#there's enough hatred in this world already

[red-phantom-0]

The children are dead

pt 2 of Damien x Ghoul.sib reader

──► as the two siblings grow ever so closer bonded by the cold love of their 'adopted' family and the monstrosity of their past , life throws them another unyielding cruelty that breaks them both entirely.

Tw : major character death , child neglect , revenge

Edit ty for 42 likes !!

part 1

I'm done dreaming.

ACT I

It was late December , the air around the manor was grim and chilly , nothing but haunting and a grim reminder that life was harsh and would never be easy. Damien clenches his fingers within his gloves as he attempts to soak up what little warmth he had.

Bruce and his other siblings stood before him in the patio , discussing events pertaining to last night's stake out. Damien tunes out their annoying , scratchy voices, but his eyes trained to every other possible corner of the room searching for them.

The grandfather ticks by, and the conversation turns dull , he had to hold himself exactly ten times from clawing Dick's eyes out whenever he'd call him a demon spwan or ask him who he's planning to kill. He's at his bloody wits until he see y/n's figure limping in.

Damien pushes back his chair and immediately launches himself towards them. They didn't have to convey words as his eyes already gave away how bloody worried he was with them. He can hear Bruce and the others calling him back, but he can't give a bloody damn about them right now.

He watches as y/n's bloody form lean against the doorframe as they slide to the ground like a limp leaf . Damien kneels with them and place his hand on their bleeding stomach - it was a big gash like a vicious creature took a bite out of them.

" Oh my God, we need to get them to a doctor-" he could hear Stephanie say from behind him, and Damien has never unsheathed his sword any faster . " Shut the fuck up and leave them alone " he growled.

The last time y/n went to a doctor , the medicine they used on them caused them to turn into a ghoul for three days straight - for three days his precious sibling was forced to be driven to insanity as their ghoulish form fought with what little human control they had left to suppress themselves from consuming humans.

His poor sibling wore ghoulish scratch marks on their arms and cheeks for months after their attempt at manhandking themseleves . He can see in the distance Tim opening his big trap to give his unwanted opinion, and Damien sneered at him . His sibling couldn't heal from their medication in his own world , hell - no medication could heal them , they had to hope to God they regenerated fast enough.

" Fuck off Drake " he sneered before crouching before y/n once again.

" What happened ?" He questioned them as he pressed him hand onto their wound to stop the wound from gushing even more blood. " Ran into another ghoul - no - he was an investigator from my world that kills ghouls like me - the undefeated ghoul investigator , Arima," they explained through coughing fits.

Damien stilled. He now knew the gravity of how extremely grim the situation became , the white reaper of his siblings' universe has come to end their demise . He remembered y/n talking about him , about how Arima possessed superhuman strength and his immense 'hatred for ghouls' lead the man to kill hundreds if not thousands of ghouls in his 18 years of occupation.

Y/n gave him a small smile . " I'll be okay," they reassured him . Damien just held them as he ignored the outside world.

Oh, how he wished he didn't believe them that night .

ACT II

January 6th , the night was quiet, and still , the moon casted its opulence across the streets of Gotham. A simply routine was instilled tonight , everyone had a simple stake out tonight .

It was the first night in years Damien and y/n hadn't been with each other on a mission for years - something he'd live to regret later . He found it suspicious, but Bruce insisted he needed to join him tonight to test him out as Robin and y/n had persistently encouraged him to go.

So here he was following Bruce from rooftop to rooftop as they stalked some of Joker's henchmen . For the last hour or so , Damien had checked in on y/n , and they reported they were doing okay and had just arrested some petty thrives for the night.

The hour was coming to an end , and so far, everyone but y/n reported in . Damien grew anxious , and y/n was always a timely person, so for them to be late was entirely unheard of.

Bruce reassured him that they were fine but that didn't stop the nagging feeling in his stomach and it's not like Bruce ever cared about your existence to begin with - only cared you did what you had to do and the thought of it pissed him off.

Damien was now finishing up wrapping up his grappling hook when y/n's frantic voice buzzed through his intercom . " Help me - he's - come quick " came their frantic voice through the static. Damien felt dread weighing like lead through his veins as he clutched onto his own intercom.

" Y/n are you okay ? Where are you ?" He asked frantically but was only left with static. Damien immediately began to leave when Bruce stopped him.

" Damien y/n isn't important right now we have more important things to worry about " Bruce or rather batman says and he held his son by the shoulder . Damien harshly yanked it off . " Leave me the fuck alone - I am going to them and you aren't stopping me " He yells as he grappled off the roof.

Batman calls after him, but Damien ignores him as he grapples his way to the other side of Gotham city . His heart beats heavy in his chest as he appraches your last known location only to see the building left in ruin.

Blood splatters were everywhere, and ruins were left anew . " Y/N !!!!" He shouted as he grappled around the area , eyes frantically looking for your figure . He begs , prays to whatever God out there that you're safe as he continued further as he observes more buildings left to ruins.

Ruble covered the area as far as the eye can see , not a living soul in sight. Damien kept calling your name out , tears practically falling down his face as he continued searching.

Minutes ticked by dreadfully until he finally spots you. Your bloody figure lays there in a bed of red spider lillies. Damien lets out an ear, piercing scream at the sight . With shaky legs and arms, he approaches your figure . Your figure layed still as a gentle breeze blow, causing the spider lillies to brush up against your form like a warm blanket .

Damien holds your form with shaky hands as he keeps repeating no's over and over. Your dead brown human eye stared at him , soulless and unmoving while your beautiful red eye had a jaggery, long sword piercing right through it . Your right arm and both your legs were missing , but still - in the moonlight , you looked calm.

Damien grew quiet as he layed his head on your chest , no longer can he selfishly listen to your heartbeat and relish in the familiar love you bestowed upon him. No longer would he be able to share a laugh with you , your pain , your burdens , your bitter coffees to your exhilarating training.

He would no longer have any of those as now you lay dead , robbed from his safe embrace because life was too cruel and unforgiving and had to take away the one good thing he had his life.

He no longer felt angry at the world. No, he felt awake and mad . Be prepared , Gotham , for tonight two children died and your long awaited recogning is comming with nothing but cold , bitter , unforgiving blood shed.

A crow in the distance let out a war cry as Damien kisses your forehead one last time before the spider lillies cover your form one last time , shadong your innocence from the raging hell Damien is about to bestow upon the world.. A gentle breeze blows, and Damien unsheathes his sword, ready to bring destruction and ruin to the world.

dreaming world

prepare to be

awaken.

Part 3, anyone ?

[anastasiareyreed]

Try to feel what Ukrainians are going through by imagining a hypothetical situation.

Imagine that you have to leave your home. Not to go on vacation or travel. Not because you are uncomfortable in this house and not because you have found a better place for yourself.

You leave your home because you can already hear gunfire on the front line and you know that the front is rapidly approaching, that any day now the enemy army will enter your city or village and begin to kill and torture civilians and animals, loot houses, destroy everything they see.

All the memories you have, all your stuff, your clothes, furniture, flowers, toys, books, posters. You will have to leave it all behind. You will only have the memories you created during the years of peaceful life.

You won't be able to take everything you own from your home. You'll have to take only the bare essentials. Important documents, medicine, some clothes. And it's good if you have your own transport that can fit a little more. But what if all you have is a suitcase?

You will have to fit your entire life into one suitcase.

And it's scary to admit but I'm afraid that one day I'll have to flee too. I look at all my collectibles of my favorite characters from movies and TV shows. At accessories and toys. At the miniature Christmas tree that stands on the table decorated. At the Christmas lights, comfortable and cozy bed with a soft blanket. At my dog's little bed. At every detail that I personally chose to make this place my home. And something inside me breaks.

For many Ukrainians, this situation is a harsh reality. Today many Ukrainians are already packing their lives into suitcases, while the Christmas tree still shines with lights in the corner of the living room, reminding of the safe times. And somewhere far away the world celebrates Christmas and awaits the New Year, because life goes on.

At this moment their homes are not filled with celebration. There is fear and doom and confusion, life there is divided into "before" and "after". And very soon this life will freeze. Dishes in drawers, clothes that didn't have enough space during the evacuation. All the little things that once gave comfort, remain on shelves and boxes.

Cafes and restaurants where people once gathered, coffee shops where people had their first dates, parks where people once went for walks with their pets... all of these are turning into ghosts. Post offices and shops are gradually closing. The electricity is gradually turning off.

When they leave their homes, they know that russians will enter and destroy everything. For fun. And because of hatred. They will burn furniture, clothes, books and toys. They will destroy gardens and flowerbeds, rob, take away household appliances and expensive things, send them to russia as a gift to their families and friends. They will tear the soul out of every house they enter.

And these Ukrainians will not be able to return because there will be nowhere to go. They will have to seek shelter elsewhere, they will have to start life from a new, damaged page, experiencing all the stages of grief at the same time.

The situation would be different if the partners, who promised Ukraine protection and support, helped not only in words, acting at minimum. If they gave the weapons they promised and in the same quantity as promised. And as often as promised. If they imposed sanctions on russia and didn't continue cooperation with russians. If they didn't allow russia to speak in international arenas and head the UN (like how tf is this even possible). If they treated russia as the terrorist state that it is. If they helped fight against tyranny and Nazism as a real democratic united world that we often see in movies.

I still have faith that the world will wake up and help Ukrainians stop russia. But with every news about Ukrainian civilians and soldiers tortured by russians, with every news about Ukrainians who leave their homes without hope, with every news about shelled children's hospitals, residential buildings and playgrounds my faith weakens. I don't see the world's reaction, russia feels impunity and I feel like everyone doesn't care, like no one understands the scale of this threat to the entire world.

please do not stop supporting Ukraine.

[unintentionaloracle]

The Bloodline Doesn't Know [Fic]

Here we go! Got more Zowens for you because I miss them.

Summary: Sami's attempt to appease Kevin about his involvement with The OG Bloodline works too well. Now Sami finds himself sinking deeper into a tangled web of his own making...and a spicy situationship.

(Also there's a brief wink to Candy and an Ambreigns mention but I don't think they're significant enough to put in their tags but I can fix that if needed)

“Sami!”

Hearing his name shouted in that tone hurt.

Sami had gotten so used to being excited to see Kevin again over the past year. The giddiness of seeing the man he loved again after weeks or months apart. If Sami had things his way, when he turned around to see Kevin's face, it'd still be a welcome break from the chaos of his life. He'd get a firm hug that made him feel like nothing in their violent profession could hurt him.

But now?

Damn it, Sami thought.

Dread started to gnaw at his heart. He'd wanted to put off this confrontation longer. At least until he was done with Drew and could politely go his own way from The Bloodline. But of course, the world wouldn't allow that. And with him showing up on Kevin's show? It was inevitable. So instead, he tensed, girding himself for what was to come.

“How could you do this to me!?” He said, motioning to Sami’s shirt. “How could you go back to him!? After everything he put both of us through!? Or your stupid, precious Usos though!?” Kevin shoved Sami’s chest. “You said you loved me, Sami! HOW IS THAT LOVING ME!?”

His words were like lemon juice on his already wounded heart. Sami tried his best to look Kevin in the eye. It was the least he could do. For all of Kevin's recent fury, Sami could also see something different in his eyes. Something that, while once present with Randy and Cody, felt more pronounced. Something actively fighting with the smoldering hatred in his eyes instead of waiting it's turn.

Sadness. Mourning.

Sami felt tears forming in his eyes...

...and an idea forming in his mind.

He knew he shouldn't do it. It would probably be worse in the long run for the both of them if he did this.

But he couldn't let Kevin stay this way. Couldn't leave him all alone when he was struggling. He knew what it was like, when he thought the world was plotting against him. And this was what he wished he had in those days. Or thought he had.

“I do love you, Kev...” Sami said, backing up against the wall.

“LIAR!” Kevin shouted, pinning him against it.

“That's why I'm your inside man with Roman!” Sami blurted.

Kevin backed up slightly. “What?”

Sami took a deep breath. “Did you really think I would go back to Roman so easily? I'm keeping an eye on him. Making sure he won't take over again. Or hurt you or anyone else I love again. The minute he does?” He smacked his hands together. “Helluva Kick to his face.”

Kevin eased up more. Sami was surprised how easily he lied. Though as he thought about it in this pregnant pause, he realized there was a grain of truth. For all his excitement at being with The Usos again and feeling like things were different this time, there was still a lingering doubt...

Before he could mull on it further, Kevin shook him out of it. “You're with me?”

“Always,” Sami said, cupping his face. “Please, Kevin. It kills me to see you all alo—”

Kevin cut him off with a fiery kiss, repinning Sami to the wall. Instinctively, Sami wrapped his legs around him as he reciprocated. A small moan bubbled against his lips, threatening to escape into Kevin's mouth should things escalate. Instead, Kevin pulled away, replacing the moan with a whine. Kevin smirked, no doubt loving this little bit of control he'd gained in his life.

He whispered in his ear. “Tell me anything you find out, okay?” Kevin asked, running his hands along Sami's thigh.

Sami nodded, dumbstruck.

“Good. Meet me back at my hotel room,” he said. He glanced at Sami’s chest. “And leave that shirt wherever the hell you want: your car, your bag, preferably the trash...I want you to look good...”

...Sami knew he shouldn't be into this, but...

Kevin gave him a peck on the lips before dropping the flushed and rumpled Sami back to Earth. “God, you're so cute like this.” He said, thumbing his chin. “...Actually, just meet me in the Lamborghini.” He said before leaving.

Sami tried to recompose himself before following, only to hear three words he dreaded:

“Call Roman Reigns.”

Sami rushed to the pillar Heyman was hiding behind, knocking his phone from his hands. He turned the call off and threw the phone away. “It's not what it looks like!”

Heyman looked Sami up and down, his lip curled and his hand over his chest. “It looks like you're betraying your Tribal Chief again just so you can get laid by,” his face scrunched as he shook his head, “Kevin Owens.”

“I'm not–! I...I'm just getting close so I can keep an eye on him. So he doesn't come after us. If he does, I can warn Roman. I promise, I'm just doing whatever it takes to look out for the family! No need to tell Roman!” Sami pleaded.

Heyman looked skeptical. He sighed, motioning for him to leave.

Sami sighed with relief. “Thank you! I promise, I'm protecting everyone by doing this. You'll see! And I'm sorry about the phone!’ He said, hurrying off before Heyman could take it back or Kevin could grow doubtful.

---

The weeks that followed were more of a flurry than usual. On top of everything else, there was trying to keep an eye on the ever-elusive Roman and reporting back just enough crumbs to satisfy Kevin. Though as time went on, the reports had devolved into something along the lines of:

“Roman doing anything bad?”

“Not much. Just ghosting us.”

“Good.”

And then they'd eagerly bang with a passion on par with their younger years, often with the Winged Eagle belt staring down Sami–almost judging him for “betraying” his friends for this–somewhere by the foot of whatever bed they were on. But Sami always kept the guilt over happily screwing the man that put two of his friends in the hospital aside for later.

(Cody would understand, anyway, given his history with Randy...right? And who hadn't gotten into bed with someone who had done terrible things at least once in this business?)

This is good for us... Sami thought. Kevin is calmer, we get to stay together, and I get to protect my family...

---

However, it nearly came crashing down one SmackDown.

Roman had pulled Sami aside after a Bloodline meeting, Heyman looking gleeful behind him. Roman pulled up a picture on his phone and showed it to The Honorary Uce.

“Sami, why the hell are you sneaking around with Kevin?” Roman asked as Sami took in the picture: him and Kevin, Kevin mid-dropping the Winged Eagle belt from his shoulders as he crawled atop a lounging Sami on the bed, the blinds of their (... Kevin's...) hotel room window not closed enough at the moment.

Damn it! Sami thought. He remembered this exact night. Kevin had noticed before they got too into it and closed them. Clearly not fast enough...

“Heyman, that's illegal!” Sami protested.

“What makes you think I took it?” Heyman asked, overly flabbergasted.

Sami rolled his eyes. There was no point wasting time arguing with Heyman. He turned to The OTC. “Roman, I can explain, it's all part of my plan to protect–!”

“I don't want to hear it!” Roman boomed, shutting Sami up as Heyman grinned, clearly eager for the inevitable bloodbath to come like a buzzard. “I know what's going on!”

Sami braced himself...

“You were afraid we wouldn't approve...” Roman said, gentler.

“...What?” Heyman and Sami asked in a harmony of disgust and confusion.

“Look, I don't like Kevin, but if he makes you happy, it's fine.” Roman said, patting his shoulder. Sami then felt Roman tense. “Just don't let it get in the way of our business, okay?” he added, lowering his voice to a rumble like thunder.

Sami nodded. “Uh, yeah. I was worried this was a Romeo and Juliet situation. That's all. Thanks, Roman. That...means a lot.” He said, now feeling worse for his deception.

Roman chuckled, loosening up on a dime. “No problem. Now go get your man, Sami. And hey, maybe we'll invite him to dinner, sometime.”

Sami nodded, hurrying off, unsure of how he got away with that. From the look on Heyman's face, The Wiseman didn't know, either. But Sami knew when to take a win when he got one, so he hurried off to Kevin. He contemplated if he should pass on what Roman thought was happening...

He felt himself get roughly yanked around the corner to a broom closet, Kevin wasting no time to kiss him.

Later. I can think later...

Epilogue

“My Tribal Chief, you can't be buying that “forbidden love” nonsense!” Heyman pleaded.

“I don't,” Roman said, frowning. “But it's keeping Kevin distracted, so I'll let him keep doing what he's doing. And if it screws us, I'll make sure Sami pays for it...”

Roman didn't want to acknowledge there was a pain in his heart (and a phantom pain in his back) when he thought of Sami possibly betraying them again. Deep down, he knew Sami had clocked it: Roman did still have some affection for him on some level, tinged with begrudging pride.

“Besides, I think I really know why he's running around with Kevin...” Roman said, old memories coming back to him. Ones that made him grieve something he selfishly missed but could never have again. But also ones that kept him company when he was alone.

“Oh?”

“Wiseman, have you ever fooled around with a deeply unstable man?” He asked.

“...No...” Heyman said, raising an eyebrow.

Memories continued to resurface. Of rough hands. Discarded tank tops on the floor. Hypnotic, unhinged, rambling compliments and affirmations. Kisses marinated in cheap beer on a crappy motel bed after a terrible betrayal.

“Then you wouldn't get it.” Roman said simply, leaving the room and his Wiseman baffled.

[whatsjulietslastname]

Okay so listen to me.

On one hand we have Max Caulfield. Who, out of self-hatred, a low self-esteem, and a deep belief that she is Not Interesting and Not Great and Not Deserving of being put in a position where she has anybody’s attention on her and is being listened to, avoids doing things somebody who loves themself 1% more than she does would do because she doesn’t think she’s worth it— even when these things she’s not doing would admittedly make her happier. She doesn’t want to put in the effort of being seen to achieve said things because 1. she doesn’t think she’s deserving of being seen / interesting enough for people to see anything anyway and 2. she’s so convinced it would lead to nothing at all that she thinks it would be useless to try. She disregards her own happiness for the sake of what she believes is her safety.

On the other hand completely we have Rachel Amber, who firmly thinks she has Something to say and will not shut up about it. She knows her life will be bigger than what she has in the current moment, so she constantly puts herself out there, not caring what that implies ever, because whatever happens in the now is temporary and there will be more. She doesn’t have the time to wonder if she should be more careful in the ways she interacts with the world because she knows (or at least thinks she knows) that if she does it’ll never be enough and she needs to be heard already. (Which is essentially what leads her to her death.) She disregards her own safety for what she believes is her happiness.

idk i just think it’s neat

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 26 - I Care Not To Repeat

Summary: Arthur’s unexpected act of kindness sets the stage for a fragile alliance between two men shaped by loss and loyalty. Upon returning to camp, they must work quickly to prepare for yet another journey.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter /

AN: I really enjoyed writing this chapter, I can't wait for you guys to meet Eagle Flies. 10.7k words, lot's of feels and dialogue. Enjoy!

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw  @yallgotkik @sawendel

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Eagle Flies strained against the ropes binding his wrists to the wagon wheel, the coarse fibers digging deep into his skin. His arms ached from the unnatural angle, muscles screaming as they fought against the restraints. The bindings stretched his chest taut, leaving him exposed and unable to twist away from the brutal blows. Each punch and kick jarred his body, the pain carving fiery paths through his nerves. But he swallowed it, crushed it, and turned it inward. His pain was fuel. His anger, the fire it stoked. 

He would not give these men the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

Rage simmered beneath the surface, dark and seething. These men—these white men—thought they could break him as easily as they had broken the land, the rivers, the trees, and his people. They came with their laws, their machines, and their greed, carving scars deep into the earth and tearing apart lives without a second thought. His hatred for them burned as hot as the sun over the plains, scorching and absolute.

A fleeting pang of guilt pierced through his fury, unwelcome and bitter. What would his father think? No—what would his father do when he found his son’s broken body, lifeless and abandoned? There would be no surviving this.  

The two men who had come with him—boys, really, no older than Eagle Flies. Were dead already. Their youthful pride and reckless defiance had crumbled under the weight of reality. They had believed, like him, that they could strike a blow for their people, that their small acts of resistance could echo louder than the roar of a train engine or the bark of a rifle. They had died for that belief, their lives snuffed out like embers.  

And now, he was left alone to face the consequences of his own pride. He had thought himself strong enough to fight back, to make these invaders pay for what they had done. For the children left starving, for the elders forced to watch their homes burn. For the rivers choked with filth and the sacred grounds trampled beneath boots. 

Someone had to fight back. Something had to be done.

His father’s endless talks of peace felt hollow to him, a dream clinging desperately to a world that no longer existed. The People had tried peace, and what had it brought? More death. More land stolen. More humiliation.  

Another fist connected with his chin, snapping his head to the side. Pain shot through him, but Eagle Flies spat a mouthful of blood onto the man’s boots, glaring up at his captor with a defiance sharper than any blade. The man said something, mocking and cruel, but Eagle Flies didn’t bother to listen. The words were muffled under the ringing in his ears, and even if he could hear them clearly, he wouldn’t care. 

English was their language—an ugly, foreign thing forced down his throat in his youth. His father had insisted he learn it, calling it a necessity in a changing world. But to Eagle Flies, it was a language of lies and theft, of broken treaties and empty promises. It didn’t belong to him, and it never would.

The two men who had been beating him paused their assault, muttering to each other in low voices. They thought he was hiding something—an ambush, a larger group of savages lying in wait. The thought made him laugh. The sound was hollow, like dry thunder across a dark sky. If only that were true. If only there were more of his people ready to strike back. If only they had more warriors. But there weren’t. He was alone, the last of his group. A pitiful excuse for a warrior who had let his anger carry him too far from home.

One less mouth to feed. Eagle Flies thought with resentment, already bartering with what would come of his pointless death. 

His father would never know the truth of his death. Rain Falls thought his son was off seeking the spirit world’s guidance, healing from the wounds of his soul. Instead, Eagle Flies would die here, tied to a wagon wheel, far from the burial grounds of his ancestors. His bones would be left to the vultures and scavengers.

And his soul would be condemned to wander this earth, alone—untethered, for all eternity.

When his tormentors finally left, replaced by two guards who barely spared him a glance, Eagle Flies slumped against the wagon wheel, his body betraying his rage by giving in to exhaustion. The smell of roasted meat wafted through the camp, his stomach growling in rebellion. A cruel reminder of the basic needs that tethered him to life, even as his spirit burned with the weight of despair.

He refused to let himself slip into unconsciousness. Pain and anger anchored him, a stubborn refusal to succumb to the humiliation these men sought to inflict. Just as his head began to droop, he noticed movement by the firelit tent. A shadow slipped inside, barely discernible in the flickering glow. Moments later, the muffled sounds of a struggle reached his ears—fists meeting flesh, air being stolen from lungs. 

Death had come calling. 

The sounds were all too familiar. He strained to listen, each nerve alive despite the ache in his body. The scuffle ended abruptly, and silence hung heavy in its wake, broken only by the crackle of the campfire.

Before he could process what he had heard, a low whisper shattered the stillness behind him. Eagle Flies flinched, instinctively yanking at the ropes.

“Easy, kid,” a deep, calm voice murmured. “M’gonna cut you loose. Once I do, you get those horses ready while I deal with the guards. Understand?”

Eagle Flies froze. The accent was unmistakably white, but the tone carried no venom. Suspicion flared in his chest, but he nodded stiffly. A moment later, he felt the cold bite of a blade slicing through the ropes. As the bindings fell away, he rolled his wrists, wincing at the painful rush of blood back into his numb hands. When he turned to look at his rescuer, the man was already gone, swallowed by the shadows.

Staggering to his feet, Eagle Flies forced his battered body toward the horses. His movements were fueled by nothing but adrenaline and sheer defiance. Fumbling with the saddles, his hands trembled from exhaustion, but the rhythmic task gave him a sliver of focus amidst the chaos in his mind.

The faint sounds of a fight echoed nearby—grunts, the dull impact of blows. A new surge of anger roared within him, hot and volatile. Part of him yearned to join in, to finish what the stranger had started and exact vengeance on the men who had brutalized him. But his legs wobbled beneath him, his strength already stretched thin. He would only be a liability. With his clenched jaw, and swallowing his frustration, he tightened the final strap on the saddle. 

Footsteps crunched behind him. Instinct took over. Gripping a knife he had pulled from the saddlebag, Eagle Flies spun around, his arm raised to strike.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growled sharply, despite the exhaustion weighing it down.

The figure stopped, raising both hands in a gesture of peace. The man stepped into the dim moonlight, and Eagle Flies studied him. Strong, rugged, a man who looked like he could wrestle a bear and win. Yet his eyes carried no malice—only a calm sincerity that gave Eagle Flies pause. He replied slowly, as if speaking to an animal prone to startling. “S’alright now. Those men are gone, I took care of it.” 

“Who are you?” Eagle Flies demanded, his tone wary. “Why did you free me?”

“Arthur.” The man sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as if the weight of the world rested there. “Name’s Arthur Morgan,” he said. “You’re Rain Fall’s boy, ain’t ya?”

Eagle Flies stiffened, shame and anger bubbling beneath his bruised skin. “Did my father send you?”

Arthur shook his head, stepping closer to take the reins of one of the horses. “No, he didn’t. But I’m guessin’ he don’t know you’re here, does he?”

Eagle Flies glared, his pride refusing to let him answer. Pulling himself into the saddle with a wince, he felt Arthur’s steady gaze on him, unyielding but not unkind.

“Your father asked me to help with the peace talks,” Arthur continued, voice calm but firm. “He’s tryin’ to stop Cornwall from takin’ more of your land.”

“I remember you now,” Eagle Flies scoffed, his bitterness spilling over like a dam breaking. “Father thinks you can stop a man like Cornwall? A man who burns our homes and kills our people like it's some kind of sport?”

Arthur shrugged as he mounted his own horse. “Don’t know. Maybe not. But I do know dyin’ out here, tied to that wagon wheel, won’t help him none. You alright?”

“Sure,” Eagle Flies replied bitterly. “I enjoy being tortured. Clears the mind.”

Arthur let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as his horse shifted beneath him. “Well, you’ve still got your tongue. That’s somethin’.”  

Eagle Flies frowned, spurring his horse to follow as Arthur turned toward the shadows of the forest. His body ached, every movement a reminder of how close he had come to death, but his mind was sharper now, hyper-focused on the man leading him away. The man who saved his life.

Arthur Morgan. He’d heard that name before. He and his father met with this man some weeks ago, when they were trying to renounce the new oil rig on their land. After pleading with the mayor of Saint Denis at his garden party. It struck him how he didn’t recognize him sooner, though the darkness and his swollen eyes made that nearly impossible. There was something different about the man he encountered tonight. There was something in the way Arthur carried himself, a weight to his words that hinted at a deeper story.  

“You don’t look like the kind of man who sits at peace talks,” Eagle Flies said after a stretch of silence. His voice was edged, testing.  

Arthur didn’t turn, his broad shoulders framed by the faint glow of the moon. “I don’t. But your father asked, and I reckon he deserves someone listenin’ to him.”  

Eagle Flies narrowed his eyes. “Why? What do you owe him?”  

Arthur glanced back briefly, his face unreadable. “Nothin’. But he’s fightin’ for his people, not just himself. That’s rare these days.”  

The young warrior mulled that over, his thoughts tangling with his anger. This man, this stranger, didn’t sound like the others Eagle Flies had encountered. There was no patronizing tone, no false sympathy laced with disdain. But there was something else—a quiet fury, buried but unmistakable. 

It was in the way Arthur carried himself; the tense set of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched when he spoke, as though keeping a dam from breaking. That anger wasn’t directed at Eagle Flies, but it lingered like smoke around a fire that refused to die. This was a man who had fought battles, more than one, Eagle Flies could tell. He had carried the weight of those fights long after they were over. He recognized it because he felt it in himself: the simmering frustration of a world that seemed to grind down anyone who dared to stand against it.  

That anger, though, was different from the reckless fury Eagle Flies often saw in his own reflection. Arthur’s wasn’t the kind of rage that exploded outward in wild defiance; it was sharper, tempered, like steel forged in a relentless fire. And yet, Eagle Flies couldn’t ignore the fresh bloodstains on Arthur’s hands, the faint tremor in his breath that spoke to the violence he’d unleashed moments ago. This was a man who had killed with purpose, not for glory but because he had no other choice. Eagle Flies didn’t need to ask how Arthur killed those men back there—he could see it in the haunted look buried deep in the older man’s eyes. 

Whatever Arthur Morgan was shouldering, it was more than just the bodies left behind. There was a pain too, a grief bound so tightly to his anger that it had become inseparable. And for reasons Eagle Flies didn’t yet understand, that made him trust this stranger just a little more.

“You’re angry,” Eagle Flies said bluntly, watching for a reaction.  

Arthur glanced over his shoulder again, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What makes you think that?”  

“Because I know what it looks like,” Eagle Flies replied. “What it feels like,” he explained. “I saw it back there. It’s in the way you carry yourself. Like you’re always holding it back.”  

Arthur was silent for a moment, guiding his horse through the underbrush. When he spoke, his voice was deep, and deliberate. “Maybe I am. But anger’s a dangerous thing, kid. It’ll burn you up inside if you’re not careful.”  

Eagle Flies bristled at the comment. “You think I don’t know that? I have nothing left to lose, my anger’s all I’ve got. It’s the only thing that keeps me fighting.”  

Arthur sighed, “I reckon you got much more to lose than that,” he muttered. His posture slumped slightly in the saddle. “Listen, I get it, kid. But fightin’ just for the sake of fightin’ doesn’t always get you what you’re after.”  

Eagle Flies clenched his fists, the reins biting into his palms. “And what would you know about it? You’re not the one losing your home, your people—” He caught himself, his voice thick with emotion, and looked away, ashamed at the crack in his defiance.  

Arthur slowed his horse, turning to face him fully. “You’re right,” he said simply. “I’m not. But I’ve lost plenty. And I know the kinda pain you’re carryin’. It ain’t gonna go away, no matter how many people you kill or fights you win.”  

The sincerity in Arthur’s voice threw Eagle Flies off balance. He studied the older man again, searching for something, anything, that would betray insincerity. But all he saw was exhaustion, a heaviness in Arthur that mirrored his own.  

“We’re not far now,” Arthur said, breaking the silence. “Come back to my camp. We got good people there. They’ll help you get cleaned up, get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out how to get you back to Wapiti.”  

Eagle Flies hesitated, his pride warring with his fatigue. He hated needing help, hated being vulnerable in front of a man he barely knew. But the promise of rest, of even a brief reprieve from the weight on his shoulders, was too tempting to ignore.  

“Fine,” he muttered, keeping his tone clipped. “But don’t think this means I trust you.”  

Arthur smirked faintly, nudging his horse forward. “Wouldn’t expect you to. But maybe you’ll change your mind after you’ve had somethin’ to eat that ain’t your own tongue.”  

Despite himself, Eagle Flies almost smiled at the dry remark. He followed Arthur into the night, his thoughts still clouded by anger but now tinged with something else—curiosity. For the first time in a long while, he wondered if he’d met someone who might actually understand his pain.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As Eagle Flies followed Arthur down a narrow path, the oppressive darkness of the bayou pressed in around them. Branches clawed at his legs and snagged on his clothes, while the undergrowth brushed against his knees, damp with dew. The air was thick and heavy with the tang of earth and decay, each breath feeling more like a drink of swamp water than air. He could barely make out the figure in front of him, relying instead on the steady squelch of Arthur’s horse’s hooves in the mud and the occasional clink of tack. The bayou was alive with sound—frogs croaking in the distance, the buzz of insects too close for comfort, and the occasional rustle that hinted at unseen creatures moving through the murk. 

True to Arthur’s word, the camp wasn’t far.  

The faint light of a campfire came into view, flickering weakly through the tangled trees, its dim orange glow struggling against the overwhelming dark. Arthur glanced back briefly, muttering that it was late and most of his gang would be asleep. He would take the lead so as not to startle them. 

Along the way, Arthur spoke sparingly, revealing glimpses of himself. A bandit, an outlaw, a murderer—on the run from the law. I ain’t a good man, he’d said plainly, his voice rough with something between regret and resignation. Eagle Flies hadn’t offered judgment; he understood what it meant to take a life, to spill blood for survival, justice, or rage. 

Whether in defiance or desperation, they both knew this world’s truth: it was eat or be eaten.  

As they approached the camp, two figures emerged from the shadows, their voices cutting sharply through the night.  

“Stop right there!” a woman barked, her gun aimed squarely at them.  

“Who are you?” demanded a man, his voice steady and firm.  

“It’s Arthur,” the cowboy called back evenly, his tone calm and familiar.  

The tension melted almost instantly. Relief swept over the pair as they lowered their weapons and rushed toward him. Arthur dismounted with a grunt, and Eagle Flies, now able to see more clearly, studied the two strangers. The man had long black hair and dark brown skin, clearly one of his people, though his expression was softened with relief rather than suspicion. He clasped Arthur in a tight embrace, patting his back with a mix of joy and disbelief, while the woman—a fierce-looking figure with determined eyes—spoke rapidly about thinking he was dead.  

Eagle Flies slid off the horse, his legs nearly buckling as he hit the ground with a dull thud. He grimaced, unable to stifle a pained grunt, and the sound instantly drew their attention. The native man, Charles, took a cautious step forward, his brows furrowing as though he recognized Eagle Flies.  

“Arthur, is that—?” Charles began, tinged with surprise and concern.  

Arthur raised a hand to cut him off, sighing heavily. “Yeah. Charles, this is Eagle Flies. Chief Rain Falls son.” He turned to the younger warrior, nodding toward the others. “Eagle Flies, this here is my friend Charles. And this,” he gestured to the woman who still regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, “is Mrs. Adler.”  

Eagle Flies straightened as best he could, taking in their faces. There was something grounding about Charles’ presence, a quiet reassurance in his steady gaze. The woman, Mrs. Adler, radiated a sharp intensity that made him wary but also curious. These weren’t just Arthur’s companions. 

They were his people. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur felt a wave of relief crash over him as he caught sight of Charles and Sadie, their presence grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. They were still here—alive—at this battered little camp they’d been calling home for the time being. He had no idea if any of the others had made it back, but just seeing their familiar faces eased some of the tension coiled in his chest. His heart pounded as his thoughts drifted to Kate, asleep in one of the cabins. She was safe, and for now, that was enough to keep him steady.   

He’d been through hell to get here, but he’d walk through that fire a million times if only to see her again. 

Charles looked between him and Eagle Flies, his brow creased with concern. Arthur could already feel the questions burning in his mind, but he got to the most pressing one first. “Found the kid tied to a military wagon,” he said briefly  

“Were there others?” Charles asked, his tone sharp and urgent. His dark eyes flicked to Eagle Flies, searching for an answer.  

Arthur hesitated, glancing at the young man. Eagle Flies gave a slight nod, the weight of it speaking louder than words. Arthur shook his head. “Just bodies.”  

Charles sighed and looked at the ground, “I’m so sorry.” He said quietly. 

The air grew heavy, the unspoken horrors filling the silence. Sadie cleared her throat, breaking the tension with a softer tone. “Looks like Arthur caught you at the right place at the right time. He’s good at showin’ up like that, when folks need him.”  

Eagle Flies shifted uneasily, his jaw tight as he scanned the faces around him. He didn’t speak, but his reluctance was written in the way his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched at his sides.  

Charles stepped closer, his voice gentler now. “Eagle Flies, I know this isn’t easy, but we need to know what happened. Where were they keeping you? How many soldiers were there?”  

There was a heavy pause before Eagle Flies finally spoke, his voice rough and barely above a whisper, “Near the river. West of here. There were more when they captured me... but only four on duty when Arthur came.”

His words hung in the air, the weight of them like the dampness of the bayou, thick and suffocating. Charles turned to Arthur, his gaze sharp with unease, the question lingering with all the dangers they had faced to get here. “Were you followed?”

Arthur shook his head, weariness etched into his every movement. “Not unless the dead start walkin’,” he said, carrying the faintest edge of dark humor.

“Good,” Charles said flatly, though his tone carried the kind of finality that didn’t invite further reassurance.

Sadie stepped forward, her voice like sunlight breaking through a storm. “Well, you’re here now,” she said, her smile warm but deliberate. “Let’s get you somethin’ to eat and cleaned up. You’ll feel a damn sight better after that.” 

Arthur nodded toward the fire, his tone softer. “She’s right. Go with Mrs. Adler, kid. She’ll fix you up somethin’ proper.”  

Eagle Flies hesitated, his eyes flickering between Arthur and Charles, as if gauging whether this was another trap or a rare moment of genuine kindness. Finally, he gave a small nod. Sadie motioned for him to follow, her steps and voice were steady as she coaxed him away from the smoldering tension of the conversation.

When the sound of their footsteps faded, Charles turned to Arthur, his eyes narrowing as he searched the man’s face. Arthur felt the scrutiny like a weight pressing into his chest.

“What happened back there?” Charles asked in a low voice, careful, but tinged with an urgency that betrayed the steady calm he was trying to maintain.

He hesitated, his gaze catching on the hollowness under Arthur’s eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders carried an unbearable weight. “Arthur, are you okay?”

Arthur exhaled shakily, his gaze darting away as he nodded, though they both knew it was a lie. “Hosea’s gone. Lenny too,” he said abruptly, the words cracking the air like dry lightning.

He cleared his throat, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice, but there was no masking the way the grief clawed at his neck, choking him from the inside.

It struck him how casually the words had left his mouth, like spitting venom that burned on its way out. The weight of them wrapped around him, suffocating, as their faces flickered in his mind; Hosea’s fatherly wisdom, Lenny’s fierce loyalty. Their final moments haunted him like ghosts clinging to his battered soul. 

How could he face Kate now? How could he ever explain to her that it was all because of him—because of his failure—that her life had been put in danger, that Hosea and Lenny were dead? He had promised her safety, promised her that they would survive together, but instead, he had dragged her into a war she never asked for. He had been the one to bring danger to their doorstep, to shatter whatever peace they might have had. And now, as the weight of their deaths settled like a stone in his chest, he couldn’t help but feel the crushing truth: He had failed them all. He couldn’t face Kate, not like this. 

What words could he possibly say to her? How could he break the news of the ones they had lost, when he couldn’t even face it himself? Arthur’s mind raced with the questions, but there were no answers. Only comforting lies to offer her. He was the reason they were gone, the reason she had been imprisoned. His failures cut deeper than any mortal wound. 

Arthur’s heart ached for her, knowing the hurt she would feel, the fear she might have when she found out the truth about what had happened on that boat. How could he look her in the eye and tell her that he had failed to protect the people he loved most, that his poor choices had led to so much loss? In that moment, Arthur felt like nothing more than a shadow of the man he used to be—broken, hollowed out by his own mistakes.

Undeserving of the woman he risked everything for. 

“Dutch was givin’ ’em hell by the time I took off,” Arthur said in a rush, his words tumbling out as if trying to outrun the grief. “Think he must’ve made it into a building or a boat or somethin’. Heard the law was still lookin’ for him when I high-tailed it.” His shoulders sagged under the weight of his words, his exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

Charles closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the news. The implications for the gang settled heavily between them like a stone dropped into a still pond, rippling outward. “And Milton? Is he alive?”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, his voice heavy with fatigue. “Don’t know. Didn’t look back after I left Saint Denis. Been tryin’ to get here in one piece. That’s when I found the kid. Those soldiers were ready to kill him.”

Charles nodded solemnly, his voice was steady but laced with quiet conviction. “You did the right thing, Arthur. Rain Falls will be grateful for your help.”

Arthur swallowed hard, the words like a bitter pill. Rain Falls’ gratitude wouldn’t erase the losses or the guilt that churned in his chest. Eagle Flies was alive, but Hosea and Lenny were gone, and nothing could ever make that right.

After a moment of silence, Arthur turned his gaze toward the cabins, his trembling voice barely audible over the sound of the chirping night frogs and humming cicadas. “Kate,” he murmured. “Is she—?”

Charles’ expression softened, sensing the unspoken fear in the question. “She’s okay. The girls took care of her. She’s asleep in your cabin.”

"Thank you, Charles," Arthur whispered, his voice wavering as he let out a shaky breath. 

The relief that flooded him was like a warm wave breaking against the shore, but still, his feet felt heavy, as though bound to the earth itself. His heart, a drum in his chest, screamed for him to move, to run, but his body refused to obey. His pulse was a frantic, disjointed rhythm, a sharp contrast to the stillness that seemed to envelop him. 

Would she look at him with eyes full of sorrow, with disappointment? Would she be ashamed of him, afraid of the man he’d become? The thought gnawed at him—those quiet moments when their lips had met, when he'd held her close and whispered promises of a future together. Could she still see the man she had loved in him, or had he destroyed that too? The questions, each a shard of doubt, raked through his mind, pulling him deeper into a sea of self-torment.

"Go to her," Charles' voice cut through the turmoil, gentle, like the caress of a summer breeze. "She needs you, Arthur." 

The words were the key that unlocked something inside him—something raw and aching, pulling him from his paralysis. With a quiet, desperate breath, Arthur turned, his body moving almost of its own accord, his steps slow but sure. Each movement was laden with the weight of his sins, each stride heavy with the burden of loss, yet still, his heart surged with an undeniable need. 

I need her. The thought clung to him like a lover’s whisper, a mantra he couldn’t escape. No matter how much he resisted temptation, he would always lose. 

I need her. The world outside was cold and unforgiving, but the thought of her—the warmth of her smile, the softness of her touch. Was all that kept him from breaking entirely. 

I need her. And so, with that single, desperate prayer, he walked toward the cabin, toward the one thing in this world that still felt like home.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The voices outside stirred Kate from her restless sleep. The stiffness in her limbs protested as she sat up, the worn cot creaking beneath her. She winced as she stretched, her body heavy with exhaustion despite the hours she had spent lying still. The first rays of morning filtered through the cracked wooden walls, mingling with the bitter, familiar scent of coffee drifting through the camp. Her stomach growled in response, a harsh reminder of how little she had eaten.  

Swinging her legs over the side of the cot, Kate stood, but the world tilted sharply around her, forcing her back down onto the blankets. She pressed a hand to her temple, willing the spinning to stop. Anemia, weak blood, whatever they called it. This sickness made her feel like she was moving through quicksand. No matter how much she rested, her strength never seemed to return. The weight of it all pressed down on her as she glanced at the blankets where Arthur’s journal rested, its leather cover worn and familiar. The sight sent tears pricking at her eyes, but she blinked them away, dragging herself upright. 

The gang needed everyone's strength right now—she wouldn’t let this weakness consume her.  

The blinding light outside the cabin made her squint as she adjusted to the day. Her gaze swept over the weathered camp, the leaning cabins half-swallowed by the swamp’s creeping vegetation, and the rancid smell of decay hanging in the air. She spotted Charles in the distance, her lips parting to greet him, but the figure standing beside him rooted her to the spot.  

Her heart leapt into her throat. "Arthur?" she called, trembling with disbelief. Her lover turned towards the sound of his name, his figure draped in sunlight like he was an angel sent to whisk her away. She didn’t wait for a response, her feet carrying her forward in a rush.  

“Arthur!” The cry broke free from her lips as she threw herself into his arms. His embrace enveloped her, strong and steady despite the weariness she could feel in him. She clung to him, her hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt as if he might disappear if she let go.  

Arthur buried his face in the crook of her neck, the rasp of his breath against her skin a sound that made her chest ache with both relief and longing. “I missed you Kate,” he murmured, heavy with emotion. 

He pulled back just enough to brush kisses against her cheeks, his calloused hands cradling her body. Deep blue eyes roamed over her as though he was trying to memorize every detail, though her pallor and dark circles gnawed at him. Even so, she was still the most breathtaking sight he’d ever seen.  

“Look at you,” he said softly, his lips quirking into a tender smile. “Still as pretty as a magnolia in May.”  

Kate flushed, the warmth of his words wrapping around her like sunshine. When he finally set her back on her feet, she bombarded him with questions, her hands running over his shoulders, his chest, searching for injuries. “How—how did you make it out? I thought Milton was going to—” Her words faltered as her eyes caught the dried blood on his shirt and the red crusted into the cracks of his hands. “Arthur, are you hurt?”  

Arthur chuckled softly, a weary sound that held a trace of his usual charm. “I’m alright, darlin’,” he said, taking her smaller hands in his. His thumbs brushed over her knuckles before lifting them to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Just a little rough around the edges, that’s all.”  

“When did you get back? Are the others with you?” Kate glanced around, her eyes scanning the camp for signs of new arrivals.  

Arthur hesitated, the question he’d been dreading hanging heavy in the air. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. “I made it back last night,” he said finally.  

Her brow furrowed, a flicker of hurt crossing her features. “Last night? Oh, Arthur… why didn’t you wake me?”  

The crack in her voice struck him harder than he anticipated. Oh god, how was he ever going to tell her the truth now. He opened his mouth, searching for the words, but they felt lodged in his throat. “You needed the rest sweetheart,” he said softly, though his voice was rough with guilt. “I didn’t want to wake ya… didn’t want to trouble you with all this, not after everything you’ve already been through.”  

Little did Kate know, Arthur had gone to her last night. Every fiber of his being ached to climb into the cot beside her, to feel her steady breathing against his chest and let the storm inside him settle, even if just for a moment. But when he had stepped into the cabin, the sight of her had stopped him cold. She lay there, her features softened in sleep, her mouth slightly parted, disheveled waves of hair spilling over his old blue button-down that wrapped her body in a way that felt like a claim he wasn’t sure he had the right to make anymore. His journal was tucked protectively under her arm, as though even in her sleep, she clung to him.  

It was a picture-perfect moment, one he felt certain would shatter under the weight of his touch. Everything he had ever loved, everything he had ever cared for, seemed to crumble in his hands. His chest tightened as the thought crept in like poison: maybe her illness was his fault, too. He should have been there for her more, done more to provide for her, to protect her. Keeping her safe was the one thing he had vowed to do, and Christ, he had failed even at that.  

Arthur’s hand had lingered on the edge of the cot, fingers itching to reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. But instead, he had withdrawn, retreating like a coward. He had spent the night perched on an overturned crate, keeping vigil as she slept. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the faint flicker of her eyelids as she dreamed. And as the hours dragged on, his mind wandered to darker places, weighed down by the ghosts of his failures and the ever-growing burden of his sins.  

Now, as they stood face to face, the weight of her scrutiny felt heavier than any bullet wound. Kate frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly, unconvinced by his vague answers. “Trouble me with what, Arthur?” she pressed, cautious but insistent.  

Before he could muster a response, Charles, who had been standing nearby with the patience of a saint, cleared his throat softly. The sound was a polite interruption, but it still made Arthur flinch. As if on cue, Sadie and a young man stepped out from one of the nearby cabins and joined their circle.  

Kate’s gaze shifted to the newcomer, her brows knitting together in surprise. The bruises mottling his face made her wince inwardly, but what struck her most was how utterly out of place he looked amidst the ragtag group of outlaws.  

“Kate,” Charles began evenly, his calm voice breaking through the tension, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”  

Arthur placed a hand on the small of her back, a grounding touch for both of them, and gestured toward the young man. “This is Eagle Flies,” he introduced, as if they were old friends. “I met him and his father, Rain Falls, some weeks back. After the mayor’s party,” he added, his explanation brief but pointed.  

Kate’s lips parted slightly as she processed the introduction. “Eagle Flies,” she repeated, testing the name as though committing it to memory. A small smile touched her lips, warm but weary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard much about your father,” she said, offering her hand.  

The young man accepted her handshake with a single, firm shake before stepping back. His eyes, dark and restless, flitted between Arthur and Charles before settling back on her. 

“What brings you this deep into the bayou?” Kate asked, though she wanted to know how he got the bruises on his face. Something in her heart told her she already knew. She could see something flicker there—shame, perhaps, or embarrassment—but it was gone as quickly as it had come.  

“We were sending a message to those men in uniform,” Eagle Flies said evenly. His tone was steady, betraying neither pride nor anger, but there was a subtle tension in his voice. “But we didn’t—” he hesitated. “There were too many of them…” His jaw was tightening as he searched for the right words. “Arthur… he saved my life last night.”  

The words hung in the air, heavy and final, as if any further discussion on the matter would only deepen the wounds of what had transpired.  Kate’s eyes darted back to Arthur, her heart twisting at the sight of the exhaustion etched into his features. The tension in his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes, the way his body seemed to sag with an invisible weight—it was all there, plain as day. She reached out instinctively, her hand brushing against his arm. Something happened last night that he wasn’t telling her. 

“What is the military doing this far south?” Kate asked, filled with unease as her eyes scanned the familiar faces of her friends. She wasn’t expecting an answer, but the silence that followed only heightened her anxiety.  

Sadie, always the first to speak her mind, leaned on her rifle with a scowl. “Been wonderin’ that myself. There’s Pinkertons crawlin’ around the muck too. I reckon they’re workin’ together.”  

Kate felt a flutter of panic in her chest, her heart beating faster as her thoughts spiraled. “Good Lord, for what reason do the Pinkertons need to get the military involved?” Her voice pitched higher, the concern clear in her tone.  

Arthur exhaled heavily, a sound that seemed to press down on his soul. “Sweetheart,” he said, low but firm, “we just made a mess of that jailhouse. Took a fortune from a bank that don’t much like partin’ with its gold. And that cavalry out there? Well—they ain’t here for the scenery. We’re the reason.”  

Kate’s stomach twisted at the blunt truth of his words, but before she could respond, Eagle Flies stepped forward, his voice laced with quiet anger. “That’s not the whole of it,” he interjected. “Since Cornwall turned his back on my father’s treaty, he’s had soldiers planting their flags all across the counties. He’s doing all he can to leave my people with nowhere to run and nothing but the wind to call home.”  

Sadie let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humor. “That goddamn velvet-vested plutocrat. Ain’t nothin’ noble about a man who climbs to the top by steppin’ on necks,” she muttered before spitting in the dirt, her disdain evident.  

Charles nodded, his face somber. “Which is exactly why you need to leave.”  

The words struck Kate like an arrow, and she blinked, momentarily stunned. “Leave? Charles, wouldn’t that just draw more attention? The military ain’t gonna turn a blind eye to a caravan, especially if they’re watching the borders.”  

She was so caught up in her concern for the camp’s safety that she didn’t immediately notice the word you. Arthur wrapped an arm around her, his thumb brushing soothing circles against her arm. His touch was gentle, comforting her in the midst of her growing panic. 

“He means the three of us,” he said quietly.  

Kate turned to him, her wide eyes filled with worry. Arthur could see the gravity of the situation racing through her mind, the weight of what this meant for her and for them. “We… have to leave? But where would we go?”  

“Wapiti,” Eagle Flies answered confidently. “You’ll be welcome among my people. I can promise that.”  

Kate stammered, voice wavering with desperation. “B-but the camp, the girls… what if the others come back? What if someone attacks while we’re gone?” Her words tumbled over each other, already imagining the dangers of the journey ahead.  

Charles stepped closer. “Dutch and the others are still out there, and we’ve no way of knowing when they’ll ride back. Sadie and I will keep watch here, but things are getting too hot for the three of you. The law’s breathing down our necks, and the military’s not far behind. It’s best you head up to Wapiti, let the dust settle some. Couple weeks should do it.”  

A couple weeks? The thought screamed in Kate’s mind, sending a fresh wave of anxiety crashing over her. She couldn’t deny that a reprieve from the chaos was needed, desperately so. But the journey terrified her. She was a wanted woman now, traveling with two men who were just as hunted as she was. A million things could go wrong, and her heart wasn’t sure it could take any more heartbreak. Not after the hours she had spent believing Arthur was gone for good.  

“We’ll ride out tonight, when the moon’s high,” Arthur said gently, but resolute. “We’ll make for Annesburg, rest for the night, then head west come the first light. Eagle Flies knows the way—the trails are old, no soldier’s foot has touched ’em in years. We’ll be out of their reach before they even know we’re gone.”  

Kate’s body trembled slightly against him, and Arthur’s heart clenched at the sight. He rubbed small circles into her back, hoping the motion would ease her nerves. It hurt to see her like this, afraid and uncertain, but there was no other choice. Charles was right—they weren’t safe here anymore. And Eagle Flies wouldn’t make it there alive on his own.

Sadie had told him about the Pinkertons’ movements while he was gone, and he could feel the snare tightening around their camp. Ready to strike at a moment's notice. He hated to push Kate like this, but it was the only way to keep her safe. The road ahead would be hard—harder than she probably realized. But once they reached Wapiti, he harbored a faint, fragile hope that the peace of the reservation might help her heal.  

And maybe it would provide the time and space Arthur needed to muster the courage to tell her the truth of what happened that night that led to this mess. 

Kate’s voice was soft, hesitant. “Do you really think it’ll be safe there?”  

Arthur cupped her cheek, tilting her face toward his. His blue eyes, tired but unwavering, met hers. “I’ll make sure of it,” he promised, heavy with conviction.  

Kate searched his face, finding something in his expression that steadied her. A flicker of trust, fragile but enough. Yet there was something else there, something he was shouldering alone. The hollow look in his eyes told a story of their own. She nodded, though her heart still raced. “Alright,” she whispered. “I’ll be ready, Arthur.”  

Arthur pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering for just a moment before pulling back. “Thank you,” he said softly. And though his words were quiet, they carried a world of meaning and relief.

The night ahead stretched like an uncharted canvas, painted with shadows of danger and uncertainty, yet amidst the darkness, a fragile ember of hope flickered within her heart. A hope that somewhere along this perilous path, they might discover not just safety but a bond so unwavering it would entwine their souls. An unbreakable thread destined to endure beyond the tricks of time.

Perhaps Arthur was finally ready to leave his outlaw life behind.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The fire flickered weakly in the still air, casting soft shadows on the girls who sat around it, their spirits as dim as the fading embers. The stew Pearson had prepared for dinner, a questionable concoction of swampy fish and muddled flavors, sat untouched before them. Kate pushed her bowl aside with a quiet sigh, her stomach in knots. The stench of the stew mixed with the dank earthiness of the swamp, but starving seemed a less miserable option than swallowing another spoonful. 

“I’m really going to miss you girls,” Kate’s voice broke the silence, gentle yet heavy with all the unsaid things. 

Abigail, her face drawn and pale, looked up briefly but said nothing. Jack was curled in her lap, small and peaceful in his sleep, the weight of her grief tucked quietly in the lines of her face. Kate could see the toll it had taken on her—she had barely left Jack’s side since their arrival, and though Abigail was always a tough one, it was clear her sorrow ran deeper than words could ever express. Kate felt a pang of guilt twist in her chest. Arthur had come back, and yet Abigail's husband still hadn't. That familiar ache—a never-ending cycle of worry, of waiting for someone who may never return. Was one Kate knew all too well. 

Tilly, ever the optimist, cleared her throat and gave a small, strained smile. “Ain’t gonna be long. We’ll be back together gossiping over a wash bin before you even know it.” Her attempt to lighten the mood was feeble, but Kate appreciated it nonetheless. “Ain’t that right, Mary-Beth?”

Mary-Beth nodded, but her smile was empty, her eyes hollow with the weariness of their uncertain lives. “Sure, can’t wait for things to go back to normal,” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words, but even that felt like a defense mechanism she couldn’t quite control. 

Kate could see the struggle in her—Mary-Beth was holding on by a thread. They all were. The days had blurred together, grief mixing with fatigue, and the weight of uncertainty was beginning to feel unbearable. Kate’s thoughts strayed briefly to Kieran, the empty space he left behind, and the relentless ache it caused. 

“I’m so sorry, Mary-Beth... for everything,” Kate said softly, voice betraying the helplessness she felt. She could apologize all she wanted, but the damage was done, and apologies couldn't heal the wounds time had carved. 

Mary-Beth sighed, her gaze distant, as she put her bowl down and wiped her hands on her skirt. “S’not your fault. Things are just changin’,” she said, her words a weak attempt at reassurance. Without another word, she stood and made her way to her cabin, “I’m turnin’ in ladies. I wish you all the best Kate.” 

Kate’s heart sank as Mary-Beth disappeared into the shadows. It was hard to ignore the feeling that their bond was slipping away, as if the very fabric of their family was unraveling. Mary-Beth’s words somehow felt final. Did they think she wasn’t going to come back? She looked around at the others, her eyes searching for some sense of comfort, but it only deepened her sense of isolation. They were all so different now. The carefree days of laughter and camaraderie felt like a lifetime ago, replaced by the cold weight of their fractured lives. And now, she was leaving too.

“Has anyone seen Molly?” Kate asked, looking between the remaining girls around the fire. 

Abigail and Tilly exchanged worried glances before shaking their heads. “She wasn’t with us when we moved,” Tilly explained. 

Kate’s heart lurched. “What?” Her voice caught in disbelief. 

Molly, always so unpredictable, so caught up in her own turmoil, had vanished. Kate’s mind chased the unanswered question—had she truly ran away? 

Karen, sitting off to the side, her eyes half-lidded from too much alcohol, let out a slurred chuckle. “That poor bird probably took off soon as Dutch left her sight. That kind of love will drive a woman mad.”

Kate’s stomach turned at Karen’s words, but there was a bitter truth in them. Molly and Dutch had been at odds for as long as Kate could remember. No matter how hard she tried to help, it had always felt like she was fighting a losing battle. But still, a part of her hoped that Molly had found some peace, even if it meant leaving them all behind.

After a long stretch of tense silence, Kate spoke again, barely a whisper. “When Dutch and Hosea come back, they’ll know what to do,” she murmured, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew they were just a half-hearted attempt at comforting herself. 

Karen’s laughter cut through the quiet like a predator, harsh and unforgiving. “They ain’t comin’ back, sweetie,” she mocked, loose and shaky from the alcohol. 

Kate froze, her heart pounding in her chest. “Why wouldn’t they come back?” she asked, though a sinking feeling in her gut already told her the answer. 

“Arthur didn’t tell ya?” Karen asked, dripping with something close to malice only exacerbated by the liquor.

Tilly shot her a sharp look, hissing under her breath, “Karen, don’t. He’ll tell her when she’s ready.”

But Karen wasn’t done. She leaned forward, her face contorting with drunken bitterness. “Katie’s a big girl, she deserves to know!” she practically yelled.

Kate’s pulse raced as the truth hit her like a tidal wave. “Know what?”

“Dutch is gone, probably took off with the money.” Karen’s words were venomous. “And poor old Hosea and Lenny are dead.”

The world went still, Kate’s breath caught in her throat, as if the air itself had been stolen from her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, only stare at the woman who had just shattered her reality. “N-no… they can’t… wh-why would Arthur keep something like that from me?” Her mouth was dry like it was filled with cotton. Voice cracking with the sob she’d been holding back finally breaking free.

Karen gave a lazy shrug, her movements sloppy. "Don’t ask me," she muttered, slurred with liquor. "But I’ll tell ya, he ain’t nowhere near as dumb as he seems. Draggin' you outta this mess and runnin' off to play nice with the Indians. Ain’t that somethin’?" Her words hung heavy with bitterness, the sourness in her tone clear as day.

Abigail, her tired face filled with shock, snapped, “That’s enough, Karen!”

Kate’s legs wobbled beneath her, and her vision blurred with tears. She stood abruptly, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was. “I’m so sorry.”

Without waiting for anyone to stop her, she turned and fled into the night, the weight of grief, confusion, and heartache pressing down on her with each step. The darkness swallowed her whole, but she couldn’t escape the pain gnawing at her from the inside out. This wasn’t how she wanted her last moments with her sisters to be. But as she wandered into the swamp, she sought refuge in the one thing she could always count on.

Lorena. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The task Arthur had given Eagle Flies was simple enough: prepare the horses for the journey to Annesburg. Yet, to Eagle Flies, every small duty carried weight. Even if only to take his mind off his throbbing bruises, though these wounds were not the worst he’s faced. He approached the task with the same reverence as if he were preparing for a hunt or a battle. Arthur’s white Arabian, Belle, would carry him and Kate on the trail ahead, as she was too weak to ride alone. That left Eagle Flies to choose his own steed from the herd.  

Arthur’s trust in him was a quiet honor, though unspoken. And Eagle Flies did not take such things lightly.  

The horses were tethered to withered fence posts in the clearing, a rare dry patch amidst the swamp’s endless muck. His moccasins sank with every step, the mud seeping in like cold hands gripping his soles. He glanced down, scowling at the state of his footwear. When he returned to Wapiti, he would ask Quick Buffalo to make him a new pair. The elder’s skill with leather was unmatched.  

With the saddle slung over his shoulder, Eagle Flies surveyed the herd. Shadows and moonlight painted their shapes in the clearing, their coats glinting faintly in the silvery glow. Most horses shuffled away as he approached, wary of the unfamiliar. A few stood their ground, indifferent to his presence. But one caught his eye—a black Hungarian mare, standing apart from the others, untethered and proud.  

She had a presence about her that was undeniable. Her midnight coat seemed to drink in the darkness, and her stance radiated strength and defiance. There was something spiritual about her, as if she were an echo of the wild itself.  

Eagle Flies felt his breath catch. Horses were sacred to his people, their spirits intertwined with their own. But this mare wasn’t just a beast of burden. She was a spirit in her own right.  

“Hinhanni wašte, good evening friend,” he murmured, low and soothing. He extended a hand, letting her catch his scent. “Taku eniciyapi he? What is your name?”  

The mare’s ears flicked forward, her dark eyes fixing on him as if she understood the question. Eagle Flies felt a pang of bitter doubt. Was she stolen from his people? Her presence stirred something familiar in his chest. It was not unheard of for their horses to be taken in raids. The thought made him hesitate, his hand faltering mid-air.  

But the mare didn’t flinch. She leaned forward, her warm breath brushing against his fingers. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.  

He set the saddle down on a nearby post, pulling a brush from its bag. As he worked, he let his thoughts drift. Arthur had saved his life—a debt Eagle Flies couldn’t repay with words alone. He had doubted the white man at first, but Arthur had proven himself to be different. Perhaps this was meant to be, the world guiding him toward a path he didn’t yet understand.  

A flicker of movement on the far side of the mare snapped his focus back to the present. A voice followed, soft and unexpected.  

“Lorena emaciyapi. Her name is Lorena.”  

Eagle Flies straightened, nearly slipping in the mud. He steadied himself against the mare’s sturdy frame, his eyes narrowing as he peered around her. Kate stood on the other side, her figure shadowed but unmistakable.  

“You startled me,” he admitted, his tone a mix of wariness and curiosity.  

Kate stepped closer, her boots squelching in the mud. Her pale face was streaked with tears, her eyes rimmed red. She looked fragile, as if the swamp’s weight had pressed on her more than anyone else’s. Yet, there was something in her voice, in the way she’d spoken Lakota, that caught him off guard.  

“Owakahnige sni,” he said, his disbelief evident. “I don’t understand. You speak my people’s language?”  

“Eya. A little,” Kate replied, her voice rasping with exhaustion.  

Eagle Flies tilted his head, studying her. Her accent was smooth, practiced, nothing like the clumsy attempts of others. There was history here, though he couldn’t piece it together yet.  

“Lena nithawa thasunke? Is she your horse?” he ventured, more curious than before.  

Kate nodded, wiping at her cheeks with a trembling hand. “Hiya. Yes.”  

He ran a hand along Lorena’s back, rounding the mare to stand face-to-face with Kate. Up close, he could see her fatigue more clearly. It wasn’t just physical, her pain clung to her like a heavy fog.  

“Lorena is owanyang wašte. Beautiful,” he offered gently. He wasn’t sure why he said it, but it felt like the right thing to do.  

Kate managed a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sdodwaye. I know.”  

Eagle Flies hesitated, his brush pausing mid-stroke. There was something about her that drew him in, a quiet strength beneath the sorrow. He realized, in that moment, that perhaps his path wasn’t only meant to cross Arthur’s kindness.  

“Toniktuka hwo makha? Are you okay?” he asked softly, filled with genuine concern that betrayed his usual behavior. 

Kate’s silence lingered, her gaze fixed on the ground as if the swamp mud held answers she couldn’t find elsewhere. Eagle Flies didn’t press her. Silence was familiar to him, and often more telling than words. He resumed brushing Lorena, his strokes steady and deliberate, giving her space to speak if she chose it.  

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said finally, her voice was thin and unconvincing. She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers clutching at her sleeves like they were the only things holding her together. “Wicakha. I’m fine.” 

Eagle Flies glanced at her, his hand stilling for a moment. “I don’t believe you.”  

Kate’s head lifted, startled by his bluntness. Her brows furrowed under the scrutiny, but when she met his eyes, there was no accusation in them, only calm sincerity. He shrugged lightly, resuming his task.  

“I meant no offense. You just don’t look like someone who’s fine.” Eagle Flies added after a moment. 

Kate let out a weak laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “You’re very observant.” 

“Not hard to see,” he replied gently. Gesturing subtly towards Lorena. “Even the strongest horses stumble when the weight is too heavy.”  

For a while, neither spoke. The swamp buzzed with the hum of insects, the faint rustle of leaves carried on the breeze. Moonlight turned the world to silver and shadow, and Eagle Flies thought of his home—the clean mountain air, the sparkling rivers, and the resilience of his people. It felt entirely far away now. 

It was once a place of laughter, stories, and unbroken connections to the land, unlike this swamp, where the earth itself felt weary under the weight of what had been taken. Much like the people who were staying here. Their fear and uncertainty was a familiar feeling, something he saw in his own tribe every day. Their suffering was the oil to his flame. He felt his anger burning bright again, like it always did when he thought of his family slaughtered, the rivers choked with filth, and the sacred places desecrated. They had taken so much, leaving scars on the land and in his heart, yet still, they always wanted more.  

His gaze shifted to Kate, and the fire softened. Her sorrow was like the sickness in her body—clinging and fierce, draining her spirit as surely as the swamp water threatened to swallow him whole. She carried her burden silently, her exhaustion as plain as the tremor in her hands.

Yet, something about her reminded him of home, perhaps it was how easily she had spoken his native language. Or how she had sought comfort in her horse, during her time of need. He could not erase her pain, but he could offer what his people had always taught him: helping each other was the greatest form of strength. 

Eagle Flies finally broke the quiet. “We have a medicine woman on the reservation,” he said, conversational and purposeful. “Her name is White Dove. She knows how to heal the wounds we can’t always see.”  

Kate’s brow softened, “thank you,” she gave a small shake of her head. “But, I don’t think she could heal this.”  

Eagle Flies knew she was referring to her grief. He shrugged a reply, “sometimes it’s something you have to decide yourself. ”  

Something flicked in her expression. It wasn’t confusion, but rather the curiosity of someone who had lost touch with such an idea—or perhaps hadn’t heard it in a very long time. She studied his face, looking at him with a new sense of familiarity.

Eagle Flies studied her face in return. Her features were hardened over the years yet softened by weariness, her pale complexion a stark contrast to the women he knew back home. She didn’t look like someone who belonged to this kind of life. Constant danger at every turn, hiding in the shadows like cornered animals.  

“Are you close to her?” Kate asked after a moment, her voice cautious. Changing the subject.   

“To White Dove?” He smiled faintly. “She’s like my grandmother. Right now, she’d be scolding me for walking in this swamp and ruining her good leather,” Eagle Flies gestured to his tattered, muddy shirt. “She would try to make me a new one, and then laugh when I tried to refuse it.”  

Kate smiled at that, though it didn’t quite chase the shadows from her face. “She sounds very kind.”  

“She is,” Eagle Flies agreed. “She’s helped a lot of people with their pain.”  

Kate blinked, slightly taken aback by his observation and insinuation. “Eagle Flies, I’m fine. Just a little stressed about the journey. That’s all.” She replied, almost pleading. Trying to hide her weakness behind a show of strength.  

“I know what I see,” he said simply. “You carry something heavy, but you don’t let it break you. You remind me of a warrior.”  

For a moment, she looked as if she might cry again, but the tears seemed to dry as soon as they came. Instead, she let out a soft laugh, followed by a warm smile that genuinely surprised him.  

“You remind me of someone,” she admitted, warmth coloring her tone. “He was a warrior too.” 

“Really?” Eagle Flies raised a brow. “What was he like?”  

She sighed. “There was never a right way to describe him.” Kate hesitated. “He was... angry, the kind that came from a deep sadness. But he taught me everything about strength and surviving.” She spoke of him like he was no longer in her life.

A faint shadow crossed Eagle Flies’ face, his jaw tightening for a brief moment before he nodded. “I’m angry too,” he said honestly. “The world gives me plenty of reasons to be. It’s why I fight so hard for my people.”  

Kate met his gaze, her expression softening as she saw the truth in his words. While also taking in the extent of his wounds and what it had cost him.

“I lost two men because of my anger,” he continued. “But we’ll lose hundreds more if we don’t fight back.” Eagle Flies' mind thought back to last night, remembering the faces of those who are now long gone. A fate that was nearly his own. “I owe Arthur a great debt for saving my life.”  

Kate said nothing, but her eyes glistened in the moonlight. Like the mention of Arthur’s name brought her turmoil to the surface again. Whatever she was facing, it was hard for her to ignore. She wiped at them quickly, turning her attention back to Lorena.  

“And I owe you,” he added with a faint smile, attempting to lighten her mood. “For letting me borrow your beautiful horse.” 

Kate chuckled softly and Eagle Flies didn’t push her further. He knew that trust wasn’t built in a single conversation, but some burdens could be lifted by words alone. A distant voice called out to them, approaching from the cabins. Arthur was asking if the horses were ready. 

With one last brush to Lorena’s coat, Eagle Flies then slung the saddle onto her back with practiced ease. “She’s ready,” he said softly. “Are you?” 

Kate nodded, taking Belle’s reins as she followed him out of the muck and into the firelight.

Eagle Flies watched her for a moment longer, then turned to lead his own horse, Lorena. They had a long night ahead of them, and even more traveling after that. But he felt more confident with his new friends, the anxiety and fear eased momentarily. 

Kate’s voice was a whisper behind him, “Pilamaya, Eagle Flies. Thank you.” 

AN: AHH I've been waiting for soooo long to write about Eagle Flies. I can't believe it took me 26 damn chapters to get here. But I'm really excited to get into the Wapiti plot. We're so close! I was going to include the journey to Annesburg in this one, but it felt long enough already.

I hope people don't mind the use of Lakota language. I fell into a rabbit hole while doing my research and I tried not to make it too excessive. There's also not a lot of phrases that I would use, so my options were limited.

Hope you all had a great holiday, thanks for reading! <3

[thoughtscout]

former trans-identified, definitely because of sexual trauma, autism & deep hatred of enforced gender roles. as a 12-14 yo teenager I felt I could never be gender non-conforming enough to escape the disgusting feeling of knowing what my body made me in other peoples' eyes. it made my skin crawl; it felt like a prison.

I cut my hair, bound my chest and changed my preferred name & pronouns. went through gruelling bullying at school over it, and my parents weren't helpful in any way either. eventually got taken to a gender clinic but the long waitlist made the appointments so spaced out that I actually started losing interest in HRT & surgery over time. looking back now it's kind of scary thinking about how easy it might have been for me to access those things. they offered the path to them right up to me.

around 18 I went through a bit of a shift and started leaning more towards nonbinary/genderless as an identity, because I didn't feel the need to strive for 'masculinity' to replace and obfuscate my female-ness any more. wasn't at all interested in HRT; considered top surgery as a future possibility since my breasts were (and still are) my main dysphoria, but also felt pretty squeamish about the permanence of the decision. since starting to think about things more authentically with myself, I recognized the role my trauma & autism played in my earlier stages of identity.

also started thinking about gender in a way I realized was sort of different to both the conservative and the trans view. I understood that what people were referring to as 'gender' was actually just accumulated, abstract perceptions of typically 'feminine' and 'masculine' energy, and I felt intuitively that we all naturally contained some combination of them anyway, so I didn't really understand what made identifying with gender so hugely important to some people, outside of 'gender expression' just being kind of fun to play around with.

I was also starting to get put off by the idea of HRT & surgery altogether - I recognized that it didn't actually change someone's sex; it felt... artificial, not magical like some people seemed to think, and I wished people didn't feel like they had to radically alter their natural bodies in order to feel like their 'true self'. I wished we could live in a world where bio sex was just bio sex, relevant wherever it was relevant, and people could present how they liked & use whatever gendered language they wanted without rules or expectations. I essentially wished everyone could be nonbinary/genderless - or I guess, realize that we all already were...?

I still felt strong kinship and allyship to the trans community, though. if it was a choice between that or the conservatives - I'd have taken trans solidarity any day.

I remember literally just a few months ago, earlier this year, staring at myself in the mirror - no makeup, 'neutral' clothing, messy mid-length hair. I cared less about people knowing I was female, or referring to me with feminine language; that stage of dysphoria had passed. but I didn't understand how anyone could look at me and see a 'woman'. it would be a stretch to try to label me as one. by all means, I wasn't performing 'woman-hood' - wasn't 'signalling' myself as a woman through any visual or behavioural cues.

and on top of that, I never understood why so many women presented themselves stereotypically femininely, as if... it was an assigned 'dress code' for them, and they just blindly went along with it. weren't they aware they had a choice? that they could dress however they wanted? how many of them had even considered going against the grain? I wished I could see them liberated from it.

from the brief glimpses of radical feminism I'd seen (as well as the misunderstandings that were purposefully fed to me by trans people), I was under the misguided impression that radfems were interested in making trans/nb people conform to woman-hood - embrace woman-hood (and the femininity that came with it) as a 'social role'. it felt like just another prison; another expectation to 'submit' to an external expectation, and so I rebelled against it by refuting woman-hood altogether.

finally dipped my toes into some radical feminist searches here on Tumblr when I realized they were the only group of people so far who consistently shared my abolitionist stance towards the sex trade, something I'd been painstakingly disappointed by in the rest of leftist circles. I started tentatively considering the radical feminist gender abolitionist stance, running it through my internal skepticism tests and contrasting it to my own, unique views and nuance.

it took about a month of reading and soaking it all in for things to finally click, and for the smoke around the trans movement to clear from my eyes. my past still makes me deeply compassionate to the trans experience, but now I know that the trans rights movement is not the solution for dysphoria we desperately need. sometimes I mourn how much progress we could have made with dismantling gender stereotypes if the trans movement hadn't taken the stage in the conversation surrounding sex and gender. I hope to see the tides of conversation shift soon.

dysphoria means I'm still having trouble applying the word 'woman' to myself, but I don't think I'd care if anyone else did, and am gradually tuning myself back in to the female reality of my body. it feels kind of... raw, uncomfortable and painful, but ultimately freeing and healing in some way.

Rewording it because apparently I need to spoon-feed ppl:

Detrans women and former trans-identified radfems, what made you detransition and stop identifying as transgender / considering yourself something other than your assigned sex?

[vyvansecrashing]

can russia and north korea just nuke us already this is hopeless

[darylscigarettesmoke]

people are so spiteful on here and on twitter. fandoms are supposed to be fun and not a war on who’s right. opinions and views differ, but we all can’t dictate the way the story is going, because fans have no say in this. And thank god we don’t, this is the way it should be.

[s2pdoktopus]

Totally normal 10 year old mindset

[lotharx]

The barbarian had survived through many opposing feats over the years, that which whittled at the fundamentals of one's very self. He endured simply because there was no other option but forward, no other direction but through. He'd lost his family young, trusting and loving folk who doted on their community only to have a monster tear them apart, to watch as their blood ran red through the floorboards they'd built themselves. The beast had left Lothar alive, to watch the massacre, to mock him, and what could have made the strongest person wither in defeat only made Lothar stand taller in the hopes that he'd once day face the very beast.

As each year went on, such motivation didn't evaporate, but Lothar found new ambitions, people to care for even if he prayed not to care for them. Warriors like him, allies he could strive to work alongside and revere; he needn't hunt the beast any longer for each day he woke and stood strong in the face of battle was enough to squash dozens more in opposition to him and his own mantra. Thora understood these values, Thora was these values within her position as a Blademaster and as the faiman lowered her staff, Lothar too withdrew, prowling in a small circle as to catch his own breath.

Sadness eclipsed the drive within her eyes and Lothar simply paused, standing at attention to bow his head, "Hatred isn't the only thing that fuels us, but I'd say it is a powerful motivator. I think... hatred changes... maybe to grief, maybe to passion. If you're afraid that it'll leave you with... nothing," Lothar thought of his own life, how long he'd let hatred fuel him to hunting down the very beast that turned his very world upside down until it transitioned into something that didn't feel so caustic. It hadn't righted a wrong, to let go of the animosity which fueled him, but he'd had new hopes and aspirations to hold onto that didn't feel like a noose round tight around his neck, "-hatred is only the beginning to the power within, but something tells me you've already some idea of this." The barbarian even conjured an empathetic smile, "Not crazy, but mortal, with foolish ideas - much like me. They will get what is coming to them, Thora."

Thora was strong, he'd learned that swiftly from the conflicts they'd managed along the rickety road to Lysara, but this place would never be their home nor would it ever likely come to accept them. Both felt this and both exuded such energy into the sparring match, each block Lothar executed garnering more intensity as Thora whipped and spun around in tandem. He wouldn't bend nor buckle simply for the sake of another's ego, though Lothar was sure that, from what he'd come to learn about Thora, that she would appreciate that as a Blademaster and competitor in their friendly match.

He may as well have been considered a block of concrete but Thora, as any sufficient Blademaster, had certainly learned and understood the language of her strengths and proved an even, if not better opponent. Coupled with her anger over what they had faced and would continue to under the haughty Lysaran's, Thora gained more ground within their match, Lothar stepping back as the fai rushed with frustrated snarls and grunts, "Many don't understand the feeling of losing everything," the thwack of their staffs echoed between every other word, and Lothar paused any motivational extempore as he pushed with all his might to shove Thora back. "But they will."

An inevitable, something that seemed to be brewing on the horizon, considering the recent destruction of Hestia's Cove and the Iskaran's still ill received arrival.

[2383-lines-of-code]

I don’t understand ppl who hate watch shows. When I start a series I’m rooting for it to be good. bc even if I don’t fully understand what’s happening, I want it to be a genuinely good experience. And even if I end up disliking the thing as a whole, I always try find small details I enjoyed so I can at least get something out of the time I put into it.

[watermelonsenpai]

Let's see how many anxiety and sleep meds I can take before I black out because I can't deal with being conscious anymore. Everything is fake and nothing is real, the rules are fake, they're made up and they don't matter.

[toastspirit]

I wonder if my brother remembers that one time he told me that I’d never survive in the real world

Because I think about it pretty often

[acid-ixx]

prequel: again &. again. (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: prequel, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1

read until the end for an author's note.

what hurts more when it comes to neglectful batfam that adopted you after jason's death (that eventually turns a 360 after you have left) is probably the fact that they always had time for you, it's just that they never chose to spend it on you; an extra burden to their family rather than an addition. if they had time to spend, they spend it on anything or anyone else but you. it's not that you don't share interests with them, it's just...! they have way more priorities that push you further back into their list of 'to do's'; though you know you'll always be the last of that list.

bruce has to juggle so many tasks as the billionaire playboy "brucie wayne", a father of an ever growing family, and gotham's dark knight vigilante but somehow, you're aware he could easily fit in one or two more children into his already booked schedule— he just never seems to consider you worthy enough apparently. or maybe it was because you were too silent, you set boundaries compared to your other family who are outspoken about what they want, what they need— but there's one thing for sure that sets you off from your siblings; you're not a vigilante.

you were merely a child of a one night stand; a child raised too well. you were behaved, you never complained, and you were just, you. and being normal (at least in their level of extraordinary talents were you a mere droplet) amongst a family of talented individuals makes you easily a ghost. was bruce to blame with his neglect? definitely. if he was able to balance his life so easily, then maybe as the world's best detective would he notice you packing your things day by day without update. maybe that was why you never once hesitated the moment you stepped outside the manor, permanently.

dick's excuse would always be "sorry, baby bird! but i promised to spar with damian today. ah, but you can watch from the sidelines!" or he would be too busy saving bludhaven to even acknowledge your presence. sure, he smiles at you with those shiny teeth of his, but despite him looking at you, he never notices you for more than a second, right after he would skidadle his way to another sibling's room, bothering them to spend more time with him, never you though. it occurs to you that he has only entered your bedroom once, and that occurrence was years ago. even then, he didn't last a minute inside there before running away once more.

family matters more than anything to dick. hell, he was enraged at the announcement of jason's death and even beat joker to a bloody pulp when he realized tim fell into his hands. he's ready to defend damian, barbara, steph, cass, and duke with his life. it's his duty and obligation as the family's eldest brother, of course. but were you considered family to him? were you considered a sibling in his eyes, or were you just the resident roommate of the mansion? you question that endlessly because everyone, family and friends, seem to be smitted with dick, but you eventually gave up trying to vye for his attention. it's fine, really, if you were just another civilian to him, because he was just another person to you too. just like in a circus, you would always be the intermission rather than the main event. and with that, you take your leave.

jason was the most forgivable to you, second to tim. he was never there, and he would've probably put effort into spending time with you if not for the fact he despises bruce and the mansion and wouldn't and couldn't last a second stepping into it. he never met you when he was robin, it was only right after his death did he discover were you taken in and that added fact alongside tim being his replacement turned him bitter with resentment. though his hatred for you receded over time, he wouldn't really be caught taking a minute with you because he always sneaks inside the mansion and crime in gotham never seems to lessen. because of that, and your unwillingness to become a vigilante to kick ass with him and the others, he wouldn't be able to fully take an hour with you.

casual talks are unavoidable, though, when at the dead of the night he would be caught sneaking in to eat some leftovers and you were conveniently awake at the same time as him. he'll recommend you some classic literature he read or 'cafes/restaurants that criminals visit the least' lists, but before it would turn into a full conversation, jason would already be wearing his signature mask again, and with a pat on your head and a "talk to you soon, can't guarantee it'll be tomorrow again though, only here for alfred's meals of course," and he'll be gone. you shouldn't have let your hopes high, you wished you didn't because, duh! he wasn't there to talk to you, specifically. you were just there to bide his time! wiping tears away from your eyes, and with a heavy heart, you book an apartment away from the wayne manor with your own atm card; hope irreversibly dead and unable to revive a sliver of faith, even if it was dipped in the lazarus pit would it never come back as the same.

tim drake is always tired. just like bruce, his days are filled with investigation, crime fighting, and worst of all; high school. that's of course that least of his worries the moment he drops out. tim was never the guy to talk much. he only does when he needs to make an impression for others, or when he needs to manipulate people for potential information. his life revolved around fighting, from when he solved the case of bruce wayne and dick grayson being batman and robin respectively, up to his current identity as red robin and occasionally robin. he'll often be found in the batcave working with babs on a case or working alone in his room.

it's no mistake that you were the most distant to him, never once knowing about his interests or even hobbies and vice versa. it was a given that at the very moment you pass a glance at him, you knew it was a 'mind your business' type of relationship with him. if you were a mere ghost to dick, then you were just a spec of dust to tim. it was unfair to assume he would never care for you, he does! only in a way where you were another person to save if you ever were endangered, but would that be enough to stalk you to the point he gains every insight about you? not really. you weren't one of his friends, like kon who he would spend weekly video game challenges with; and you probably don't exist as his sibling in his own little world filled with coffee and computers. yeah, your feelings about leaving him weren't as bitter as the caffeine he drowns in his system, but you were still hurt either way.

damian wayne, from his birth, was taught and raised to prioritize his mission as an al ghul, to be the one continuing the legacy and to shed blood on anyone who opposes. when he was given over to bruce, it took a hell lot of effort to turn a new page and become the next robin. it was, with no doubt, that despite his 'redemption', he would be a tad bit crueler to you than the others. unlike tim, who he persistently bothers, you were untalented, worthless, and a stain on the reputation of the wayne's. even jason, his father's greatest mistake, had more value than you.

maybe it was fine-tuned jealousy, maybe he was mirroring his father and dick's actions towards you with his own sick twist of violence. either way, you would rather avoid the boy, lest you face the wrath of his sword. it wouldn't be wrong if you came to hate him, actually you do, but despite your endless game of cat and mouse with you as the unwilling victim of the chase, your poor heart couldn't fathom the thought of not excusing his actions as that of a child's. you tell yourself everyday, 'just ignore it, he was raised like as to be a menace after all' but you can't deny the bitterness and the clenching of your teeth whenever you stumble upon a room and see your father and your younger brother watching a movie together. the resentment eventually builds up until you blow up and just, give up. within your final moments in the manor, you figured to leave some belongings that you collected overtime that were supposedly memorabilias that you wish to show off to your family. like his pieces of art, you could only explain your life in the family as black and white and as bleak as the streaks of charcoal that rubs against the pages.

when dick was jogging through the desolate halls of the manor, he noticed the place seemed to be more... empty of some sort. and he knows pushing that feeling into the back of his head would only result in more questions than answers. so he decides to enter the spare rooms one by one until he comes across your room (he doesn't know it was yours, though), turning the knob without knocking.

that was when his eyes seem to dilate. his nose catched a faint whiff of bleach (was the room deep-cleaned?), vision seemingly closing in on the few furniture left alongside a diary and other boxes left neatly on your bed, with other smaller trinkets left untouched on your bedside table. he didn't remember you mentioning anything about leaving, hell, he doesn't want to admit his lack of memories about you but—

wait...

didn't he promise to take you out for dinner months ago...?

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: this is one of my favorite pieces of writing i have ever done and i like it a lot so i hope whoever reads this likes it too. if you all want to read more of this, then please leave a comment or reblog because i heavily appreciate it and it motivates me further to write this type of content! the reason i have come to a long hiatus is because, as stated, the lack of interaction with content. like i said, i will still write for genshin but i am open to expanding my fandom list. (p.s. i hope you like the way i had to connect their interests or a part of their past to the reader.)

heavily inspired by @klemen-tine's work: Glass Bones and Paper Skin, @gotham-daydreams' work: Not [], and @onmyyan's work: Ain't No Sunshine.

[adragonprinceswhore]

Soft & Hard

Aemond Targaryen x Ex Girlfriend

Summary: How do you forget about Aemond Targaryen when he’s everywhere you look?

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, angst, emotional infidelity, descriptions of self-hatred, situationship, intoxication, smut, heavy petting, drunk sex, P in V, (some) size kink

Word Count: 4000

A/N: This has been plaguing my mind for weeks now, so I really needed to get it out of me and into the world. This can be read as a continuation of my Hockey player Aemond drabble, but can also be read as a standalone. Aemond is a hockey player in this modern AU! 🩵

You prop your feet up to rest on the sides of your bathtub, angling the shower head just right so it hits that spot that sends pleasurable shivers rippling through your body.

Your eyes are closed, and you’re desperately trying to visualise the hot guy from the TV series you’d just binged; mind racing through any arousing scenario you can come up with.

It’s not an easy task; keeping yourself occupied enough to not drift towards the very man you’ve vainly tried to erase from your memory. 

You don’t want to think about him. 

Thinking about him always leads to missing him. 

It leads to longing for him. 

No matter how badly he hurt you. No matter how much you rationalise your reasons for leaving, your stupid heart yearns to fill the hole he’s left behind. 

Pathetic.

You shut your eyes with more force, thinking of the hot TV character. Upping the pressure of the shower head, you imagine it’s him going down on you that’s causing the pleasure building inside. Your hips begin to shallowly sway back and forth, and low whimpering moans slip from your lips. 

As the pleasure builds and builds, the image in your head morphs; the hot TV guys’ hair turns silver, no matter how hard you try to stay focused. 

You’re close, so close, and just as you’re on the edge of pleasure, you hear him,

“You’re so pretty like this”

And you cum so hard you drop the showerhead in your grip, legs shaking as your hips jerk upward aggressively. 

Water sprays across the bathroom as the shower head falls, but you’re too lost in your own bliss to truly care, giving yourself a moment to just disappear into the fleeting, fierce pleasure consuming you. 

After a while, when your legs have stopped shaking and your cunt has stopped clenching around nothing, you turn the rampant shower head off with a sigh. 

The satisfaction of your orgasm is short-lived, promptly followed by the lonely reality of you chasing pleasure alone in your bathroom. You could stay in the tub and make yourself cum 10 more times and it wouldn’t change the loneliness residing inside of you. 

You could try to picture that hot guy from the show fucking you for hours, still you’d feel the same. 

Still, visions of him would cloud your mind. And the chill of loneliness would penetrate your bones, as it does right now. 

Because no one kisses your forehead afterwards, or holds you tight, or whispers sweet things into your ear. 

You're alone, and the warm water quietly splashing around you doesn’t stop the cold porcelain of your bathtub from chilling your heated flesh. 

You shiver. 

Sick of yourself; of your self-pity and hatred, you leave the tub and throw on a dressing gown, already on a search for a new distraction. 

Anything to take your mind off Aemond Targaryen. 

Forgetting Aemond was nearly impossible. 

Not only did your mind remind you of your heart’s longing for the man that broke it. The world did as well. Like when you overheard your colleagues discussing his latest game, and how skillfully he tackled his opponents, landing a blow on them so precise yet hard that they flew into the rink. Or when you got home after a long day and turned on the TV, greeted by him giving a post-match interview all sweaty and panting. 

The only way you knew him. 

Being restricted to seeing the man you’d spent countless nights together with through the TV screen has brought you to the conclusion that ultimately, your relationship hasn’t changed much. 

Sure, you don’t send him nudes anymore. Nor does he fuck you into the mattress of whichever hotel room he brings you to. 

But the distance is the same. The loneliness isn’t new; it always existed between the two of you. He never really cared to let you in. 

You were convenient. 

Pliable. 

An easy fuck. 

You should’ve realised it sooner. Like that time when Alicent Hightower, Westerosi socialite and Aemond’s mother, stopped by one of his practices. You were helping him lace his skates when she appeared, and as soon as he noticed his mum approaching, Aemond’s large hand gently but firmly pushed you away. 

Ms. Hightower’s curious gaze had asked about you, and her son huffed out, “She’s an acquaintance”

An acquaintance. 

Not even a friend. 

To you, Aemond was the first thing you thought about in the morning, and the last thing you thought about before going to sleep. 

To him, you were an acquaintance. 

Pathetic. 

That should have been the last straw. But you kept seeing him. Not even the humiliation and hurt you felt as you excused yourself and ran to the bathroom with tears in your eyes could stop you from craving him. That was the power he had over you.

The power he still has over you, even in his absence. Even if you blocked his number 6 months ago and haven’t seen him once since. 

The actual last straw was a message you’d gotten from an unknown number, asking if you’d send more of those “hot slutpics in dat black thong”. For a second you thought it was Aemond having a laugh, but the message didn’t sound like him, and he isn’t exactly known for being a guy that appreciates humour, or ‘pranks’.

Turns out, the number belonged to Aegon Targaryen, Aemond’s older brother and notorious fuckboy. Word around King’s Landing was that every girl who’d slept with him had gotten chlamydia, and still he seems to find a new conquest to throw his arms around each weekend. 

Perhaps the sleaziest guy in the Seven Kingdoms.

Turns out, it runs in the family. 

You blocked Aemond’s number that night. After swearing to never let your desire for him get the best of you again, you begged your friends to take you out and get you so shitfaced the humiliation Aemond had inflicted on you would be washed away. 

It didn’t work.

You’re still tainted by his touch. 

So you switch tactics. You look for someone else. 

About a month after you’d called things off with Aemond, you thought you’d found a good replacement. A nice, inconspicuous guy who was eager to please; eager to make you like him. You would’ve felt guilty, really, if the dark hole of lonely self-hatred in your chest didn’t outweigh your selfishness. 

And still, Aemond Targaryen was everywhere. 

You’d find him in that adoring look your new partner gave you as you sucked him off in the shower. You’d find him in bed, when you couldn’t sleep and imagined it was Aemond’s heavy arms holding you tight. You’d find him in your fantasies, seemingly incapable of coming with your new partner unless you closed your eyes and pretended the short, curly strands greeting your hand between your legs were actually long, silky and silver. 

Ultimately, your conscience caught up with you, and you broke things off with the new guy as well. He had told you that he loved you, and the sweetest of confessions felt like the sharpest of needles prickling your heart. 

Aemond never said it. 

Oh, how you wish it was him saying it. 

Sometimes, even after six months of not seeing him, you’re still surprised by how incredibly piteous he’s rendered you. 

Yearning for a man who only saw you as a plaything. Who only ever cared for you when you were conveniently there for him to do as he pleased with. Who refused to expose your relationship to his mother, and shared your nudes with his brother. 

Fucking prick. 

Today’s Friday. 

Single and lonelier than ever, you beg your friends to go out dancing with you. It’s become your new weekend ritual; go out and dance until your feet hurt and you’re so tired you collapse on your bed, mind delightfully empty. 

Now, you're back on the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes closed as you sway to the music. 

You always drag your friends to the same place, The Three Towers, a nightclub of the slightly more exclusive kind, with proper DJs and strong drinks. 

They must’ve figured out by now that it was Aemond who introduced you to this place. You see it in the pitiful looks they give you every time you insist on coming here instead of going to any of the many other places in Oldtown. Their eyes say what you’ve known to be true for over six months;

Pathetic. 

It’s not like Aemond likes to go out anyway. He hates crowds, dislikes strangers, loathes the fake people gathering around him to tell him empty words of adoration. 

But that one time you’d wanted to go dancing, he’d brought you here. 

Maybe he brings all his “acquaintances” here. 

You tell yourself that you don’t come here for him, that it just happens to be a great place, but still, every time you catch a glimpse of something silvery in the corner of your eye, dread punches you in the gut. 

Why do you seek him out when you know actually meeting him would destroy you? What if you saw him here with another girl? Maybe one of the models his brother so often gifts his infected cock to? 

Tumultuous thoughts swirl in your mind until you notice that the flash of silver isn’t Aemond’s hair at all, and ease settles over you. Well, something akin to ease. The self-hatred is still there,

Pathetic. 

Your feet quickly carry you to the bar, eager for more of the numbness only alcohol provides. You order another G&T and almost spit it out after the first sip; it’s basically all gin.

Good.

You take three large gulps and move back to the dancefloor, searching for your friends who you’ve lost in the crowd of intertwined bodies. 

You scan your surroundings, and then it happens again. A flash of silver. Only this time, it’s him. 

You remember the first time you saw him. TV appearances and watching him on the ice doesn’t do him justice. In person, his ethereal beauty’s blinding. Just like it is now. One of the spotlights over the sofa he sits on hits his hair, causing it to glow like the beacon of a dark night at sea. 

Calling you in. 

Your feet work by themselves as they walk towards him. You panic, desperately searching for any excuse to talk to him. 

What do you say? 

Suddenly you’re right before him, drink in one hand and the other nervously touching your hair as you dumbly stare at him. He looks up from the drink in his hand, a whiskey on the rocks you’d guess, and meets your eyes. 

His gaze is cold and stoic. 

Unimpressed. 

He raises an expectant eyebrow. 

And yet you say nothing. All the witty, insightful, hard-hitting truths you’d wanted to tell him for the last six months vanish as you stand before him frozen in panic. 

Pathetic.

Pathetic. 

Pathetic!

You have nothing. Your mind’s empty, the only thing you can do is feel. Feel the self-hatred, the loneliness, the insecurity he’s inflicted upon you. 

He rolls his eyes. Aemond’s not known for his patience, “If you’re looking for that new boyfriend of yours, he’s not here”

“I don’t have a boyfriend”, you blurt out, prompted by the shiver running through you caused by the venom dropping from his words. He sounds so hateful. 

He stands abruptly, forcing you to take a faltering step back as he tower over you,

“Come”

He takes the drink in your hand and places it on a nearby table before grabbing your hand and leading you out of the rowdy club. The chill of the night air hits your scarcely clad body as he drags you towards a cab waiting outside, your ears still ringing from the loud music in the club.

He opens the door and pushes on your arm to get in. His touch is still impossibly warm; just as you remember it. 

He slams the door shut and walks around to the other side, getting in and grunting an address you’ve never heard of to the taxi driver.  

You know your friends would be furious if they knew who you left with, so you send them a quick text stating that you’ve left ‘cause you didn’t feel well. 

You place your phone back in your purse and look outside. It seems like you’re driving towards the north part of the city, a place you hardly know. 

The deafening silence in the taxi is so tense, any sane person would ask the driver to stop and get out in a heartbeat. 

Aemond, sitting next to you with his jaw clenched and fidgeting with his customised black and red lighter, sends nervous ripples of fear through your being. You know he’s contemplating something, yet you wouldn’t dare ask. 

Any sensible person would get out. 

But you can’t. 

Because he still smells the same. And it’s everywhere in the stuffy cab. And your heart hurts, a tear threatens to spill, because you’ve missed it all so much; his smell, his hair, his voice, his touch. 

Him.

The silence persists, until you're finally freed as the taxi driver stops and Aemond hands him a few copper stars. 

You get out and take a deep breath of the late summer night's air. The buzz of alcohol still clouds your judgement somewhat, yet you feel more aware of yourself than ever before. 

You look around and see Aemond approach the entrance to a sleek building in that brutalist, modern design, and you follow in tow. He still hasn’t said anything, and neither have you.

You get in a lift, go up to the top floor, and enter a dark flat with only a small table lamp lit by the entrance, obscuring your view of the place. 

Just as you make way to move further into the room, Aemond hinders you. 

He doesn’t allow you entrance to the rest of the space, cornering you against a low side table by the entrance door. He’s so tall, and so broad, you disappear into the wall as he steals all the space around you. 

“Why did you agree to come with me?” 

He’s so close you feel his breath tickle your skin. It’s too dark to truly see the expression on his face, but the shadows cast on him makes him look stern. The smell of him intensifies. You feel warm.  

This is all you’ve wanted. All you’ve feared. 

You still desire him so.

“You told me to”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you know it’s because your reply’s caught him off guard. He’d assumed you’d fight back, jab at him in some way. He tries again,

“My mate saw you at that club last week, you know”

Is he keeping tabs on you? 

“What happened to your boyfriend?” 

How does he know about that? 

You swallow, “Nothing. It just wasn’t right” 

“Hm”

Your eyes are locked together, his mismatched gaze just as alluring as you remember it. Without looking away, he brings a hand up to gently stoke the cold skin of your arm. 

The harshness of his stare falters, 

“Did you miss me?” 

“Did you miss me?” 

The retort leaves your lips before you register it forming in your head. Can’t give in to him that easily. Can’t make your suffering known to the person causing it. 

The harshness reappears. 

“Did he fuck you the way you like?” 

His tone is cold, yet heated with anger. The same hateful tinge from before. 

Your drunk mind works without you operating it, 

“He wasn’t you”

The confession slips out, and so does the pitifulness. The loneliness. The pathetic mess you’ve become. 

Aemond didn’t expect your admission either, eyes narrowing in suspicion, 

“What do you mean?”

Is this the time? 

To tell him how utterly devastated you’ve been without him? How he plagues your mind? How your entire being is tainted by him? 

No. 

“Why did you bring me here?”, you ask, foggy mind finally cooperative enough to let you change the subject.

“Because you wanted me to”, he replies, the gentle hand on your arm suddenly travelling down to caress your exposed thigh before  harshly cupping your cunt. 

A startled gasp espaces your lips. 

His touch is so nostalgic it travels from your aroused core to your heart, and squeezes it painfully.  

His hand is big enough to cover you entirely, and with the heel of his palm, he pushes harshly where he knows your swollen clit lies obscured under your panties. His long finger taps against your hole, and he huffs a quiet, condescending laugh as he feels how moist the fabric is.

When did you get this wet? 

You feel the heat of his touch radiate from his palm to your cunt, so persistent it finds its way through your underwear. He only moves his hand to stroke you over the fabric and press at your clit, but the gratification of finally being granted his touch works you towards release at a speed you’d thought impossible. 

“Still a little slut for me”  

He brings two fingers up to press right over your clit, rough circles demanding that you obey his touch and come for him. 

His breathing hard through his nose, the look in his eye is hard to decipher, 

Arousal? 

Fury? 

Fuck it feels good to be pushed against a wall by him. To be subjected to his rough treatment. Anything to feel his touch on you again. 

Your hips move upwards to meet his fingers; you’re so close to falling apart. 

“You missed me. And that fucker you were seeing couldn’t compare to me. Isn’t that right?” 

He spits out the words, teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he leans even closer. 

Your arms have been hanging limply at your side, and you have to fight the sudden urge to grab him and press him against you. To feel him closer. 

“Did he make you this wet?”

Aemond’s tongue licks the sensitive spot behind your ear and you moan loudly, fully consumed by the way his fingers push you towards release. 

You angle your face so that his mouth is right by yours. With parted lips, you look up at him pleadingly, begging him to kiss you. 

Something in his eye shifts, and a victorious smirk breaks out over his face, 

“Come”

And you do. So hard you see stars and your legs give out. The pleasure is intense, it steals everything from you; your breath, your senses, your self-discipline. 

Your hands fly to Aemond’s biceps, anchoring yourself to him as your body twitches forcefully in the pleasure rupturing you. It’s cathartic; a long awaited release only his hands can coax out. 

When you come back to reality, to the dark hallway you're trapped against Aemond’s body in, the dreaded self-hatred you’d gotten to know so well makes itself known again. 

The brutal reality of exactly how far your pathetic infatuation with Aemond has driven you crashes over you like an ice-cold wave of regret. You feel hot tears well up in the corner of your eyes as they stay casted down, refusing to look up at the man who’s greatest pleasure in life seems to be to torment you. 

Why had he brought you here? Why did he enjoy hurting you? Why had you fallen for it? 

“What did I do to make you hate me so?” 

It’s the alcohol talking. Or maybe it’s the last thing you need to hear from him before you can finally let go. The last shard of your heart crushed in his grip. 

Silence is the only answer he gives you, and without looking up, you push him to move so you can get away from him. Instead of allowing you to leave, he brings one hand to your cheek, engulfing it in warmth, and drags your face upwards to meet his eyes. 

Before you can read his expression, he ducks his head down, letting his lips graze over yours. His tongue comes out to swipe over your lower lip in a slow, gentle caress that feels more sensual than anything you’ve ever experienced, and in retaliation your greedy arms pull him closer, eagerly kissing him back. There’s a slow urgency to the way his tongue seeks out yours, bending your body backwards to taste you deeper. You relish in it. 

You want him to eat you up. To devour you completely. You’re his anyway. 

Without breaking the kiss, Aemond leads you down the dark hallway and into a dimly lit room. The only thing you register is a large bed in the middle, where he takes a seat and keeps you standing between his legs, still kissing you. 

His hands roam over your body; over your exposed arms and legs. They find the zipper at the back of your dress and pull it down, slowly undressing you until you're completely bare. 

He stands for a brief moment to rid himself of his own clothes, and then sits again, guiding you to climb onto his lap. 

You follow his every command in enchantment. You grant him every kiss he seeks, allow him every touch he craves. He can have it all. 

He guides you to sink down on him slowly. You’re still so wet, yet he’s so hard your insides are forced to mould after his stiffness. 

Once he fills each part of you, he wraps your legs around his waist, sighing in satisfaction as he presses your body so close to his the skin of your torso sticks to his. 

“I won’t last long-”, he whispers into your ear, “-a 6 month wait is excruciating”

The touch that you’ve known as harsh and demanding is now so soft. So delicate it slowly picks up the shattered pieces of your broken heart and mends them together again with each gentle caress.

Your hands cup his cheeks, gazing into his lilac and blue stare as you slowly begin to move. 

Aemond doesn’t say anything, doesn’t say that one phrase that you want him to, but the look in his eyes is mesmerising. You’ve never seen him so vulnerable. It’s intimate.

He’s giving himself to you. 

You wrap your arms around him, accepting him. You want all of him, all to yourself. You’ve wanted him for half a year. You’ve wanted him since the first time you met him. 

He meets your hips each time you sink down, and the otherwise carnal pursuit for pleasure feels dreamlike as Aemond’s arms envelop you and you disappear into him. 

You want to say it, but not yet. You don’t dare. Would he retreat again? You know it to be true, but it’s too early. Maybe someday. 

Instead, it’s Aemond who speaks over the moans and sighs of pleasure,

“Don’t leave me again” 

You don’t know how long you fuck, but each orgasm feels more consuming, more powerful, than the last. Ultimately, you collapse together on the bed, legs and arms still intertwined. The familiarity of Aemond’s heavy arms over your waist soothes you, yet the soft sheets of the bed provide a stark contrast to the stiff, clinical sheets of the hotel rooms he’d always brought you to before. 

There’s nothing left between you, no more layers to shed, so you ask him about everything that had led up to your separation. About how he dismissed you in front of his mother, and about the text from his brother. The latter seems to genuinely surprise him, 

“I’ve never shared your pictures with anyone, especially not him” 

Guess Aegon Targaryen isn’t above snooping through his brother’s stuff. 

You talk all night, and Aemond tells you about his strained relationship with his family, “My family has an ability to ruin things for me”, he confesses, “I didn’t want that to happen with you”

As the rays of sunrise begin to seep through the window, you admit to the loneliness that’s been eating away at you since parting from Aemond. 

He cups your cheek again, thumb stroking your cheekbone,

“I fucked up. I’ve missed you more than I thought possible”

Your loneliness hadn’t been solitary. He’d felt it too. You’d shared it. 

You lay your head on his chest, listening to the slow drum of his heart. Before it lulls you to sleep, you remember the last thing you’d like to ask him,

“Aemond, where are we?”

“My place”

A/N: I never know if I should write it as come or cum? After some studious research (not), I decided that come is the original and therefore works better! Thank you for reading, I write these drabble for fun to improve my writing, so don't be too harsh please 🫶🩵

[spiltcandycoatedpunkblood]

my friend dealt with a multitude of mental health issues, but yes I fully 100% blame the election result even if it wasn't the exact thing to push him over the edge

it's absolutely horrifying that the end result of an election has people reblogging suicide hotlines and writing messages about who to blame if they die over the next 4 years