, in turn, means that every day — every moment — with Billy is like a gift, eked out from a world which has shown time and time again that it did not care about the two of you. But you don’t care if anyone else in the world gives a damn about you, as long as you have Billy. 

So — not jealousy, but a febrile, futile wish to hoard as much time with him as you could, even if you have to reach into the past to do so. As selfish as it is, you have no compunctions with the thought of clawing his memory away from others, women you don’t even know, just so you don’t miss a thing.

You remember the way you blushed, hiding your face against his chest, as you admitted that you had never…been with a man like that. His chuckle reverberated against your cheek, his arms still snug around you. Your hair had fallen forward like a veil,  and you made no move to brush it away; but he did. His fingers gently tucked a sheaf of strands behind your ear, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of your expression. 

“Baby, it’s not anythin’ to be embarrassed over.” He’d pressed his lips against the crown of your head. “You just gotta tell me what you’re ready for. I don’t wanna push you.” Another soft kiss against your hair. “I want you to feel safe with me.” 

You had lifted your head then, peeking up at him, and you were rewarded with his smile. “I do feel safe with you, Billy.” 

“Good.” Another kiss. “You promise you’ll tell me if we get too close to somethin’ you don’t comfortable doin’.” 

You’d promised, and he’d kissed you, over and over again until you were supple underneath his hands, molding yourself against him. After that, you kept your word, putting your hands against his chest to gently press him back, or turning your head so that his kiss landed on your cheek instead of your mouth. He never once intimidated, by so much as a sigh or a downward twitch of his mouth, that he was disappointed — let alone angry — that you wanted to stop. Instead, he would just lay back against the pillow, drawing you against his chest and holding you there. 

He would stroke your hair, or run the heel of his hand up and down the length of your spine, and the two of you would just talk. About nothing, about everything. If you hadn’t already been head over heels in love with him by then, those soft, meandering conversations would have pulled you under completely. 

You aren’t sure what makes tonight different. Maybe it’s because it’s the first cool night after the merciless, broiling heat of summer, where the air feels like a gentle caress, and you can smell the comforting scent of woodsmoke on the breeze. Billy has built a fire and laid out your dinner on a blanket in front of the hearth, and now the two of you are nestled together on the flannel, your bodies twined together. You look up at him and realize it’s not the beautiful night, or the romantic dinner, but just the fact that you love him so fiercely and can’t get enough of him.

You want him to know that. 

“Billy,” you murmur against his lips. You finger one of the buttons at his collar, slipping it open. “I…I want you. Tonight. Now.” You look up at him, undoing another one of his buttons. “Please…”

He freezes for a moment, as if unsure he’s heard you right. Pulling back just a little, propping himself up on an elbow, Billy frames your face between his hands. “Are you sure? I need you to be sure. Don’t just say yes cause you think it’s what I want.” 

You draw your fingertips over the angle of his cheek, although your gaze falls on his lips. Those impossibly plush, soft lips. “I’m sure.” 

He looks at you for a moment more, as if measuring the strength of your certainty. And then he stands up and draws you to your feet, pulling you flush against him. “Listen,” he murmurs. “If you wanna stop, you tell me, okay? No matter what we’re doin’. Just say the word, and we’ll stop.” 

You nod. “I’ll tell you,” you say, because it seems like he’s waiting for confirmation right from your mouth. “I swear.” 

His hands find your waist as he leans down to kiss you again, this time even hungrier than before. And you thought you knew the passion in his kiss. You had no idea. He must have been holding back, tamping down his own desire just to make sure you were comfortable. His kisses have always made you burn in the most delicious way, but now — it’s like comparing a candle to a wildfire. 

You wind your arms around his neck, fitting your body against his. It’s almost physically painful, like tearing a bandage away, to pull back just enough to keep working on the buttons of his shirt. Your hands go to the bare skin of his chest, and he lets out a soft sigh against your mouth, the sound of someone returning home after a long journey. A sound of relief and an intense happiness that’s as keen as a knife’s edge. 

Your fingertips brush over his ribs, and you’re surprised when he huffs out a laugh. “That tickles,” he mutters. Of course, you do it again. He giggles, the sound deep and husky, but undeniably a giggle for all that. You smile as you reach up to slide his shirt off his shoulders. He lets it fall to the floor before he reaches up to grasp the shoulders of your dress. 

“Can I?” His expression is earnest, his eyes beseeching, and you know he’ll only keep going if you give your assent. So you nod, keeping your gaze on his, and his palms gently caress your shoulders as he slides the dress off, exposing your from the waist up. He waits, looking at you; when you nod again, he reaches down and pulls the material around your waist down. The dress pools at your feet.

“Let me look at you,” he pleads. “I just wanna look at you for a minute.” 

“You can,” you say. 

Only then do his eyes leave your face. You can almost feel his gaze as if it’s a physical caress, brushing your breasts, your waist, your hips. He lingers between your legs, his lower lip catching between his teeth. He’s looking at you as if he’s fighting the urge to drop to his knees, the pose of a man worshipping at the feet of a goddess. 

“C’mere,” he says, his voice rougher than before, rumbling deep from his chest. He takes your hand and leads you to the bed. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you against him and kissing you hungrily; the sensation of your bare skin against his sends such a strong sensation surging through you that you gasp softly against his lips. “Billy…God, I want you—”

“I’m right here,” he promises you, lifting his head to look you in the eye again. “You’ve got me, honey, I promise. You have all of me.” 

You lay down against the pillows, fighting the urge just to part your thighs in invitation. He must read something in your expression, because he grins at you, and you grin back, a nervous giggle bubbling over your lips. He moves over you, holding himself up; he kisses your lips again, feathering kisses over your jaw, down your neck. 

Billy trails kisses down your body, starting at your collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the hollow at the base of your throat. His hands brace themselves against your hips, and his grip tightens as his mouth ghosts over your breasts; you feel his breath shudder against your skin, and you think you can see a quick thrust of his hips as he grinds against the bed. “Billy…” 

He looks up at you from underneath his impossibly dark lashes, a question in his eyes. 

“More,” you breathe. “Please…” 

In response, he wraps his lips around one of your nipples, sucking as his tongue flicks against the sensitive bud. You moan softly, encouragingly, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair. The other reaches up to grip the pillow behind your head. You’re already aching, yearning to touch yourself, but you want him and only him. Even your own fingers would break the spell. 

He moves to your other breast, and when you whimper, you see his hips rock again. Billy kisses each rib where they press against your taut, feverish skin, and when he reaches your waist, his hands move down to your thighs. His fingers dig into the flesh, massaging, thumbs brushing over your inner thigh. The thought of him touching you there has your back arching, the ache only building. You think soon it will be unbearable. 

“I wanna put my mouth on you, baby,” he says, his voice low, throaty. “I wanna make you feel good.” He nips gently at your hipbone. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you say, without hesitation, which makes him grin. “Yes, Billy, please…”

He smooths his hands under you, gripping your ass and lifting you up to his mouth as he settles between your legs. Billy keeps his eyes on yours as his tongue sweeps over your slit, and you cry out, your head falling back. He starts up a rhythm, tongue lapping at your core, sucking, kissing, and then— 

“Oh, God—” 

His nose brushes that bundle of nerves you’ve shyly explored with your own fingertips before, as his tongue delves into you. Your mouth falls open and your eyes scrunch shut, and you grip his hair tightly, hardly aware of the way your hips are bucking frantically. “Fuck! Oh, God — oh, Billy — Billy, Billy, Billy…” 

He moans against you, which only intensifies the almost agonizing pleasure surging through your veins. You open your eyes, looking down to watch him devour you. He keeps grinding against the bed, fitful thrusts, before he stops himself, as if he’s trying to keep control but he can’t hold onto it. “Oh, Billy — I — I’m — oh — ”

You can’t speak anymore. The only sounds falling from your mouth are desperate, raw cries, and everything is building, building, building, until — 

A wordless scream tears itself from your throat as you reach your peak, an animalistic cry that trails into desperate whimpers, almost sobs, as you come down. He keeps swiping his tongue against you, as if he’s drinking in your peak, and you keep rocking your hips to meet his tongue. Finally, he lifts his head, and you fall limp against the bed. 

“Fuck, honey, you taste so goddamn good,” he groans. The evidence gleams on his lips, his chin, even his cheeks. He moves over you again, leaning down to kiss you greedily. You barely have the strength to wrap your arms around him, but you do, holding him as tightly as you can. 

When you feel his fingers brush against your inner thighs, you give a soft moan. He meets your eyes again. “Can I touch you? I gotta get you ready for me.”

You whimper softly. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, oh, Billy…I want you inside me so badly…”

With a soft groan of his own, he drops his head to your shoulder, tucking his face against the crook of your neck. “You have no idea,” he breathes, “how bad I want you. Shit…”

His fingers stroke your folds, thumb moving in gentle circles over your clit, barely applying pressure. But it still doesn’t take long for you to start whining, gasping against his lips. He kisses you over and over again, almost in rhythm with his touch, and then you feel him brush against your entrance. 

“Baby?” he whispers, and when you nod, he slowly, slowly, presses a finger in. 

It burns, but his lips moving against yours and his thumb working against your clit help to relax you.  “More,” you breathe, and he adds a second finger, beginning to move them in and out. You moan as the stretch becomes less of a surprise and more of a pleasure, and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body acting independently of you. 

“Billy,” you gasp out. “Billy — I need…I need more…” 

He groans, immediately starting to move his fingers faster. Harder. You cry out, head pressing back into the pillow. “Yes! Oh, yes, yes, like that, just — oh, Billy, just like that — don’t stop, please, don’t stop, don’t stop…” 

Your only answer is another groan. When your gaze flashes to his face, you think his beauty alone might be enough to drive you over the edge. His cheeks are flushed, his blue eyes burning, his lips swollen and deliciously pink from your kiss. You reach up one hand for him and pull him down, the gesture almost rough, certainly possessive, and you kiss him again as if you would pour all the passion filling you up right back into him. 

“Oh, God — ” It’s building up again, the throbbing ache in your core, and all you can think about is having his length buried inside you. You can feel it against you every now and then as he moves over you, a hard ridge pressing against his pants. God, you can only guess at how big it is; the very idea makes you rock your hips down on his fingers. 

“I’m gonna come,” you mutter. “Billy — Billy — fuck — oh, I’m gonna — ”

He nips at your earlobe, sucking against the skin. “Come for me, baby,” he whispers. “I love you. I love making you feel good, I love you, I love you so much…” 

His pace intensifies, and your back arches, your legs trembling. His thumb presses harder against your clit, still moving in circles, and you let out a helpless half-sob, half-moan as your second orgasm hits you like a thunderclap. All you can think of is wrapping your legs around Billy’s waist, digging your fingernails into his shoulders, marking him up, writing on his skin in a language that only the two of you can understand. 

Billy carefully pulls his fingers from you, and as you watch, he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers greedily, like a starving man will like a plate free of crumbs. This time, your thighs do part, and you whine helplessly. You never imagined you’d be like this, wanton and needy, barely aware of yourself as anyone or anything more than Billy’s lover. It’s like desire and pleasure — and love, God knows — have merged into a great ocean, and the waves have closed over your head. But you don’t mind sinking into it. 

He groans at the taste of you, and then moves back, getting to his feet. You watch with ravenous eyes as he undoes his pants, shucking them in a moment; you swear to God, your mouth waters at the sight of him. He is big — and he’s so hard for you, his length laying flat against his stomach. 

“Shit,” he breathes, looking down at you. “Baby, I — I need to be inside you so fuckin’ bad, please, tell me I can…”

As if he really needs to ask by this point. But you love that he asks, anyway. You reach for him. “Please, Billy…” 

He moves on top of you again, urging one of your legs up over his hip. Without prompting, you wrap the other around his waist, lifting your hips to him. “Ready?” he murmurs, and you nod, so desperate for him that you might actually begin to weep if he’s not inside you in a moment. 

And then — 

Oh. 

Your lips part in a silent moan. The head of his cock presses inside you, and then he stops, watching your face. You nod, and he presses in a little more — slowly, slowly, pausing every now and then, always waiting for you to signal your assent somehow before giving you more of him. When he’s pressed in to the hilt, you grasp at his shoulders, writhing a little beneath him. “Billy, fuck me,” you whisper in his ear, and you’re rewarded with an immediate thrust. 

He presses his cheek against yours as he starts to move — again, slowly at first, a gentle, exploring motion of his hips. You gasp out, encouraging, pleading, tugging at his hair with one hand and raking your nails down his back with the other. Billy grunts softly with each snap of his hips, an animalistic sound, rich with pleasure, with possessiveness. It’s like he’s saying mine — mine — mine — with each rough, deep noise. You rock against him, your cries intensifying as your body becomes used to him, and the only thing you feel is a pleasure so intense you find your eyes stinging. 

“Harder,” you beg. “Faster. Fuck me.” 

The groan he lets out rumbles up deep from his very core, and he obeys you instantly. He takes one of your hands, and then the other, pinning them above your head as his hips slam into you, over and over. His cries get louder and so do yours. You’re so close, and as yet another orgasm races toward you, you whimper in his ear: “Billy, Billy, I wanna ride you.” 

He whimpers, and rolls the two of you over, settling you on top of him. “Baby,” he breathes, looking up at you as if you’re made of starlight and lace, something beautiful and delicate, and more importantly, all his. “Fuck — like this, like this — ”

His hands on your hips guide you in a rocking motion, and it isn’t long before you find the rhythm yourself. Billy’s eyes shut tightly, his brow furrowing, his mouth falling open. He braces his feet against the bed and rocks up into you. “That’s it, baby, just like that — fuck — you’re so fuckin’ perfect — ”

You want to warn him again, tell him you’re about to come, but the only sound you can make is a desperate moan, repeated with each movement. You brace yourself against his chest, working your hips on his length, feeling every inch of him so deliciously deep. In another moment, you’re coming hard, your thighs shaking as your throat goes raw from crying out. Billy keeps rocking up into you, both of you gasping, and then he rolls you onto your back again. 

You go to cling to him, not wanting him to leave, but he pulls out and strokes himself once, twice, before he’s coming all over your stomach -- up to your chest — with a cry of your name. “I’m — I’m sorry, baby,” he blurts out. “I didn’t…if I’d…” 

“I know,” you manage, despite still struggling to catch your breath. You smile sleepily as he digs a rag from the bedside table and cleans you off, before pulling you into his arms, burying his face against your hair. 

“Did I…did I hurt you?” he murmurs, his tone soft and shy. 

“No,” you assure him. 

You snuggle closer. There is an ache between your legs now, but you find it easy to push to the back of your mind. More important is the contentment washing over you, loosening your muscles, making you melt against Billy’s chest as you wrap an arm around his waist. Not that you ever wondered, but now you know for sure Billy is the one you’ve been waiting for all your life. Your first, your only, your everything. 

You lift your head and smile at him. Relief washes over his features as he smiles back. “I love you,” you tell him, and he reaches up, brushing a strand behind your ear. 

“I love you, too, darlin’.” 

[s4nguiine]

petals and bullets

boothill x fem!reader - pt. 2

» rating: still eventual nsfw.

» notes: two fics in a row! woooo!! i wanted to discuss the future of this fic a bit. i want to try something new, something non-linear. the first 3 chapters will be linear of course, because i need to establish a backstory and yada yada, but i figured it would be cool if i made the following chapters separate stories. that way i wouldn't be tied down to one story and trying to make fun concepts fit - i can just write separate chapters with different adventures the reader and boothill would go on. let me know your thoughts on this in the comments if you have any :p

» tag list: @favsruii @inyourfaceace @crystalkat6747 (lmk if you'd like to be added or removed!)

you’re frozen where you stand and drops of sweat run down your throat as you swallow. you don’t need to see the weapon to know there is a gun pointed at you. do IPC workers carry around guns now..?

“looks like this crate had a rat in it, too,” the man behind you says.

you make an attempt to grab the knife in your pocket - unsuccessfully, as he immediately spots the small movement.

“don’t even think about it, darlin’. why don’t you turn around slowly so i can get a proper look at ya?”

you take a deep breath first, then you do as he says. and when he comes into view, an extravagantly clothed cyborg cowboy, you’re.. not sure what to think. he seems to have a similarly surprised expression on his face.

“a lady? muddlefudger. i don’t like pointin’ my gun at ladies.”

his accent… his long black and white hair… his eyes. you hate it, but you’re just as scared of as you are attracted to this man.

“what’s your name?” he asks.

“y/n,” you reply.

“y/n,” he says your name, as if tasting it. “listen up, sweetheart-” sweetheart? “-i don’t tolerate stowaways. you’re a mighty fine lady, though a bit wild-lookin’, but traveling with me is dangerous. we ain’t too far yet, so i’m taking you back home.”

your eyes grow wide. no. no, you can’t go back. the cowboy keeps his gun pointed at you as he backs away to the pilot’s seat to put in the coordinates of your home planet.

while his eyes are off you, your hand swiftly enters your pocket and grabs the handle of the knife. you lunge, and you make the mistake of yelling as you do so. you only stop at the crisp sound of a gunshot, which makes you freeze and gasp for air. the bullet does not hit you, however - instead there is a metallic clang as the knife is forced out of your hands. it falls to the ground and slides far out of your reach.

your arms remain raised in the air as you are frozen in fear once more, and your eyes are shut tight, until you hear the man’s footsteps. he approaches and you cower, looking up at him through your lashes. you realize that he’s been very relaxed until this very moment - because now he’s wearing a deep frown on his face.

“seriously, lady… a knife? my body-” he stops as his eyes wander lower on your body. “wait a second.” his hand grips the hem of your coat. ah. it’s over. everything’s gone to shit, and now you’ll be at the mercy of this weirdo.

the cyborg opens your coat with such a force that he almost tears it off of you. you close your eyes and press your lips into a thin line. of course, your clothes underneath it are soaked with your mother’s blood.

“whose blood is this?” he almost growls. when you answer only with quickened breathing, he presses the cold barrel of his revolver against your forehead. you hear the cylinder turn. “answer me.”

this is the shittiest day of your life. fuck freedom, you should have just stayed in that apartment. you can’t take this anymore.

“it’s… it’s not mine.”

the cowboy isn’t very pleased with that response. “a stowaway is one thing. i can understand a runaway daughter. but i sure as hell don’t tolerate murderers.”

“pl- please! please don’t kill me. i had no other choice!” you are almost ashamed of how quickly you resort to begging. power? what power? you never had any after all. you can’t even defend yourself right now.

the man is silent for a while. then, the gun is lifted off your forehead. he uses it to motion towards a couch standing underneath a window, which you take as your cue to sit down, albeit confusedly.

“you have thirty minutes ‘til we arrive back home. explain,” he orders.

first you fiddle with your thumbs in your lap, looking around nervously, then you sigh and hang your head. “i had to get out,” you mumble.

the cowboy pulls up a chair and sits on it with his arms crossed. “can’t hear ya, darlin’.”

you pick at the skin around your nails and finally muster up the courage to speak loud and clear. “my mother. the blood is my mother’s.” suddenly your sight gets blurry, and you think you’re about to pass out until a drop of water lands on your hand. you wipe at your face. tears. they’re tears - you’re crying. why are you crying? you don’t feel sorry. you feel nothing at all.

“i just,” you take a shaky breath, “i just had to get out. i couldn’t keep on living like that!”

you see the cowboy shift in the corner of your eye. he uncrosses his arms, assuming a less interrogatory pose. his robotic hand hovers over your knee for a moment, unsure, before he changes his mind and withdraws.

he lets out an agitated groan as he takes off his hat and runs his hand through his long bangs. just as he’s about to speak, a notification sound comes from the control panel. the man looks a bit confused. he stands up and walks over to the panel, opening the new message. you watch a toothy grin form on his face.

“well would you look a’that. you’ve made the IPC your enemy, little lady,” he says.

you are shocked out of crying as you glance at the touchscreen in front of him. your name, your photo - and a sign that says wanted dead or alive. a hefty sum of credits glares at you underneath.

of course. you’re not just wanted by the authorities on your planet. you still owe the rest your mother’s debt to the IPC, the corporation that does not just let things pass.

the cowboy turns to you. “this makes things very different.”

“h-how so?” you ask.

“see, i’m a galaxy ranger.” a bounty hunter. the words aren’t spoken, but you assume that’s what he’s getting at.

you’re silent for a while as the two of you stare at each other. “so, you’re gonna turn me in?”

“i won’t.”

you’ve already made peace with your execution, but his response throws you off. “wait - what? that’s a lot of money, you know.”

the cowboy chuckles and approaches you once more. you shy away from him, and as he towers over you - boy is he tall - you finally notice that his teeth are sharp like a shark’s.

“the name’s boothill.” he offers you his hand to shake, and you do so, albeit reluctantly. it’s surprisingly not as cold as you expected it to be. “the IPC is my number one enemy - it’s mutual, really. this ship? stole it from ‘em. your bounty is chump change compared to the money they’re offerin’ for my head.”

“s-so…”

“the enemy of my enemy is my friend. i’ll do you one favor, lady. you’re not going back to your home planet. instead,” he drawls as he lets go of you, walking back to change the coordinates of the ship. “i’m droppin’ you off at my next stop.”

you stand up abruptly, and before you can blink, boothill is pointing a gun at you. “but don’t think i’m lettin’ you off my sights, pretty lady. you’re still a murderer.”

you open your mouth and close it a couple times. “th..thank you…” a sudden wave of dizziness comes over you, forcing you to your knees. boothill is by your side almost immediately to hold you by the shoulders.

“whoa there!” he chuckles, “you good?”

you sigh, hanging your head. you’re tired. you’re so tired you can feel it in your bones. “it’s been a long day.”

“oh i bet it was. y’know, i think there is a shower in here somewhere - why don’t you get yourself cleaned up?”

you nod. the thought of having your mother’s blood on you any longer doesn’t make you feel very great. “oh, but.. i don’t have a change of clothes.”

boothill hums. “i think i saw some uniforms around here somewhere. come with me.”

the ranger helps you to your feet and then he’s leading you out of the cockpit into a small resting area. you figure that this ship probably isn’t very big. boothill starts opening various cupboards and closets until he finally finds what he’s looking for.

“aha!” he exclaims. “there it is. here. pick up whatever’s your size.”

“thanks,” you mumble. “where’s the bathroom then..?”

boothill clears his throat. “no idea.”

“what?” you raise an eyebrow. “how long have you had this ship?”

“whatever. i’m a cyborg, y'know, i don’t exactly take showers.”

“well don’t you brush your teeth..?”

the cyborg flashes you a toothy grin. “you think these bad boys are mine? they don’t need cleanin’.”

you stare at him for a while without saying anything. your expression however speaks volumes. you’re disgusted. then you turn, uttering a simple “ugh, men�� while you embark on your journey of finding fitting clothes and a shower - or any other place to wash yourself.

and you’re successful. the third door you open happens to lead to a small bathroom. and as you shut the door behind you and slump against it, you let out a long sigh. finally some proper quiet, an oasis just for you. maybe things turned out better than you’d planned after all.

when you found out that it was boothill’s ship you ended up on instead of the IPC, you were crushed. but now that you know that there is a bounty on your head, the thought of having to hide in enemy territory sends shivers down your spine.

things are still uncertain. you have a long road ahead of you - one of hiding and fleeing, probably. but this matter is in your hands now. you can decide for yourself. and if you get caught and killed, well - that will be your repercussions for the decisions you’ve made.

you undress and step inside the shower while actively avoiding looking in the mirror. the water that leaves your body is stained red as it washes off the blood stuck to your skin, which you scrub so meticulously it starts to burn.

you leave the shower refreshed and feeling somewhat like a person again. the mirror is foggy, and when you wipe it to finally look at yourself, you find dead, exhausted eyes staring back at you. all the adrenaline of today really did a number on you.

is that all you’re concerned with..? shallow cuts litter your arms where you nicked yourself. they serve as a reminder of what went on earlier. your mother is dead. the woman who birthed you and raised you. you repeat this to yourself over and over, hoping to elicit some kind of emotional reaction from yourself.

nothing comes of course. you’re still a husk devoid of emotion.

maybe you are a monster after all. maybe it’s time to accept that.

you find your way back to the cockpit, boothill nowhere to be found. unsure of what to do, you sit back down on the sofa and look out the window into the darkness of outer space. small white dots decorate the blackness and you think about how many worlds are out there, orbiting those dots.

you’re in space. actual space. it finally dawns on you. you’ve escaped that hellhole. talk about moving! you’ve always dreamt of moving far away, but truthfully you never dared think outside the box - or outside the planet for that matter.

your eyelids grow heavy as you lean against the backrest. you should thank boothill… make it up to him… maybe tomorrow.

sleep claims you before you know it.

when boothill enters the cockpit with a blanket in hand, he finds you crashed out in an uncomfortable position. he blinks. would it be rude to move you? but then he thinks about the back pain you could get from this… and he approaches you, carefully laying you down along the length of the sofa. he covers you with the blanket and dusts off his hands, quite proud of his work if he says so.

when he stole this ship, boothill thought this would be just another heist. but then you crawled out and, admittedly, you looked scary as all hell. but if there’s anything he’s learnt in his life as a ranger, it’s never to judge a book by its cover - and you just might be a book that’s right up his alley.