#turning in your stomach (making you feel sick)

[the-silent-hart]

If I’m turning in your stomach, Am I making you feel sick?

am i making you feel sick?

[areislol]

hi!! i love ur writing sm and if you could make a dr ratio x pregnant f!reader omg that would just be superb like i wanna see this man slowly realize he’s going soft like ahhhhhhhh im just obsessed with him but i love ur writing sm ur amazing

pairings. dr. ratio x f!pregnant reader

warnings. just fluff.

a/n. thank you so much for your kind words! i love the idea of dr. ratio slowly realizing he’s going soft for his pregnant partner omg!!! also i kind of made it into three parts in a way.

wc. 1k

synopsis. dr ratio being soft with his pregnant wife.

recommend listening to: love. - wave to earth

‎‎ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSoft Spot

The first time Dr. Ratio noticed something was different, it was subtle. You moved a bit slower, a hand resting idly over your stomach more often than not. You were always warm, but now you seemed to radiate a different kind of warmth—a quiet, almost sacred glow. He didn't question it at first. Maybe it was exhaustion; maybe you were just adjusting to a change in your routine. But then he started paying attention.

You were sick more often. You turned your nose up at certain foods that you used to love, eyes filled with frustration that made him arch a brow. And then the realization struck him like a calculated equation coming together at last.

You were pregnant.

At first, Dr. Ratio didn't quite know what to do with that information. He sat with it, processed it the way he would a difficult medical case. The logical part of him knew what pregnancy entailed—the symptoms, the risks, the way your body would change to accommodate the new life growing inside you.

But what he didn’t expect was the way it changed him.

He caught himself reaching out more. A steadying hand on your lower back when you walked, a gentle nudge to remind you to sit down when you insisted you were fine.

He found himself monitoring your meals, his sharp eyes noticing when you hadn’t eaten enough. When you winced or sighed in discomfort, his jaw would tighten, his fingers twitching with the impulse to do something, anything, to make it easier for you.

And it terrified him.

Dr. Ratio was not a man who coddled. He was pragmatic, and efficient—someone who prioritized reason over sentimentality. But with you? With you, it was different. He caught himself lingering longer in bed in the mornings, his fingers tracing lazy circles over your belly, as if trying to understand the life growing within.

He caught himself talking to your stomach when he thought you were asleep, murmuring things he would never admit to in the light of day.

“You’re making your mother work too hard,” he’d say in a hushed tone, his palm pressing over the slight swell. “She’s stubborn. You’ll probably be just like her.”

You had giggled sleepily at that once, shifting closer into his embrace. “You love it,” you whispered.

He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

As the months passed, he softened in ways he never expected. The sharp edges of his personality remained, but now they bent in quiet ways when it came to you. He let you rest your head on his shoulder more often.

He indulged you when you had odd cravings, even if he teased you about them relentlessly. And at night, when you shifted uncomfortably, unable to find the right position, he would wordlessly pull you into his arms, guiding you into a space where you could breathe, where you could rest.

Dr. Ratio wasn’t a man easily shaken. But as he watched you carry his child, as he felt tiny movements under his palm for the first time, he knew—he was a goner.

— (yet another incident)

He had never considered himself the sentimental type. In fact, he prided himself on being the opposite—rational, detached, and entirely too jaded to be swayed by emotions. But then there was you.

And now, there was this.

He leans against the doorway of your shared bedroom, watching as you struggle to tie your shoelaces over the curve of your growing belly. A sight that, logically, shouldn’t make his chest feel tight.

“Tch. You’re hopeless,” he mutters, pushing off the doorframe and crouching down in front of you. His gloved hands bat yours away as he swiftly ties your laces with effortless precision.

You pout, crossing your arms. “I could’ve done it myself, you know.”

“Sure. And I could perform surgery blindfolded. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

Despite his teasing, he’s careful—too careful. As if the smallest touch could shatter you. He clicks his tongue, annoyed at himself. Since when had he become so delicate?

Your laugh is light, playful. “You’re such a grump. Admit it—you like taking care of me.”

Dr. Ratio scoffs, straightening up. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But his hand lingers on your knee for a second too long before he pulls away.

You smirk, knowing him too well. “You’re soft for me.”

“I’m efficient,” he corrects, crossing his arms. “If I don’t do things for you, you’ll just struggle and whine about it. So really, this is self-preservation.”

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, doc.”

he huffs but doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t tell you about the way his heart clenches every time he sees you absentmindedly rubbing your stomach.

He doesn’t mention how he’s started scheduling fewer late-night research sessions just so he can be home earlier.

And he certainly doesn’t say how the thought of you—both of you—has begun to outshine even the sharpest of his logic.

But as you beam at him, your fingers brushing over his in a fleeting touch, Dr. Ratio has to face the truth:

He’s going soft.

And against all odds, he doesn’t mind one bit.

—

If you knew anything about Dr. Ratio, you know just how much he liked silence. It gave him space to think, to analyze, to breathe.

But right now, the silence felt different.

Softer. Warmer.

Because it was filled with the sound of your steady breathing as you slept beside him, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the curve of your stomach.

He didn’t know when this became a habit. Didn’t know when he started reaching for you in his sleep or why the feeling of your growing belly under his touch made something tighten in his chest.

It was irrational. Unscientific.

And yet.

He couldn’t stop.

His hand lingered, palm resting over where your child—his child—grew. The thought should have scared him. Maybe, once, it would have.

But now, with you curled against him, his body instinctively moulding around yours, all he could think was—

This isn’t so bad.

Maybe… this is what home feels like.

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[gublersquill]

Under the Stars - gublersquill

Spencer x BAU Reader

Spencer finally admits his feelings for reader under the stars 

AN: Hi loves! Thanks so much for all the support on my last post. It means so much that people like my work. If you guys have any fic suggestions leave them in my answer section <3 

TW: Fluff, fluff, fluff, a little kissing, Use of Y/N (sorry 🙁) 

WC: 0.9K

The gravel crunches under your boots, the soft sound harmonizing with the creaking of the trees in the wind. Soft, rustling leaves surround you, shifting your senses and drawing you deeper into the dark forest. A shiver runs down your spine as the breeze slips through the knit of your sweater, pin pricking your skin.

"Are you okay, Spencer?" you ask, glancing at the man behind you. At first, you were hesitant to enter the forest, knowing his fears of the dark. But the way his amber eyes crinkled with excitement about the surprise he had arranged—and the flip in your stomach that followed—convinced you to indulge in this twilight escapade.

He shuffles along, tightly gripping the strap of his bag. Suddenly, he stops, glancing up through the foliage above. “You know, the Greek goddess of stars—or, well, falling stars—is a Titaness,” he says with a shy grin. “Her name was Asteria, and she was also the goddess of nighttime divination.” He chuckles softly, quickening his pace to catch up with you. “I think she might make a great character for a children’s book.”

The path evens out, the gravel giving way to a carpet of delicate lichen covering the forest floor. Spencer reaches for your hand, guiding you over a fallen tree. His hand covers yours, warm and steady, despite his fears—a small assurance in his presence.

“Where are we going?” you whisper, not wanting to break the soft spell the forest seems to have cast. Carefully placing your feet along the forest floor you stare at the nature surrounding you letting out a featherlight breath.

Spencer glances around slowly before replying, “Just through to that clearing.” He grasps your hand again, gently leading you forward. As you step into the clearing, you look up at the sky. The halo of trees breaks apart, revealing a smattering of stars scattered across the dark expanse above.

He continues guiding you further into the clearing, where a woven rug interrupts the forest floor. A telescope sits on it, accompanied by a cooler bag and neatly folded blankets.

“Spencer, you actually did this?” you ask, stunned, as he lowers himself onto the rug and begins fiddling with the gears on the telescope in front of him.

He turns to look at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I remembered you saying how much you missed seeing the stars the way they looked in your hometown because of the light pollution. So, I thought we could watch them while we’re away from Virginia,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You sit next to him wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace. He pauses before curling his arms around you enveloping you in his warmth. The smell of old books, coffee and something uniquely spencer surrounds you as you sigh into his hold. 

Pulling away feels like being yanked out of a comforting dream, one you can only barely remember. “Thank you,” you say earnestly. You raise your hand, tangling it reverently in his hair.

“Y/N,” Spencer sighs, his voice shaky as he tries to form the words he’s been practicing. His eyes flicker from your face to the hand on his cheek and the gentle movement of your fingers brushing through his curls.

“Are you okay?” you ask, moving your hand to his forehead. “You feel warm. Are you getting sick?” You take his face in your hands, trying to feel if he has a fever.

“I’m not sick,” he sighs, raising his hand to clasp one of yours. “The warmth of my skin is a physiological response to an emotional or environmental stimulus. It’s caused by the sympathetic nervous system widening the capillaries under my skin. It actually—”

“You’re blushing?” you ask, gently interrupting his spiraling thoughts.

“I am,” he sighs, looking back at you. “I need to tell you something.”

You look at him, only now noticing how close you are—curled into his shoulder, noses almost touching, his hand enveloping yours, resting against his face.

Falling.

You don’t know who moved forward first, and you don’t find many reasons to care as his lips press against yours. Eyes fluttering closed, you tangle your fingers in his hair as his lips brush yours.

He kisses you longingly, slowly memorizing the curve of your mouth, the warmth of your skin against his. He had wanted this for months—admiring the way you were so kind to the victims, how your face lit up when you talked about psychology, how your head tipped back slightly when you laughed, revealing the elegant column of your neck.

YYou pull back, both gasping for air.

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” you ask, grinning, your lips swollen as you place a delicate kiss on his cheek.

“Yes,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t get it out right. I wanted this to be perfect.” He curls a lock of your hair around his fingers.

“It was perfect,” you insist. “I like you. Like, a lot.”

Your eyes flicker up, drawn to the night sky, the stars flickering above you as if urging you on.

Spencer’s cheeks tingle again with a soft blush. “Let me show you something.”

He adjusts the dials on the telescope, positioning it just right before gesturing for you to look through it.

“Do you see that?” he asks. “That’s the Cassiopeia constellation, and just to the right is the Heart Nebula. It glows red from within—classifying it as an emission nebula—due to hydrogen ionized into plasma by nearby stars.”

“It’s beautiful,” you gasp, mesmerized by the red hue reflecting through the telescope’s lens.

He looks at you instead, tracing his gaze over your face—the tilt of your lips, the way your eyebrows scrunch in concentration.

“Yes, it is.”

[grenadehearts]

turn it up, baby! s.gojo x f.reader

warnings: suggestive content, mentions of alc and alc consumption.

summary: you go clubbing, with your boyfriend satoru gojo.

authors note: this is somewhat of a drabble using the term loosely, first time writing for gojo or any jjk character so super nervy. m.list here

Clubbing with Satoru Gojo is nothing like you’ve ever experienced before. You’re pacing in front of the mirror, nerves twisting in your stomach as you fret over what to wear. Memories of past boyfriends taunt you—their jealousy, their tantrums over you showing even a hint of skin or daring to step foot in a club. But not Gojo. 

No, Satoru Gojo spent the entire day playing dress-up with you, his black card working overtime as he bought dress after dress, each one perfectly tailored to your figure. Now he’s lounging on the plush chair in your shared bedroom, legs spread wide, crystalline eyes tracking your every move as you slip each dress past your figure. 

  The faint hum of 2000s party music—Rihanna and Britney, his guilty pleasures—fills the room. He twirls a finger lazily in the air, that boyish smirk tugging at his lips. “Spin for me, baby,” he drawls. When you do, he claps like an overexcited stylist, showering you in praise.

Gojo critiques like one of the girls but never tears you down. “It’s not you, baby; it’s the dress,” he says dramatically, as if sculpting you into a goddess was his life’s work. And when he finds the one, he drags you in front of the mirror, hands trailing down your sides as if memorizing every curve. Open-mouthed kisses follow along your collarbone before he pulls back with a grin. “Perfect,” he murmurs, but not before dragging you to the kitchen and shoving food into your mouth. “Eat up,” he insists with a wink. “Can’t have my angel getting sick.”

At the club, Gojo is magnetic—a force to follow that draws every eye in the room without even trying. But he doesn’t notice or care to consumed by the need of making sure you’re shown off.

The bass thrums through your chest as strobe lights flicker across the dance floor in bursts of electric blue and violet. He cheers you on loudly with a playful “Work it, baby!” as you sway to the beat, his hands finding your hips with unerring precision when you grind back against him.

The air between you is thick with heat and tension as your bodies move together like magnets pushing and pulling against an unknown force. His touch is firm yet teasing as his large hands guide your movements—one splayed possessively across your hip while the other slides lower, fingers brushing dangerously close to where fabric meets skin. Your tiny dress rides up higher with every sway of your hips until it’s barely covering anything at all.

Gojo notices immediately and sprawls his hand across your ass to cover what’s his—not because he’s ashamed but because no one else deserves even a glimpse of what belongs to him. His grip tightens as his lips graze your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs, “You know they’re all watching us.” His voice is low and intoxicating, sending shivers down your spine.

The glitter he insisted on spraying over both of you earlier catches under the strobe lights, making your skin shimmer like molten diamonds as you arch against him. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon—your perfume—clings to him now too, mixing with the salty tang of sweat and alcohol that fills the air around you. But Gojo doesn’t notice any of it; all he can smell is you. All he can feel is you. The rest of the world fades away until it’s just the two of you moving together like magnets fighting for friction.

When his hand slides up to grip your waist tighter and pull you flush against him, it’s impossible not to feel how hard he is beneath those fitted black pants. You grind back harder in response, earning a low groan from him that vibrates against your neck as he presses a kiss just below your ear. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters with a laugh that’s more breath than sound.

And then there are them—the men who can’t stop staring at you from across the room. Gojo sees them all: their slack jaws and hungry eyes following every move you make. But instead of jealousy, it fuels him. He smirks wickedly as his grip on you tightens and leans down again to whisper against your ear: “Let’s give them a show.” His voice drips with challenge as one hand slides lower again, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of your dress while his other hand tilts your chin up so he can catch your gaze in the reflection of a nearby mirror.

Gojo doesn’t drink—he claims it dulls his senses—but he always orders a Sex on the Beach just for the maraschino cherry. He plucks it from the glass with his teeth and ties the stem with his tongue before feeding it to you with that mischievous grin that makes heat pool low in your stomach every single time.

By the time he notices you’ve had enough—the dress clinging to sweat-slicked skin and eyeliner smudged (which makes you pout but drives him wild)—he doesn’t hesitate to scoop you up effortlessly over his shoulder without so much as a warning. His hand stays firmly sprawled across your ass covering the lacy sapphire thong you’re wearing (courtesy of gojo) from being shown.

Back home, Gojo is still Gojo: equal parts smartass and sweetheart. He shrugs off his jacket in the car and drapes it over your shoulders like a gentleman before handing you water and pain meds for later. But when you're inevitably hunched over in the bathroom later, puking your guts out from too much alcohol, he's right there beside you holding back your hair with one hand while rubbing soothing circles on your back with the other.

“Told ya,” he quips smugly between soft coos meant to make fun of how messy you are tonight—but never once does he let go or leave until you're cleaned up laying in bed sound asleep, after regaining some steadiness that is.

p.s comms are open, so if you enjoy my work please feel free to commission me it would help immensly linked here COMMS INFO

[thisisjustfanfic]

{A sneak peek?}

In the fic I'm writing where the reader (you) lives in a big house with all the boys. I keep thinking about Rafayel having a rough night with you. Just a long drawn out edging session where he gets you to the brink and then draws you back. Playing a sick game of catch and release.

He doesn't like to see you cry, but you look so pretty when you do. Especially when those tears are accompanied by the nonsense babbling of his name and broken pleas. "P-please...please..."

You don't even know what your begging for anymore, only that it makes him smile and speak so sweetly to you when you do. "Such a good girl. So cute for me. C'mon cutie, one more. You can give me one more right? Fuck, let me taste you again."

Rafayel is, of course, nice later. Sitting with you in a bubble bath and running lotion on your sore backside. But during the heat of it? Oh, he can be downright mean.

After that night, Sylus gets his hands on you. And even if its days later, you're anticipating more torment from him. If playful Rafayel can be so devious, then what can Sylus "my bedroom is a sex-dungeon" do?

What does he do?

"Oh kitten, he was so mean to you wasn't he?" He'd purr, pushing into the mattress and running his large hands over your things, your hips, your stomach. "Shh...no need to ask. I'll give you what you want."

He's slow. Methodical. Holding the back of your head while he fucks you slowly in missionary. Keeping your face close to his just so he can feel your breath on him. He draws it out only long enough to get you panting. Eyes glazed over and clinging to him.

They're desperate in different ways. Turn your brain off and melty in different ways. Both good. Both good.

[not-neverland06]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚕 𝚂𝚘𝚗

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

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

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

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How had things gotten so bad?

“And where are you going, Mrs. Rowe?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arthur raises a brow. “Problems?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dutch-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And runs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows, though, that there is no chance of survival for a wound like Eagle Flies. No herbal remedy or medicine could fix this. But the least he could do is give them one last moment together. 

When he rides back onto the reservation, Rains Fall is already waiting to greet them. He rushes forward, face stricken as he sees his son slumped against Arthur’s back. Charles walks over, helping Arthur gently lower Eagle Flies from his horse. 

Rains Fall kneels beside his son, quickly scooping him into his arms and pressing his forehead to his. Eagle Flies is too weak for words by this point, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxes into his father’s embrace. 

“You brought him back,” Rains Fall murmurs, his voice breaking. Arthur nods, not trusting himself to speak. The chief closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, they’re wet with sorrow. “This land will never be safe for us. We must go. Find somewhere else to settle.”

Arthur looks away, knowing nothing he could say would ever fix this. He could never salve over a wound like this with something as trivial as empty promises or kind words. You and Charles stand at his side, watching Eagle Flies take in his last shuddering breath. The disappointment is palpable. 

He can’t face it any longer. Can’t face the death or the grief that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Without a word, Arthur mounts his horse and rides off into the night, leaving the weight of it all behind him. 

And he knows, deep in his very soul, that nothing will ever be the same again. 

The trail lightens as the sun begins to rise. The sounds of the reservation fade behind him, swallowed by the rustling trees and the distant call of an owl. He rides without direction, without thought, just the steady rhythm of Diablo’s hooves against the earth, carrying him further from everything he no longer knows how to fix.

Then, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Oh!” Someone shouts from the trees, “You goddamn, useless,” the man’s voice trails off into a series of expletives that’s too quick for Arthur to make out. Face pinched in confusion, he nudges Diablo forward, leading him towards the man. 

An old man stands in the middle of a clearing, hopping around on one leg, fist waving wildly in the air as he curses to himself. Arthur chuckles to himself, watching the man plop to the ground with a huff. He reaches down and rolls his pant leg up, revealing a stump where his leg should be. 

Arthur frowns, slipping off Diablo and moving closer to the stranger. He’s barely got a chance to greet him before the man's whipping out his revolver, eyes narrowed in suspicion as Arthur approaches. 

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, sonny.” The man tells him, pulling back the hammer of the gun. 

Arthur puts his hands up in surrender, shaking his head, “I’m not lookin’ to cause any. Only wanted to see if you needed any help.”

The man’s eyes turn into thin slits, lips pursed as he eyes Arthur up and down. He looks the part of an outlaw, but right now the stranger doesn’t have much choice but to trust him. He lets out a heavy sigh and puts his gun down. “Hamish Sinclair,” he offers as an introduction. Arthur gives him his name and Hamish gives him a brief smile. 

“Forgive my poor manners, don’t see much of anyone ‘cept those Murfree folk.”

Arthur shakes his head in dismissal, taking a step closer. “It’s fine. You wanna tell me what’s got you out here shoutin’ at the sky?” He can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out when he sees how Hamish’s shoulders slump in embarrassment. 

“It’s my damn horse, Buell, bucked me off, took my leg with him.” He gestures vaguely behind Arthur with a huff, “ran off that way.” Arthur nods, grabbing his rope off Diablo and heading off. “Feel free to shoot him,” Hamish shouts from behind him, “bastard’s caused me enough trouble.”

Arthur laughs quietly to himself, Hamish reminds him a bit of you. 

It doesn’t take long to find the horse. But Hamish wasn’t lying, he was a right bastard. It was more of a chore than Arthur thought it would be to get him lassoed and corraled back to the old man. 

Hamish’s leg, as he’d promised, was still tucked into the stirrup, the wooden appendage waving in the wind as Buell stomped around. “Oh!” Hamish shouts, waving his hand as Arthur brings the horse forward. “Shoot the son of a bitch, I’ll go get me somethin’ nicer,” he mutters, reluctantly bringing a hand up to pet Buell’s nose. 

Arthur offers Hamish a hand up, holding the wooden leg out for him to take. Hamish holds himself steady on a nearby rock and latches the leg back on. “Cannonball,” he says idly. 

“Which war?”

“Civil, whatchu think?” Hamish snaps, narrowing his eyes at Arthur and shaking his head. “Named this damn thing,” he lays a heavy hand on Buell's side, “after my commander. They were both pains in my ass, and they both cost me my damn leg.” Hamish laughs at himself, swinging up onto the saddle and glancing down at Arthur. “Comin’ or not?”

Perhaps it’s the loss of Hosea that has Arthur following this man. Or maybe it’s just the need for a moment of escape. Either way, he finds himself mounting Diablo and following after him. “What were you doin’ out here, anyway?”

Hamish digs his heel into Buell’s side with a huff, driving the horse down a small path Arthur wouldn’t have found on his own. “I went out to get some bait. Got this pike that’s been eatin’ all the fish in my creek,” he turns and gives Arthur a wild grin over his shoulder. “I’m lookin’ to turn it into my dinner.”

A smile curls upon Arthur’s lips, something uninvited and unnoticed. Things in camp have been so tense, every conversation with you or Dutch just feels like a noose tightening around his neck. He’s being drawn in so many different directions that he’s forgotten what it feels like to just talk to someone without any ulterior motives. There’s no hidden message within Hamish’s gaze or underlying threat to his words. For right now, he can just ride and pretend that all is fine within his world. 

“Can’t seem to get the damn thing on my own, maybe you’ll have better luck. You seem a touch spryer than myself.”

Arthur snorts and shoots the old man an amused look, “A touch?”

“Hey,” Hamish warns, tone light as he grins, “I may be weathered, but I can still take you down, sonny.” Arthur raises his hands in surrender, bowing his head in defeat as Hamish lets out a low chuckle. “Gotta say, been a while since I hollered at anyone ‘cept those Murfree boys. It’s quiet out here, that’s for sure.”

Arthur takes in the scenery around him. The way the sunlight just barely parts through the thick cover of trees and shines across the creek running beside them. The deer he can hear rustling off in the distance. There’s a whole other world around him, one he hasn’t been a part of in a very long time. 

“Quiet’s what I’m looking for,” he mutters, not much thought behind the words as he makes note of a bunch of wildflowers. They look like some you used to pick for the tent. 

“No point in quiet when you’re all alone,” Hamish chides softly, a heavy sadness hangs off his shoulders that Arthur’s not sure he’s ready to dissect. Hamish doesn’t leave him worrying for long, shooting Arthur a quick smile and shaking away the emotions. “Nearly there,” he tells him, nodding toward a clearing. 

Wildflowers and rocks that reflect the midday sun surround a shimmering lake he’s never noticed on his travels. Arthur’s fingers twitch toward the journal in his satchel, the scene too perfect not to draw. Still, he doesn’t think Hamish would appreciate the interruption much. 

Instead, he commits the image to memory. The quaint cabin that sits in the middle of it all, so unimposing it looks as though it had grown there like a tree. He’d have to draw it later, maybe even show it to you. 

Hamish leads him around the cabin and orders him around like he’s spent all his life doing it. Arthur drags out the fishing poles and takes the boat off the shore. He laughs when Hamish slaps his hand away when he tries to help in the boat. And he laughs even harder when Hamish nearly topples over the edge in his stubborn fit. 

The fishing itself is spent in silence. One of them occasionally breaking it by humming something or thinking they spotted movement in the water. It makes Arthur’s chest ache with a familiarity that’s a stranger to him. Yes, he used to do this with Hosea. But Hamish wasn’t Hosea, and there would never be anything to replace or soothe that gnawing pain of never being able to sit on a boat with him once more. 

“There!” Hamish slaps his shoulder hard enough to force Arthur out of his spiraling grief. He nearly knocks him out of the boat as he starts frantically jumping up and down, arms pinwheeling to keep himself balanced. “There’s that bastard, whoo I got you now!” He hollers, lighting a stick of dynamite and tossing it into the water before Arthur knows what's happening. 

He ducks, bracing himself as a ripple of water nearly puts the boat on its side. It’s quickly followed by a fin rising up in the water in the distance before disappearing once more. “My god,” Arthur gets to his feet, jaw gaping as he watches the behemoth of a fish swim away. Not once, has he ever faced a pike as large as that before. It could eat him. 

“What’re you doin’, you fool? Reel it!” Hamish snaps, already lighting another stick of dynamite to force it back towards them. Arthur shakes off the silent astonishment and quickly grabs his fishing pole. It feels like a battle, hauling this fish toward them and finally killing it. 

They must spend nearly an hour on those waters, blowing up half the lake just to haul a fish the size of Bill out of the water. Hamish is cackling and hollering the whole way back to his cabin. He goes on and on about how long that pike has been taunting him. How Arthur must be his goddamn lucky charm to have gotten it on their first day. 

It’s only when Arthur lingers by the edge of Hamish’s doorway do either of them acknowledges the shared pain between them. Arthur doesn’t know exactly what Hamish lost in the war, but he knows it must be something just as bad as Arthur. There's a creeping loneliness that they both know neither one of them can fill. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. 

“You helped kill the bastard, sit down, I’ll cook up some of him for ya.” It’s an invitation that Arthur can’t deny. He gives Hamish a small smile, sitting down at his table while Hamish moves quickly through his cabin. 

“Did I ever tell you,” Hamish starts, as though they’ve been friends long enough for Arthur to hear his stories. Arthur doesn’t object or interrupt, he leans back, eyes alert as he listens to everything Hamish tells him. Tales of the war, the time before, the time after. Arthur shares a little about himself, but for the most part, he’s content to let the old man talk. 

That’s how most of their time together goes. When Arthur manages some time away from Dutch’s suspicious eyes, he goes to Hamish. He listens to his stories. And they use the excuse of hunting animals Hamish claims to be haunting him. It’s on his fourth visit that Arthur mentions you. 

“I don’t get it. You’re big, strong, you gotta have someone.” Hamish pauses, glancing away from his fishing pole and narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “Don’t tell me I’m your only friend, son.”

Arthur chuckles a little, shaking his head. “I got a lady,” he tells him, reluctant for Hamish to know exactly what company he keeps. Hamish nods his head, giving him an expectant look. Arthur lets out a low sigh, rubbing his palms across his pants and shrugging. “She’s gorgeous,” Hamish lets out a disbelieving snort and Arthur shoots him a look. “Smart” he continues and it’s the first time he’s ever struggled to describe you. 

Such simplistic terms don’t seem fitting for someone like you. If he had his journal, if he could show him a drawing of you, of the little bit of you he’s managed to capture on paper, maybe Hamish would understand. “And she’s a good person, a better one than I ever will be-”

“Then what’s she doin’ with a fool like you?” Hamish interrupts, snickering when he sees the irritated look on Arthur’s face.

“Weren’t you just tellin’ me what a catch I am?” Arthur snaps, eyes narrowed in amusement at the old man. 

He shrugs, tugging slightly on the string of his fishing pole and huffing out a laugh. “Eh, she can’t be that great if she’s with someone like you.” Arthur straightens up but Hamish barrels on, paying him no mind. “Bring her down tonight. I’ll cook up whatever we catch here. It’ll give me something other than your ugly mug to look at.”

Arthur scoffs, “You are a piece of work, old man.”

Hamish waves him off, leaning back in the boat and smiling softly as he waits for a fish to bite his bait. Arthur shakes his head, looking back to the familiar blue waters and feeling something like contentment settle over him. 

“You didn’t have to dress up,” Arthur tells you, holding his hand out to you. Perched atop Lady, you give his outstretched palm a long look before slowly settling your hand in his. 

“I’d hardly call a corset and some nice pants dressing up, Arthur,” you tease. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to each other without there being some underlying current of tension to your conversation. 

He leads you toward Hamish’s front door, smiling slightly when you stop to admire the garden at the side of the cabin. “I wanted to make a good impression,” you tell him, straightening up from where you’d been smelling some of the flowers. You give him a brief look out of the side of your eye before brushing dirt off the knees of your pants. “You’ve been talkin’ about him a lot and well,” you suck in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I know things have been hard after Guarma,” you can’t seem to look at him, eyes always darting away from his. 

Arthur stays silent, worried anything he says will ruin the first honest conversation you two have had. “And everythin’ has been so odd between us." You take a step forward and Arthur follows, craving the closeness that has been so sorely lacking. Looking up, you finally manage to meet his eye. The hurt and frustration so plainly displayed on your face makes his stomach clench. 

“I care about you, Arthur, deeply. And that’s not ever goin’ to change.” He expects there to be a ‘but,’ some clause added on that means he needs to change his ways. Or even you telling him that you just can’t handle this life anymore. He wouldn’t blame you if you told him that, but just the thought of it makes him hurt. 

Instead, you give him a smile and lean up, pressing your lips timidly against his cheek. Your hands find his, squeezing slightly, like an assurance to you both that there’s still something to be saved between you. 

Arthur can’t help himself as he turns his head, capturing your lips between his own and tugging you closer. You let out a short huff of laughter, smiling against his lips. It’s a chaste kiss, certainly one of the more demure ones you’ve shared. But it means more to him than he ever thought it would. 

“What the hell are you two doin’?” You startle back from him, eyes wide as you turn. Hamish has his head peeked around the corner of his porch, a stern look on his face but a slight mischievous tilt to his lips. “I invited you to dinner, I didn’t need a show to come with it,” he scolds, but there’s no hiding the humor in his tone. 

You bite your lip and move away from Arthur, though you let your hand linger in his as long as you can before you slip to the porch. “It’s nice to meet you,” you tell Hamish sheepishly. 

“Hm,” Hamish shakes his head as he looks at you, “Can’t believe you let Arthur fool you into bein’ with him.” He grins at Arthur’s affronted scoff and nods you along. “Go on inside, fish is almost ready.” You send Arthur one last look before heading off. 

Climbing the steps of the porch, Arthur lightly shoves at Hamish’s shoulder. “What’re you playin’ at, old man?”

Hamish shrugs, beckoning him inside, “I need somethin’ to entertain myself with.”

“How long have you been out here?” You ask Hamish as you settle down at his too-small table. He plates the fish and takes a seat across from Arthur, brow wrinkled as he thinks. 

“Well,” he laughs lightly and shakes his head. “It’s been so damn long, I can’t quite remember. Probably longer than you’ve been walking, sweetheart.”

Your eyes round, something like concern flitting across your face. “All on your own?” Arthur pauses from where he’d been cutting into his meal, content to let you carry the conversation. He glances up at Hamish, gauging the look on his face. 

Hamish’s solitary lifestyle has been something Arthur’s been avoiding talking about. He knows there’s something painful in Hamish’s past, something he does his best to keep quiet about. Arthur hasn’t wanted to push, too afraid that he’d ruined the good thing they had going. 

But the look on the old man’s face isn’t defensive or angry. It’s soft, his eyes are sad as he looks nostalgic, as if thinking back to happier times. “All on my own,” he confirms and Arthur sees the way your expression slacks with sympathy. “Honestly, this cabin is starting to feel too big,” he admits, glancing around at the barren walls. 

Where some would have family portraits, heirlooms, or memorabilia, Hamish has mounted deer and stuffed fish. There’s nothing besides a slightly dusty metal from the war to hint at what his life had once looked like. “It needs a family, or,” he glances back at you and smiles, “someone besides a sad old man.”

Hamish turns back to his meal and asks Arthur something, he responds vaguely, eyes still trained on your face. Your gaze has hardened as you glare down at the fish on your plate. There’s a wrinkle between your brows that he’s come to know as you plotting something. Whatever Hamish has said has given you an idea that Arthur’s not sure he wants a part of. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Hamish shouts, jumping from his seat and running toward the window. “That goddamn bastard!” 

You shoot Arthur a bewildered look and he shakes his head, standing up to join Hamish by the window. “What is it?”

“That boar! It’s back!” Hamish points to a vague shadow of a shape on the crest of the hill. It’s larger than any boar he’s ever seen, but Hamish seems to be cursed with animals of legendary size and vindictiveness. He runs from the window, grabs the rifle mounted above his fireplace, and runs toward the front door. “You better get a move on, boy, I ain’t waitin’ for ya!” He hollers over his shoulder, already whistling for Buell. 

Arthur sighs and gives you an apologetic look. “I oughta make sure he don’t get himself killed.” 

Smiling, you wave him along, “Go ahead, though,” you muse, glancing out the window, “it doesn’t look like he needs much help.” Arthur turns, letting out an aggrieved huff as he sees Hamish already shooting wildly at the beast. 

“Won’t be long,” he promises as he rushes out the door. 

He only vaguely hears your small, “I’ve heard that before.”

Arthur spots Buell grazing in a small patch of grass and leaves Diablo beside him. The two horses don’t seem to get along very well, but he’s more concerned with the trail of blood in the underbrush than them. 

Kneeling down to investigate, he’s stopped by nearby shouting. “I’ve almost got him, Arthur, hurry-” Hamish’s voice is cut off by a loud cry of pain and a boar squeal that almost sounds like screaming. 

Dirt flies up under Arthur’s boots as he races forward. He pushes through the thick foliage, stumbling out into an open area where Hamish lay sprawled on the ground. His body twitches, fingers weakly grasping at a dark, gaping wound in his stomach. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the earth.

“Oh, Hamish, no,” Arthur mutters, dropping to his knees beside him. He presses his hands over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it’s no use. He can see it in the way Hamish struggles for breath, his chest stuttering with each ragged inhale.

Hamish lets out a shaky laugh, the sound wet and gurgling. “Flesh wound,” he croaks, though the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth says otherwise. His voice is strained, each word dragged from his throat like it pains him to speak. “I’m an old man, Arthur. This was bound to happen sooner or later.” Arthur wants to tell him to stop talking, to save his breath. But he’s seen death enough times to know there’s no coming back from this. 

“Don’t,” Hamish chokes on his blood and flinches forward. Arthur props him up on his knee, still keeping his hand over the wound. It’s not doing anything except prolonging this, but he can’t find it within himself to let go. Hamish settles, lungs wheezing with effort. “Don’t be like me. Don’t die lonely.”

Arthur doesn’t have the chance to tell him he’s not alone before the light leaves his eyes. He finally takes his hands off of him, looking up as he hears squealing. He spots the boar in the underbrush and picks Hamish’s rifle up off the ground. 

The trek back to the cabin is slow. Hamish’s body is slung over Diablo and Buell carries the boar. Arthur wonders if Buell knows that his master’s dead. If he can smell it, or if he even cares. 

He leads them both toward the hitching post at the side of the home. He sees you watching in the window, eyes narrowed in on Hamish’s body before you disappear from view. Footsteps sound out on the porch as he slings the body over his shoulder and walks it toward the clearing of wildflowers. 

“What happened?” You call out, voice soft as you join him. 

“Boar,” he answers shortly. He doesn’t have the patience to speak. He’s faced and caused death hundreds of times, but something about this feels like a slap in the face. It wasn’t enough that he had to lose Lenny and Hosea and then watch as what used to be his family falls apart. He had to drag Hamish into his problems, had to loop you into this business. 

He knew, when his mother died and when his son died, that he was cursed to lose everyone he loved. That he would never be allowed a happy, or a simple life. And yet, like the fool he is, he keeps trying. He keeps trying to allow himself a sliver of peace or happiness. 

You hand Arthur a shovel as he sets Hamish down on the ground and he starts to dig. Until the sun sets and the moon is high in the sky, he digs a grave for Hamish. You stand there with him the whole night, never saying a word, and for that he’s grateful. He’s learned that it's better not to have to do something like this alone. 

When he’s done, and Hamish is six feet deep, facing the east so he can see the rising sun, he leads you back to the cabin. It’s a comfortable quiet as you help him rinse the dirt and blood off his hands. You take the clothes he stores on Diablo and bring them to him, convincing him to just stay at the cabin for the night. 

He’s too tired to understand the concentrated look on your face, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. A sort of intuition he usually wouldn’t ignore but can’t bother with tonight. “Good night, Arthur,” you whisper but he’s already asleep before he can say it back. 

When he wakes up, you’re sitting at the table, writing something on a scrap piece of paper. You turn slightly, smiling briefly at him before going back to the paper. “What’re you writin’?” He asks, sitting up in bed and stretching out the soreness from digging for so long. 

Your shoulders tense up, expression going blank before carefully reconstructing itself into something pleasant. Placing the pen down, you slide the paper away from yourself and turn fully to face him. 

“Eagle Flies is dead.” Your voice is clipped, emotion buried beneath steel. “Dutch was at the heart of it all. He didn’t just destroy a tribe and a family for nothing but his own gain, he left you for dead.”

Arthur grimaces, shooting you a sharp look. “I don’t need the reminder-”

“I think you do, Arthur.” Your tone hardens, cutting through his defensiveness. “Charles is devastated. He won’t stay with the gang much longer after this. That’s who the letter’s for,” you say, nodding toward the paper on the table. “I need to tell him some things before he disappears for good.”

Arthur watches you carefully. There’s something else behind your words, something bigger than just grief over Eagle Flies. A knot of unease tightens in his stomach.

“John and Abigail are leaving soon,” you continue, voice steady but insistent. “They won’t risk Jack getting caught up in Dutch’s mess. Sadie’s been itching to go off on her own for a while-”

“What’re you gettin’ at?” Arthur snaps, frustration creeping in. He’s tired, exhausted from everything, and you dragging this out isn’t helping.

You inhale sharply, rolling your shoulders back as if bracing yourself. “I want to stay here.” Your expression is unreadable, your voice flat. “Here or anywhere else, but I am not going back to that camp. I won’t.”

Arthur stiffens, dragging a hand down his face before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He tugs his shirt back on with sharp, jerking movements, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “You want me to just leave?”

You shake your head, voice calm but firm. “I want you to do what you need to do.”

Arthur doesn’t believe that. He can’t accept that you would be so calm giving him permission to leave again. He searches for an ulterior motive, for some hidden tone to your words, even though he knows there won’t be one. “They’re my only family. You expect me to just walk away?”

Your expression softens, but he can see it in your eyes, the steel behind each word. Your resolve isn’t bending, you won’t be changing your mind anytime soon. “I expect you to decide for yourself, for once.” You step closer to him and he feels two ideals, two lives, warring against each other in the back of his mind. 

“You’ve spent your whole life followin’ someone else’s lead- Dutch’s, Hosea’s.” Arthur wants to leave before he has to listen to anymore, not ready to confront the truth. “Even now, you’re just tryin’ to hold it all together because you think you have to.”

Arthur swallows hard, “It ain’t that simple,” he argues, even though, deep down, it truly is. 

“It is,” you counter gently, voice calm like you’re soothing a bucking horse. “I’m not tellin’ you to abandon anyone. But you know how this ends,” the look in your eyes shifts. It changes from something earnest to the distant gaze of someone whose sick and tired of marking new graves. “You’ve always known.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he turns away from you. If he doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe he won’t have to face the truth in them. 

But you’re stubborn as all hell and you never know when to quit. “I’m stayin’ here. This is my choice. And I’ll be here when you get back,” you pause, your last words quieter, “if you choose to come back.”

Arthur hesitates by the door. There’s so much hanging over the gang, the Pinkertons, Cornwall, Dutch’s tightening grip. Even if they all wanted to leave, Dutch would never let them. And Arthur… 

Arthur has to see this through. 

“I have to go.” His voice is quiet, resigned. 

“Then go,” you tell him as if it’s the simplest idea in the world. 

He lingers a moment before stepping through the door. He doesn’t look back, but he knows what he’s fighting for now. What he’s fighting to come back to. 

Arthur rides into camp, his gut twisted with unease. He’s not sure what he was expecting, certainly not an idyllic scene, but the sight before him still takes the breath from his lungs. 

Molly lies sprawled in the dirt, blood soaking the earth beneath her. Mrs. Grimshaw hovers over her body, shotgun in hand and the barrel still smoking. Her face is unreadable. The rest of the gang looks at her in stunned silence, some horrified, others grim. 

“She said,” Susan mutters, voice hoarse. “She said she sold us out. Gave us up to the Pinkertons.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. He steps forward, his voice low and urgent. “No, she didn’t,” he looks at Molly, the flickering light of the fire dancing across her lifeless face. He turns his gaze to the real snake in their midst. “It was Micah.”

Mrs. Grimshaw pales and Micah scoffs. “Oh, give me a goddamn break.” He leans lazily against a post, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes are alight with amusement as if this is all some great joke to him. “You’re graspin’, Morgan. I get it, you need someone to blame, and Molly’s already dead, so why not pin it on me?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, “I see you for what you are, you rat bastard.”

Micah just shrugs, cocky as ever. Mrs. Grimshaw, though, in all of her wisdom and unflinching loyalty, sees right through him. Her eyes narrow and she comes to stand beside Arthur, “Arthur’s right.”

That’s all it takes. The shift on Micah’s face is instantaneous. The gunshot rings out before Arthur can even react. Mrs. Grimshaw jerks back, her body crumpling to the ground. Blood seeps through her blouse and spreads across her chest. 

The camp erupts. Shouts ring out, insults are thrown, and guns are pulled by people who had once called each other friend and brother. Dutch steps forward, getting between Arthur and Micah, his hands raised, eyes darting between them both. Arthur can’t read his face. It’s calm on the surface, but beneath it, something fragile and uncertain lingers. 

Micah steps back, but he isn’t alone. Bill and Javier fall in beside him, weapons drawn. 

John pushes Abigail and Jack behind him. Charles and Sadie round up the rest of the women, dragging John’s family off as they lead them to the horses to flee. John meets Arthur’s eyes, and there’s no hesitation. He grabs his revolver and steps to Arthur’s side. 

Arthur breathes out sharply, giving Dutch one last chance. “You can still do this,” he tells him, voice raw. “You can still make this right, Dutch. You can stop this.”

Dutch’s face twists, pain, doubt, anger, all flickering at once. He shakes his head slowly. “I thought of you as a son, Arthur.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. Then louder, firmer, “I can’t believe you’d betray us.”

Before Arthur can say another word, the Pinkertons ride in, guns blazing. Chaos takes hold of the camp as Micah takes his eyes off of him to start shooting at the others. Arthur doesn’t hesitate, grabbing John as they bolt for their horses. Bullets fly past them, grazing against their clothes and nearly nicking them. Pinkertons certainly aren’t good shots. 

They mount the horses, racing through the woods. The sound of gunfire and shouting follows behind them before slowly fading. They can’t afford to slow down or stop, wordless as they push their horses harder and faster than the animals can stand. 

They don’t stop until they reach the base of a mountain. The money’s nearby, stashed away in Dutch’s greed-fueled paranoia. It’s their only chance of making something out of this mess. Arthur can’t afford to let Dutch and the other’s get to it first. 

Arthur dismounts and John follows. “This is it,” Arthur turns toward John, placing his hand on his shoulder. “You take the money, you get Abigail and Jack outta here. Make somethin’ of yourself.”

John frowns, shaking his head. “Arthur, I ain’t-”

“Go,” Arthur’s voice is firm. The finality of it stops John short. “I’ll hold ‘em off.”

John hesitates, and Arthur knows how desperately he wants to stand beside him and fight. To prove that he’s more than a coward. But he knows better than to argue, and he knows he can’t leave his family behind. He gives a short nod and starts running. 

Arthur begins his climb up the mountain, hoping to find a vantage point to hold the Pinkertons and the others off. He’s not far when he hears them behind him. Turning, he sees Micah and Dutch closing in. 

Micah grins, “Should’ve run while you had the chance, Morgan.”

White hot fury floods through Arthur’s veins, it pushes him forward and he lunges at Micah, grappling him to the ground. Micah lets out a wheeze, his blackened lungs not prepared for the attack. He doesn’t hesitate, bringing his fist down until he feels bones crunch under the force of his hand. 

Micah struggles against him, kicking him off and struggling to his feet. Arthur lets him get up and then he goes after him again. He pins him against the wall of rock behind them both, letting his rage drive him forward as he hammers against his face. Micah keeps gasping for air, arms rising feebly in defense only to get knocked down again. 

A click echoes through the cold air and Arthur freezes, dropping Micah and letting him slump to the dirt. His eye is purpled, swollen completely shut and Arthur almost can’t recognize him anymore. 

He turns, finding Dutch standing behind him, gun aimed at his chest. 

For a long, silent moment, they just stare at each other. Dutch’s finger hovers over the trigger and Arthur just watches. He sees the conflict in Dutch’s eyes, the doubt warring with years of manipulation and ego. 

But in the end, Dutch does what he always does. 

He runs away.

Micah groans, nails digging into the dirt as he struggles for air. Arthur doesn’t bother finishing him off. He watches Dutch disappear into the night and leave them both behind. Breathing slowly, his chest heaving, Arthur turns away from Micah and leaves him to rot. 

The ride back to the cabin is slow. Every muscle in Arthur’s body aches, his lungs burning with each breath, but for the first time in a long while, he’s not carrying the weight of the gang on his shoulders. It’s over. Dutch is gone. Micah is as good as dead. The life he’s known has fallen apart, but he’s still here. And he’s free. 

He crests the final hill, the cabin coming into view, and there you are- waiting. 

You’re not crying with worry or pacing in anger that he left again. You stand, arms crossed, watching the road like you always knew he’d come back.

Arthur exhales, something in his chest easing at the sight of you. He slows Diablo to a stop, dismounting with a grunt of pain. You don’t rush over to him and demand to know what happened, or how he got the fresh bruises littering his skin. The both of you have always known that the only way this was going to end was bloody. Arthur looks up and you hold his gaze, waiting for him. 

Waiting for him to finally decide. The outlaw life, or this new one with you. 

He takes a step toward you, and you stay still as a statue, another and he’s nearly on top of you. You don’t move away or take a step back, you peer up at him, meeting his gaze expectantly. “It’s over,” he tells you simply. 

You nod, nothing gleeful or victorious on your face that you finally got him right where you wanted. You’re not Dutch, this was never about controlling him, he realizes that now. Without his loyalty blinding him, he can finally understand that you were only ever trying to help him. “I know,” your voice is calm as your eyes rove over his face. 

A silence stretches between you, heavy with words left unsaid. Then, slowly, Arthur lifts his hand toward you. You don’t pull away, and when his fingers brush your waist, you sigh, your shoulders easing like you’ve been holding yourself together for too long. Arthur doesn’t waste any more time pulling you in close to him, the both of you holding each other up. 

Arthur breathes out slowly, resting his forehead against yours and pulling you as close as he can get. Your hands come up, gripping his shirt like you’re trying to make sure he doesn’t slip away. But he knows he won’t, not ever again. 

For the first time in what feels like forever, Arthur allows himself to feel real and true hope. He keeps you tight in his embrace, and you bury your face in his neck, he can feel your lashes flutter against his neck as they finally close and you relax against him. He’ll make something of this second chance. He’ll become a man you can be proud to call your own. 

As the sun rises, casting its golden light over the both of you, Arthur finally leaves behind his old life, to begin this new one with you. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona @fleouris @soupvender00 @warmsideofthepillow03

@whimsiwitchy @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @martinys-world

[dollzites]

⏦ﾟ♡︎ “DON’T YOU WANT A FAMILY WITH ME?”

୨ৎ pairing: husband!junho x fem reader

୨ৎ genre: angst. major angst that’s slightly emotional.

୨ৎ summary: 5 months into marriage you thought it was time to bring up kids and how big of a family you both wanted but.. things didn’t seem to work out when you brought it up to him and your world slowly started to crumble.

୨ৎ from myeong: hello!! here we are! my first ever angst fic and I hope you can enjoy it!! I feel as if I’m the best at this (since I’ve practiced writing angst so much in my notes app lol) let’s see how it turns out! x

staring at the ticking clock for what had seemed like hours now eyes burning from how long you went without blinking, a sigh left your glossed over lips holding onto the small pair of shoes you came across after leaving work one night. passing by a cute baby shop that held just about everything from clothing items to toys and strollers, your body filled up with this excitement that couldn’t be explained. it had finally been time to talk about a family with junho and the nerves only worsened as each minute went by. of course he wasn’t home yet junho was late almost every night. work was slowly getting to him turning him into a man that you weren’t too familiar with which only hurt more. he’d come home and rant about needing to find something that he just wouldn’t tell you and you never asked him what it was. were you scared to ask him?

“junho..” his name slipped from your lips the second the door opened and you stood from your seat on the couch. his eyes that you adored so much widened seeing the small pair of shoes that you held onto getting all the wrong ideas. awkwardly laughing and shaking your head, “oh.. these? no not at all. I picked them up at the baby shop nearby after work and.. well, just thought they were the cutest little things I’ve ever seen. I thought that maybe one day our little one could wear them.. what do you think?” all the fears that flooded your mind came back that moment seeing the look on his face it almost made you sick to your stomach. “my love, you already know what my answers going to be, hm? work is just too much for me right now. I think we’ll have to wait just a bit longer.” the large and warm hands that made you feel the safest and most comfortable gently grabbed ahold of your own and pulled you closer to him but you didn’t budge. feet staying in place and eyes staring at the floor beneath you it was hard to form words after hearing such an excuse. forcing him would make you feel like the most piece of shit wife in the universe but the both of you weren’t getting any younger and it had always been a dream of yours to have a child early so you could slowly grow with the child and be close with them but junho was stopping you and it was only making things worse in the marriage. many would say to enjoy marriage and wait for kids but you knew that junho would be the most loving, caring, and supportive father in the world. did you sound selfish for wanting to see it so badly? “how long do we have to wait..?”

it was his turn to sigh especially since he pulled you towards him again and you stayed put in the same place you were in when he walked through the door. “just a few more months, yeah? maybe one more year. give me another year and I can finally give you what you want.” a year..? did this man really just say give him a year? slowly looking up from the floor to look at him, a tear rolled down your cheek. why weren’t you able to understand this? it wasn’t rocket science junho was so involved in his work and you had knew that from the beginning but what you weren’t expecting is it to get in the way of the marriage and the topic of wanting kids with him. “don’t you want a family with me?” what a dumb question to ask but it was still asked as a few more tears rolled down your wet and warm cheeks.

“what? of course I want a family with you. why would you ask such a thing? I married you for a reason didn’t I? I love you. I love you so much and you’re so precious to me that’s why I need you to wait just a bit longer.” junho watched the tears roll down your cheeks in pure agony. not being able to communicate with you about his job killed him every day in ways that he didn’t want. as he met up with gihun and spoke about plans he would find himself zoning out thinking about you and how happy he was now being married to you. how much he wanted a child with you and who would that child look more like? his thoughts were clear from the start that he wanted, needed, and adored you. having a family is at the top of his list and he just doesn’t understand why his life had to turn out this way. hiding so many secrets from his precious wife and not knowing if you were safe or not with him during these months of needing to find his brother and the island.

allowing him to pull you into his broad chest a few sobs left you while his arms wrapped around your waist keeping you close to him even when you your best to pull away from him. “let me go junho.” voice stern even if it was weak from the crying you’d done. junho shook his head his grip around you only tightening feeling like the worst husband in the world watching you suffer. “I can make this better. please trust me? we can have a baby soon, alright? I just need a month—maybe two. I hate seeing you like this. you know how important my work is sweetheart.” work. it never failed for him to bring up work even after seeing you cry and feel so worthless like this. using the last bit of strength you had left and pushing away from him reaching to pick up the small pair of shoes and walk past him into your shared bedroom. “if work is that important then you should’ve never married me junho and I mean it! all you do is talk about work and how much it stresses you out but you won’t quit! I’ve told you countless times before to quit and find something more family oriented but you won’t. you’re home late every single night. I hear the phone calls you pick up during the early hours of the morning when you’re supposed to be sleeping. junho I can’t take any more of this. I love you because you’re my husband but I absolutely despise your work.”

junho was left alone in front of the bedroom door after hearing everything you had to say about how you truly felt about him and his work. he moved towards the wall and slid down it letting his hands run through his styled hair messing it up and rubbing the gel off. he had to make things right somehow and someway with you while still trying to find his brother. how? how was he going to do such a thing because at the end of the day he was keeping the most secrets from you, his innocent and loving wife that he absolutely adored. it felt so wrong but not at all wrong at the same time which had been the weirdest feeling for him. you or his job and brother? what kind of question was that? there was no way he could decide so easily without sounding like a heartless prick but.. it was time for him to decide.

[just1cefor4ll]

Wolf in sheep’s clothing

Hwang In-ho x pregnant!wife reader warning. not proof read, might be OOC

genre. fluff

You knew what In-ho’s job was. You knew what the games were about. You knew your husband was a monster—yet you stayed with him through thick and thin.

The two of you had met in the games when he was just a mere participant, fighting for survival just as you were. Against all odds, you both won and from that moment on, In-ho climbed his way up to the title of Frontman. And through it all, he kept you by his side, hidden away from the eyes of the guards. None of them knew what you looked like—only whispers of the Frontman’s “mistress” passed between them. A ghost of a woman, unseen yet ever-present.

Eight years into your relationship and four years into your marriage, you were blessed with a child. Your stomach grew with each passing day, and morning sickness became an unwanted but familiar routine—one you learned to accept. In-ho, despite the cold exterior he showed to the world, was elated at the news. He did everything in his power to provide for you, to make you as comfortable as possible. It was in those moments of tenderness that you loved him most.

But something changed.

As the next games approached, he grew distant. At first, it was subtle—longer hours, quiet contemplation when he thought you weren’t watching. But then the late nights turned into entire days without a word, and the warmth he once reserved for you felt strained, overshadowed by something you couldn’t quite name. It was unusual. In all the years he had organized the games, none had ever seemed this important. And that raised a question you weren’t sure you wanted the answer to.

The unease settled deep in your bones, an unshakable feeling that something was wrong. In-ho had always been methodical, always in control, but this time.. this time, he seemed almost troubled.

At first, you told yourself it was just the stress of preparation—after all, the games demanded perfection. A single misstep could expose everything. But as the days passed, his silence became heavier, his touch less frequent. He was still gentle, still doting in small ways—bringing you tea for your nausea, making sure you had everything you needed—but his mind was elsewhere.

One night, you finally confronted him.

“In-ho.” Your voice was firm, cutting through the quiet of your shared bedroom. “What’s going on?” He barely looked up as he pulled off his gloves, his dark eyes distant. “It’s nothing. The games are just.. complicated this year.” You studied him, searching for the truth beneath his carefully chosen words. “Complicated how?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second—just enough for you to catch it. That was all you needed to confirm what you already suspected. “You’re lying,” you murmured, your fingers curling against the fabric of your dress. “You’ve never acted like this before, no matter how difficult the games were.” His jaw tightened. For the first time in a long while, you saw something raw in his expression—something dangerously close to guilt. “In-ho.” You reached out, your hand resting against his arm. “Please. Just tell me.” He exhaled sharply, as if debating whether to tell you at all. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Jun-ho is alive.”

Your breath caught. The name alone sent a jolt through you. His brother. The man he thought he had lost once he shot him a few years ago— regret spiralling up in him. Your mind reeled, memories flashing in fragmented pieces. In-ho had mourned Jun-ho in his own way—coldly, silently, refusing to speak of him. He had convinced himself that Jun-ho was gone, that there was no other possibility.

But now…

“He’s coming for me,” In-ho said, his voice unreadable. “For the games. For everything.” He stared bluntly, walking into your bedroom to change into a black tank to and sweatpants.

Your breath hitched, but In-ho wasn’t done.

“There’s someone else,” he murmured, his gaze shadowed with something you couldn’t quite place. “A former winner. They’re coming, too—trying to stop the games.”

A former winner?

It was rare enough for anyone to survive the games, let alone come back willingly. You knew how broken survivors could be, how winning didn’t mean escaping unscathed. The games weren’t just a fight for survival—they were a death sentence, one way or another. And yet, someone who had already endured that hell was now trying to bring it all down?

Your stomach twisted.

“They know who you are?” you asked. In-ho shook his head. “Not yet. But he knows enough.”

You swallowed hard, your hand instinctively moving to your stomach. You had lived in the shadows of these games for years, hidden from the guards, protected by the distance In-ho put between his work and your life. But now that protection felt fragile, like it could shatter at any moment.

“What are you going to do?” you asked, dreading the answer.

“I have to stop them.” His voice was calm, resolute. It was the voice of the man who had climbed his way up from the pit of the games, who had learned to do whatever it took to survive.

Your heart clenched. “And if you can’t?”

He turned to you then, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. For the first time in weeks, he touched your face, his fingers gentle against your cheek. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, okay? I’ll figure it out like I’ve always had.”

You exhaled shakily, searching his expression for any hint of hesitation. You found none. The games were his world. His prison. And now, it seemed, his war.

“I’ll be joining the games as a player, the first game is taking place tommorow so right now I just want to spend time with you before I leave.” He said, pulling you closer by the waist with kisses trailing down your jaw to your neck. “I’ll miss you.” He said, picking you up and walking to the couch with you, laying you in his lap.

A heavy silence settled between you, your expression unreadable but you’ve set your mind to what you were about to say, and you were going no matter what he said.

“I’ll join you.”

His fingers tensed around your waist as his brows furrowed in immediate disapproval.“No,” he said firmly. You straightened, your resolve hardening. “Yes.” His jaw clenched, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly before he pulled away. He turned his back to you, exhaling sharply as if trying to rein in his emotions. “You don’t understand—” “I understand perfectly,” you interrupted, stepping closer. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake? You think I haven’t spent years by your side, watching, listening, learning?” You spat, standing up front his lap as you looked down at him with your hands on your hips. “For god’s sake In-ho I’ve played the games with you before and guess what?! Rumour has it; I survived.”

His silence was answer enough.

You took another step, your voice unwavering. “This isn’t just about you anymore, In-ho. We’re in this together. If someone’s coming to tear down everything you’ve built, that means they’re coming for me too. For our child.” Your hand rested over your stomach. “And I won’t just sit here, waiting for that to happen.” In-ho turned to face you again, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes—held something raw. Something that made your heart ache.

“I swore I’d keep you safe,” he murmured. “That’s why I kept you hidden. Why I—” He stopped himself, inhaling sharply. “I won’t let you put yourself in danger.”

You shook your head. “Keeping me hidden won’t protect me forever. If they find out about me, about the baby… I won’t be some untouchable secret anymore, In-ho. I’ll be a target no matter if I join the games with you or not.”

His hands twitched at his sides. You could see the war raging in his mind, the conflicting desires—his instinct to shield you from harm, clashing with the reality that danger was already creeping in.

“You need me,” you pressed. “I’ve been by your side for years. I know how the games work. I know how you operate.”

In-ho’s breathing was slow, measured.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke.

“If you do this,” he said quietly, “there’s no turning back.” You met his gaze without hesitation. “I know.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. And then, for the first time in weeks, In-ho really looked at you—not as someone fragile, not as someone to be sheltered, but as someone who had always been standing beside him.

A slow exhale. A decision made. “Alright,” he said at last. “Then we do this together.”

And just like that, you were in the games. In-ho decided to wait out red light, green light to see what who you now knew as “Gi-hun” or player 456 was going to do.

And to your surprise many people actually survived because of him which you were kind of happy about because they were still people. People who you thought deserved a chance at life but In-ho thought otherwise which is why this topic was immensely avoided.

When the votes came in, you immediately noticed how much the games had changed. Players were given the choice to stay or leave—a cruel shift that put everyone at a greater disadvantage. Now, their fates were practically sealed the moment they arrived. The glaring Xs and Os on the jackets made it even worse, marking people like targets under a streetlight. There was no hiding, no blending in. You pressed O for the first round, curiosity flickering in your mind as you wondered what the next game would be.

Of course, the O team won. In-ho cast the final vote, sealing the outcome.

The moment victory was confirmed, players rushed toward Gi-hun, yourself and In-ho included. It was clear what they all wanted—to get on his good side. You knew the O on your jacket wouldn’t help much in that effort, but it was worth a try.

“You’ve played before, right? That means you can tell us what the next games are,” you said, offering him a soft smile as you leaned against one of the beds for support. Several players echoed your words, pressing him for answers. With lights out only minutes away, they were desperate for any information that could give them an edge.

“The—wait, I’m not exactly sure if the games will be the same,” Gi-hun admitted, his expression uneasy. “But.. the next one should be dalgona.”

That one key word should was quickly ignored. The second it left his mouth, people erupted into cheers, already discussing which shape to pick. Triangle. That was the safest bet, according to Gi-hun.

You turned to In-ho, catching the subtle smirk forming on his face. He knew better. “I’m guessing it’s not dalgona,” you murmured, amusement lacing your voice as you followed him back to your beds. “How could you ever guess?” he teased, sitting beside you and gently guiding your head onto his shoulder. You sighed, letting yourself relax against him despite the ever-present danger lurking in every corner of this place. Sleep wasn’t an option here—not for you. “So, what are we playing?” you asked, voice low. “Six-legged pentathlon,” he answered smoothly. “Each group will have six players—” He explained the rest of the game, his voice a steady murmur against the hum of the dormitory. Time slipped by faster than you realized, and before long, the blaring morning alarm signaled the start of another day.

You sat up, adjusting your jacket as you glanced around at the other players, their faces twisted with a mix of hope and fear. None of them knew the full truth—who you were, what you had endured, or the secret you carried.

As far as they knew, you were just another competitor. And In-ho? He wasn’t the Front Man. He was just Young-il. And you? You were nothing more than a name you had made up.

A false identity for a very real nightmare.

As the alarm blared, signaling the start of the next game, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself. Players groaned and stretched, some rubbing the exhaustion from their faces, while others whispered about Gi-hun’s supposed insider knowledge. You could already hear people strategizing, debating who to team up with. It was ironic, really—how quickly people latched onto an idea when they were desperate to survive.

You glanced at In-ho— Young-il, as far as anyone else knew. His face was unreadable, as always, but the faint amusement in his eyes told you he was enjoying the chaos.

“Come on,” he said, standing up and offering you his hand. “Let’s go.” His voice was rough, a mask that he put himself behind to shield himself from any kind of signs of weakness or letting people know of his true colours.

You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet, already scanning the room. Some groups had already started forming, huddled together in nervous whispers. Stronger players were being snatched up quickly, their value determined by nothing more than their size or athletic build.

“Hey! Join our team!” A man you barely recognized waved you over. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and the others beside him looked just as physically capable.

Your hand instinctively rested on your stomach for a brief second, a reminder of the life growing inside you. It wasn’t just your survival at stake anymore. With a deep breath you look over at In-ho who’s hand was on your waist, looking back at the men with a glare. “Go join Gi-hun, I’ll be okay on this team, yeah?” You gave In-ho a reassuring smile

In-ho studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t one to argue in front of others, especially not in a setting like this, but you knew him well enough to see the hesitation in his eyes. “Fine,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm. “Don’t do anything reckless.” You rolled your eyes with a small laugh and pushed playfully towards Gi-hun’s already forming team. “Go.”

With one last glance, In-ho turned and made his way toward Gi-hun, effortlessly slipping into their group. You watched as he exchanged a few words with the others before settling in, blending in as if he had nothing to hide.

Meanwhile, your new teammates regarded you with curiosity. The broad-shouldered man who had called you over grinned. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes. Thought you’d stick with your guy.”

You shrugged, offering a nonchalant smile. “I figured it’d be better to spread our chances. Besides, I can hold my own.” The others murmured in agreement, seeming satisfied for now. But you could still feel their eyes lingering on you, gauging your worth.

The speakers crackled overhead, silencing the scattered conversations.

“All players, prepare for the second game.”

Your team was picked for the second round along with a mother and a son you saw in the dormitories a few hours ago. It went by pretty fast, you decided on playing gongi since you loved that game as a child and used to make fun of In-ho whenever he tried to best you.

You waited impatiently for their team to come, but as all teams piled up you couldn’t help but be terrified— ‘His own guards wouldn’t kill him, would they? That’s laughable..’ You think to yourself.

“[Fake Name]!”

In-ho’s voice rang out over the noise of the dorm, his smile unmistakable as he waved you over. He stood with his newly formed team—one woman and three other men, only one of whom you recognized: Gi-hun. The others remained unfamiliar. “Who’s this?” Player 390 asked, eyeing you with curiosity. Gi-hun, on the other hand, watched you like a predator sizing up a threat. You figured your last comment before the previous game must have thrown him off. Before you could answer, In-ho spoke. “This is my w—friend. She’s my friend.” His quick correction made you frown, but you nodded with a polite, albeit forced, smile. “I’m [Fake Name] [Fake Last Name]. It’s great to meet you all.”

Introductions went around, and soon you learned that another pregnant woman had joined the team. Unlike you—at six and a half months—she was far closer to giving birth, her belly much more pronounced.

Just as you began gathering blankets and pillows to arrange a small sleeping area, a tap on your shoulder made you roll your eyes. Of course. In-ho. You turned to him with a sarcastic smile. “Hey, friend! What can I help you with?” He sighed, shaking his head before gently taking your hand. Without another word, he led you away from the group, past the bathroom doors, and into an unfamiliar room. It was different from the dorms—more refined, with a plush chair in front of a screen, a miniature jazz bar, and an air of quiet luxury.

Before you could take in your surroundings, In-ho pulled you onto his lap, his arms wrapping securely around you. His hand found its way to your stomach, fingers tracing soft, comforting circles.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he murmured, his touch gentle as he brushed your cheek. His gaze softened, filled with something only you ever got to see. A true look of love. Your frustration lingered, but before you could say anything, he continued, voice gentle but firm. “I shouldn’t have called you my friend. You’re my wife. You always will be.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering as if trying to say what words couldn’t. “But in a place like this.. relationships are a weakness. If they knew what you meant to me, you’d be a target. I can’t let that happen.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest.

“I know it hurt,” he whispered. “But everything I do is to protect you and our baby.” His hand moved over your belly, warmth radiating through his palm. “Our little girl… she’s going to have the best life. I’ll make sure of it. No matter what it takes.”

Your fingers curled into his player uniform, the tension in your body slowly easing.

“So, what now?” you asked, your voice quieter now. In-ho exhaled, his grip on you tightening slightly. “That’s why I brought you here. You’ll stay with me tonight. Away from the others. No fighting for a hiding spot, no fear of what happens when the lights go out.” He cupped your face gently, thumb stroking along your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you. To either of you.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe him. The world outside was a nightmare, but in his arms, just for tonight, you were safe.

© just1cefor4all— I don’t consent to my writing being reposted to other platforms or fed into AI. Translating it is also strictly prohibited. 🚫

taglist: @hansharfi @skibidirizzzlerrrr

[indycinders]

Pure smut cause my uterus is trying to kill me.

Maybe a bit of praise kinks in there? Jealousy? Idk it's Caleb lmao. Enjoy.

P.S. not canon to their actual story in my head, maybe it's a dream Caleb had, who knows uvu Also obviously pre-explosion era.

Edit: forgot to add the title aaaaa

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Above the Clouds"

“It was nice of your roommates to give us some time alone,” Cinders remarked as she walked over to Caleb and sat down between his legs, a towel on her head and wearing one of Caleb's old shirts over a pair of shorts.

They'd been coming back from a festival in the park when it started raining, both of them running to his dorm unable to stop themselves from getting soaked to the bone. Caleb urged Cinders to take a shower first so she wouldn't get sick, and while she was doing so, he negotiated with his roommates to leave. He was out fifty bucks, but that was nothing compared to the silence and solitude of a night in with her.

He wouldn't have to worry about any of them making suggestive comments towards her, or flirting with her. Nope, she was all his for the night.

“Yeah, they have a thing they're going to tonight,” he said, grabbing her by the hips and scooting her closer. He reached for the towel around her head and started drying her hair as she settled in and turned her attention to the small TV in his room. He had one of her favorite shows playing.

When he was done drying her hair, he picked up the brush and began pulling it through the unbelievably soft burgundy strands. He could smell the shampoo wafting up to his nose and he felt that familiar ache in his lower abdomen. The tips of his ears burned as he shifted slightly.

“A thing?” she echoed. “I didn't ruin your hangout plans with your friends, did I?”

Cinders tilted her head back enough to just barely see Caleb above her. He smiled at how adorable she was and shook his head quickly. “No, no. I'm not into what they do anyway,” he reassured her, nudging her head back into place.

“Really?” she hummed, her tone skeptical. “Gideon says differently.”

He felt his eye twitch. “Since when did you speak with Gideon?” Enough to refer to him so casually, too.

“Oh, it was a bit earlier when I was waiting for you,” she explained. “Do… do you know if he has a girlfriend?”

His hand gripped the brush handle tightly and he had to make an effort to keep his motions gentle and soft and not fueled by his irritation. “Uh, I don't know. Why? Do you like him?” he winced, noticing his tone sounding a bit demanding.

Cinders shrugged, shifting in her seat between his thighs, still watching the show on the TV. “Mm, I don't know. He asked for my number earlier. Guess I just want to make sure I'm not giving it to some player,” she laughed a little.

Caleb's breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. No, this wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to get interested in anyone. Before he could stop himself, he put the brush down and pulled her flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around her waist.

“Oof!” Cinders let out a surprised huff of air, wiggling in his arms but it was clear Caleb wasn't going to let go. “Caleb…?”

“You can't-” he choked out, clearing his throat. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in and trying to compose himself. “You're not allowed to date my friends.”

“Caleb-” she squirmed again but he only tightened his hold.

“I'm serious, pipsqueak. No. You've gone this long without seeing anyone, why now?” his voice was strained and off-sounding.

“I-I don't know, I was just wondering,” she mumbled, feeling her face heat up. The way he was holding her like he was afraid to let go felt different. “I won't date any of your friends, Cal, okay?”

“No one,” he mumbled, nuzzling into her neck. His hands slipped under his shirt that she wore, feeling her soft stomach. He felt her shiver but she stilled under his touch. His lips curled into a smirk against her neck. “No one should be able to hold you like this. Touch you like this.”

One of his hands caressed upward, his calloused fingertips brushing against the soft underside of her breasts. He could feel the goosebumps rising to the surface of her skin. His other hand slid underneath the loose shorts she wore, his fingers brushing against the coarse yet soft trimmed hair on her mound.

“C-Caleb, what-?” Cinders sucked in a breath as his long fingers stroked the outside of her lips, sending tingles straight to her core and igniting that delicious burning sensation.

“It should be me, Kit,” he murmured, his nose nuzzling aside her hair to get at her neck. “The one touching you like this. Showing you how to feel good. The only one you think of like this…”

His mouth pressed hot kisses against her neck. He felt Cinders lean back against him, tilting her head to the side and letting him continue. He took it as her consent, his left hand squeezing and teasing her breasts and nipples, eliciting sweet little whimpers and gasps from her plush lips.

It wasn't until the index finger of his right hand slipped between her moistened folds, gently stroking along her slit until he circled his finger around that precious little nerve bundle, that she let out anything resembling a moan.

And Jesus Christ it went straight to his cock, throbbing and aching against the fabric of his pajama pants. He groaned and sank his teeth into the crook of her neck, sucking a mark into her pale skin. “My sweet little pipsqueak,” he nibbled on her earlobe. “Keep making those noises for me, okay? I'm going to help you feel good, honey.”

Cinders bit her lip and nodded, relaxing back into him some more. His hand splayed across her chest, holding her to his own, while his other hand continued to swirl around her clit and tease her entrance. When he started inserting his finger inside of her, her knees bent and she tried to close her legs at the intrusion.

Caleb used his Evol to force them apart again, spreading her wide. He even pulled her shorts off the rest of the way. “Caleb,” Cinders whined, turning her head to glare at him.

“Tell me no,” he said, his eyes half-lidded as he continued to slowly finger her. “Say the word and I'll stop, Kitty.”

Her eyes studied him for a moment, her face flushing as her body responded to his touch. “I want it,” she practically whined instead, panting a little.

His cock twitched almost violently against her ass when he heard her say that. “Everything or just this?” he nibbled along her jaw, working his finger in and out of her slowly, getting her used to the feeling.

She let out another moan when he inserted a second finger, unable to move her legs due to his Evol, so her hands moved up behind her, grabbing his shoulders. “E-everything,” her voice was breathy and shaking. “I want everything.”

Caleb could feel her nails digging into his skin, groaning softly. He bit her again, sucking another harsh mark into her skin. She was his, and he'd leave a reminder for her and everyone else. “Good girl,” he murmured.

The pace of his fingers pumping in and out of her steadily increased, and she squirmed against him, the melody of her pleasure lifting into the air around them. The TV show was forgotten. Only they existed in this room, this moment.

“Ahh, fuck,” Caleb groaned again, unable to take the throbbing ache any longer. “Kit, do you think you're ready for me?”

“Mhm,” she panted.

He didn't need any more confirmation before he lifted her up, freed himself from his pants, and guided himself to her entrance. His thick head was already seeping with precum, eager to delve deep inside of her.

“Tell me to stop if it hurts,” he grunted through clenched teeth, holding himself back from just ramming up into her.

“Okay.”

A guttural moan bubbled up from his chest as he began lowering her slowly onto his cock, her folds stretching and squeezing around him. When he hit resistance, he took his time, working himself in and out of her. He was gentle, he was sweet, kissing her and whispering sweet praises.

Caleb knew it was her first time. It was his, too. And he wanted her to feel good, and loved, and everything that he felt about her. “Good girl, doing so well for me, aren't you, Kit?” he crooned softly, nuzzling his face against hers.

“You coulda told me you were fuckin’ huge,” she huffed, pouting. Her hands were on his thighs, helping to hold herself up.

He chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Where's the fun in that?” he teased. “You're taking me well, anyway.”

“You're so crude,” she mumbled.

“And who's the one that said she wanted everything?” he retorted playfully.

He worked past the barrier, earning a slight whimper of pain from her. “Shh, babygirl, I've got you,” he kissed her cheek, jaw, down her neck, whispering praises in between.

“I'm okay,” she whimpered softly, her hips shifting, wanting to keep going. This staying still business was only driving her insane.

“Ready? Just relax and let me do it,” he rested his chin on her shoulder. “Let me know if you want to change anything.”

Cinders nodded. With his hands on her hips, he began to set a steady rhythm between them, guiding her and rocking his own hips up into her. His own sounds of pleasure mixed with hers. Soon, he wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her to him while his other hand slipped down.

He almost came just from feeling his own cock inside of her with his fingers. He slowed down a bit, wanting to savor the moment, and found her little nub of pleasure again. He rubbed at her clit and continued rutting up into her.

“Caleb- haaa- please, I need more,” Cinders begged. “Faster.”

He obeyed her demand, thrusting into her quicker, sinking his cock deep within her and moaning at the way she squeezed around him so fucking deliciously. “God, you feel so good, Kitty,” he panted. “Just like I imagined. Better even.”

The squelching noises from their mixed juices, along with their cries of passion, could only be described as perverted. “Cal- please- I need-” Cinders whimpered and panted, unable to complete a coherent sentence.

But he knew what she meant. Caleb's fingers on her clit applied more pressure, rubbing circles and driving her closer to that sweet peak. He shifted their position, lifting her with him as he bent her over the coffee table, fucking into her with more purpose.

“I know- what you need, babygirl,” he grunted with his efforts. He shifted his angle and suddenly she cried out the moment he hit that sweet spot inside of her.

She clenched around him so tightly, there was no hope for him. He let out another moan, deep from within his chest, his hips jerking and stuttering as his hands moved to clench her hips, pulling her back against him. “Ah, fuck, Cinders-!” he gasped her name.

She was boneless and feeling like jelly on the table as he pumped his hips forward, fucking his warm cum deeper inside of her, hitting her sweet spot and overstimulating them both. With a soft groan, he finally pulled himself free and collapsed over her, resting his weight on her back.

“Kitty,” he murmured after a few seconds of catching his breath. He lifted his hand and brushed her hair to the side to look at her face. “Are you okay?”

“Mmm,” she hummed, her eyes opening part way to look at him. She smiled a little. “I'm good, bunny.”

Jesus, that silly nickname of hers that he absolutely loved went right to his dick and he could already feel himself getting hard again. But he didn't want to push her too much tonight. “C’mon,” he got to his feet, fixing himself before lifted her into his arms. Caleb planted a sweet kiss on her forehead. “We need another shower.”

[darlinluxx]

𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 | 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐄 𝐁𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐊 ౨ৎ

pairing : saebyeok x fem!reader

angst, small amount of fluff ???

warnings : angst

summary : you two could never be friends. you’re still in love.

a/n : based off of sick by dominic fike

if you have any requests, feel free to message me <3

𝐓he chipped mug warms your hands, the faded floral pattern a familiar comfort. it’s the same mug you always used, back when your morning routine included a shared kitchen and the lingering scent of Saebyeok’s shampoo. you look out the window, watching the city wake up, the grey light reflecting the grey knot in your stomach. she’s supposed to be here soon.

you made a promise — a promise to be friends. you’d both moved on, gone separate ways after that messy, complicated whirlwind you called “us.” but “friends” was the goal, an amicable postscript to a love that burned too bright, then flickered out. now you just need to do it. be friends.

the doorbell rings, its chime sharp and jarring in the quiet apartment. you take a deep breath, forcing a smile before you open the door. there she is, leaning against the frame, hands shoved in her pockets, the same posture you used to find so captivating. the familiar sting of recognition hits you, a punch to the chest that steals your breath.

“hey,” she says, her voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine, a shiver that has absolutely nothing to do with the chilly morning air.

“hey, Saebyeok.” you reply, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice. you usher her inside, feeling strangely self-conscious of your small apartment, the same apartment she used to know so well.

she surveys the room, a flicker of something — perhaps nostalgia — crossing her face. you offer her the mug in your hands, filled with lukewarm tea. she accepts, her fingers brushing yours as she takes it. a jolt, electric and unwelcome, courses through you. it’s just a touch, barely a thing, but your body remembers. it remembers her. you remember her. too well.

you try to talk about the weather, about work, about anything that isn’t the heavy silence that seems to hang between you. you’re both being so careful, walking on eggshells made of unspoken feelings. but with every shared laugh, every accidental glance, the wall you’ve been desperately trying to build around your heart crumbles a little bit more.

she tells you about her new coworkers, how frustrating it is learning new systems. you nod, pretending to listen, but all you can hear is the way her laughter used to fill your apartment, the way her hand used to fit perfectly in yours. you catch yourself staring at the way her hair falls across her forehead, the way she always pushes it back with an impatient flick of her wrist. you find yourself lost in the little details, the details you thought you’d forgotten.

the casual conversation continues, but you feel like an imposter, a fraud playing the role of a “friend.” your every word is a carefully constructed facade, each syllable a lie designed to hide the truth that simmers beneath your skin. the truth that seeing her, hearing her low voice, being in the same room as her, still makes your heart ache like it’s been wrenched from your chest.

the afternoon wears on. you share stories, your laughter echoing in the small space, a hollow imitation of the genuine joy you once shared. by the time she stands up to leave, you feel exhausted, drained from the effort of maintaining this charade.

at the door, she turns back, a hesitant smile on her lips. “this was nice.” she says, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“yeah,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper. “nice.”

she steps out into the hallway, and you close the door, leaning against it, your breath catching in your throat. the “friend” act was exhausting. it was too much.

you look around the apartment, now silent. the mug sits on the counter, a silent witness to your internal struggle. you know, deep down, that you can’t do this. you can’t pretend to be friends with someone you’re still so desperately in love with. you can’t be around her and not want more. you can’t handle the constant push and pull of desire and denial. you realize with a painful clarity that you can’t have this “friendship” because you still want her, want everything, in a way that being friends doesn’t allow for.

the truth hits you with the force of a tidal wave. you can’t be friends with her because you’re still hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her. and that, you know, is a war you can’t possibly win.

[growthhyp]

Any chance you could turn me into the biggest, hairiest, and dumbest bodybuilder the world has ever seen? I want to be bigger than anyone else and so dumb that I can barely function other than to just keep getting bigger.

The Dumb Bro

Can you believe this, bro? So, like, I've got these bad boy nanobots in me, right? They changed the whole game years ago. And now, guess what? They're like, totally in you too! "Hulk smash, time to grow!" I telepathically told you, and boom! Your chest is like, inflating like a hot air balloon, bro.

You're feeling that tingle in your chest, right? That's them little guys getting to work! Then, bam, your chest is popping out like it's made of pure muscle and testosterone. It's like someone's pumping it up with a bike pump on steroids. And your arms, oh man, your arms! They're blowing up like you've been hitting the gym every day since you were in diapers.

First, it's your biceps, peaking out like a couple of Mount Everests with veins that could give a roadmap a run for its money. Then your tris are like, "Hey, we're not gonna be left out!" So, they start bulging and shaping up too. Your forearms are now like, super-charged with muscle and veins are just, like, everywhere. It's like you're turning into the Incredible Hulk's cousin or something!

You can't help but let out a manly groan as this happens, and the urge to flex, bro, it's just too much to resist. You throw those guns up and watch 'em bounce back like yo-yos made of pure steel.

As your guns popped into a sick double bicep pose, you couldn't help but flash that victory grin, bro. And just like that, your back started to blow up like a balloon, filling out like it had a life of its own. Your traps were spreading wider than ever, giving you that sweet, sweet wing-like look that makes the babes go crazy for that V-taper. And your neck, oh man, it started tingling and swelling up like you had a personal trainer for your neck muscles! You couldn't help but let out a low, guttural moan as you felt the blood rushing to your newfound gains, making your noggin feel like it was floating on a cloud of pure muscle euphoria. Your expression? Pure, dumb jock bliss. It was like your brain had gone on vacation and all you could focus on was the iron pumping, the protein shakes, and the sweet, sweet growth of those bad boys.

You stomach? It's gone, man! Flattened out like a pancake on a hot griddle, and in its place is a set of 6-pack abs that are popping like nobody's business! Your obliques? Forget about it, they're strutting their stuff like they own the place. And those quads? Oh boy, they're pumped up like they're on steroids, turning into tree trunks with veins popping all over, like you've just crushed the last set of squats in the gym. Then it's on to the calves, baby, getting swole like they're made of pure rock, and your feet? They're like two blocks of cement now.

But here's the kicker, bro: I checked out your noggin and it's all muscle up in there too. I mean, your brain power's been swapped for biceps and all that good stuff, but no worries, you're still a smart cookie. You're keeping all that juicy info on workouts and nutrition, like you've got a PhD in gains. It's all part of the deal, my friend. You're looking like a walking, talking, flexing encyclopedia of gym wisdom. Ain't it sweet?

As your noggin' went kaput, all you cared about was pumpin' iron and bulkin' up, bro. You were like, "Yeah, man, I wanna be a freakin' beast!" So I whipped out the ol' nano-magic and cranked those babies up to eleven! You're now so jacked, it's like someone photoshopped you into a superhero movie, right? But, y'know, the trade-off was that brainiac department of yours took a dive. Now you're talkin' in caveman grunts like, "Grow muscles, big, big!" and that's about the extent of your vocab. But hey, you got the physique of a Greek god, so who needs smarts, right? Last I saw ya, you were in the gym, flexin' those behemoth biceps and drooling like a champ. Classic gym moment, dude.

[myboykillme]

Another fanfic! Thanks for all the support and everything. This scenario when Ray protected you from Double, and that was kind of hot. The readers anatomy is female in this, might make different things in the future. Minors don't interact, this is pure filth.

TW: mentions of blood, gore, worship, sexual intimacy

Smut under the cut, MDNI 18+

Blood and guts are spilled on the floor, and the smell of the room is thick with the metallic taste of gore. The people you used to consider friends are pieces of burned flesh and guts, their faces morphed into a bizarre offering to a deity. Red sticky substance was soaked into my skin, as I stared into his black void of an eye. He looked positively shaken, kneeling in front of me, looking at me expectantly. “Please forgive me my Star”

This man, the symbol of peace in America, is reduced to an afraid whimpering man. “I couldn't just let him do those things to you, if only you saw what I saw in his mind, he wanted to” My sharp gaze cut off his words, silencing his excuses. What scared me wasn't the bloodbath, I couldn't comprehend the blooming feeling in my lower stomach. Could this be… blood lust? “I'm begging you, look at me please, I don't what to do please, your mind is…blank”

Ray gently held my face and turned my head to make me face him. A breathtaking sight greeted me when I finally faced him, the red from his violent acts made him look ethereal, truly a being from beyond the stars. I wanted to attack him right here and there, a primal urge to fight or flight coming to me, but also a feeling of possessiveness. He killed them for me, he lives for me, he's only for me.

I could only focus on the adrenaline rushing to my head, a euphoric warmth spreading through my veins. Grabbing his collar, I pulled him up from his kneeling position, and before he could question me, I kissed him. My mind felt hazy, as I tasted his obsession and blood at the same time. Ray's hands quickly found the small of my back, making me flush against him, making me extremely aware of the growing hotness inside my body.

I imagine his body must have felt the same, as his tongue danced with mine, deliciously sloppy. We pulled away simultaneously, panting from the rush of it all. His eyes looked even darker than before, his pretty face flushed red with desire, truly a mess he made for me. The sound of his belt unbuckling brought me back to reality, his eyes flickered to my flushed state as he grabbed me by my hair and brought me down onto my knees.

The filth of the guts could barely compare to the one that was in my mind when I came face to face with his bulge, I instantly touched it, nuzzling my face against it. Ray only smirked at my eagerness, seeing his dark goddess on the floor of blood innocently rubbing her face against his rock-hard cock. My hands worked quickly as I freed him further from the confines of his pants. A huge cock oozing with precum slapped my face, as I gasped in surprise.

My body felt even hotter as I imagined what this would feel inside my mouth, going down my throat as I struggled to breathe. “Be good to me and open your mouth” He petted my head and spoke with a low grumble, but that's not what made me comply. Those dark pools of eyes he has held so much adoration, a cocktail of lust and obsession, they seemed to see right into my soul. Without further thought I opened my mouth, slowly taking his dick further and further.

I felt disgusted getting off to this, but maybe I was always sick, rotten to my core and he just brought it out. Ray didn't spare me any mercy, as his fingers gripped my hair, forcing me down to the base. A shiver ran down my spine, making me even wetter, and messier. The feeling of his cock hitting the back off of my throat was phenomenal, it hurt but God did it make me feel submissive. Being under his gaze, with his cock getting shown down my throat is who I am meant to be, kneeling in a pool of guts, taking everything he gives me.

“Fuck, you look amazing goddess” Ray's voice was a low grumble, it made me even more eager. My nails dug into his thighs as I took what he gave me. I desperately wanted to touch myself but I had to focus on his pleasure, serving him gave me a sense of purpose.

“Get up now” Ray's command snapped me out of my lustful daze. I reluctantly pulled my mouth off his throbbing cock, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his thick shaft.

Gasping for air, I looked up at him with hazy, desire-filled eyes. He grabbed my arms and hauled me up, my body pressing flush against his surprisingly muscular frame. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins from the violence he had unleashed. He spun me around and bent me over one of the blood-stained tables, the cold metal pressing against my heated skin.

The contrast made me shiver, my nipples hardening beneath my black lace bra. Ray kicked my legs apart pulling my skirt and panties off in a swift motion. My head felt dizzy as he spread my pussy wide as he positioned himself behind me. I could feel his hard cock, slick with my spit and his precum, prodding against my ass.

"You're sick, just like me," he growled, his voice rough with lust at my state. "I need to claim you, make you mine completely." Ray's calloused hand went under my shirt, cupping my breasts, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh. His thumbs brushed over my nipples, then pulled on them, making me let out a surprising moan from the pain. I arched my back, instinctively grinding my ass further against his crotch, silently begging him to take me.

"Please… I need it" I whimpered shamefully, still smelling the gore, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heartbeat. "Fuck me, use me, ruin me for anyone else." His dark chuckle made me feel even more pitiful, he was amused by my desperate pleas. "Don't worry goddess, I will take good care of you." That's when I felt the sharp sting of his hand on my ass, making me seek out even more friction.

My breathing was getting harder and harder, then he slapped my ass again, even harder this time. A sharp scream came out of me, as tears threatened to spill out of my eyes, he's strong. The sting was soon soothed by the thick head of his cock pushing against my entrance, teasing me, making me crazy with need. I tried to push back against him, to force him inside, but he held my hips still, controlling me completely.

"Beg for it, " he said in an amused voice, with an edge of dominance. "You wanna be fucked, don't you? Hmmm~" His fingers massaging the flesh of my ass, admiring the two reddening hand prints. I opened my mouth to do just that, to beg him to fuck me, to ruin me, to claim me... but my words were cut off by a loud, wanton moan as he slammed his thick cock deep inside my tight cunt. He stretched me wide, filling me completely, hitting depths I didn't know I had.

"Mercy!" I cried out, my pussy clenching around him, trying to adjust to his size. He was so big, so hard, and he felt incredible inside me. His pace started slow but hard, letting my body commit his shape into memory. Despite that, the table shook beneath us, the legs scraping against the blood-stained floor. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, combined with the sound of the table moving, it sounded like an execution, maybe it was…

"This is what I've been dreaming of," His voice shook, full of devotion as he took me as an offering, his fingers digging into my hips as he fucked me harder, deeper. "Your cunt was made for me to abuse." Hazy pleasure clouded my mind, I couldn't focus on his words, and I didn't feel like I was there from the intensity. Disgust filled my guts, along with fire, my orgasm was building, and my body tensed as I climbed closer and closer to the edge. "That's it, Goddess, let it happen….”

He pushed his fingers into my mouth, forcing my mouth open as he made me look at the blood and bodies he slaughtered for me. My body involuntarily shuddered at the sight, filling me with a strange sense of satisfaction. I felt a warm breath against my ear as he spoke, panting. “Never, you're never leaving me, you're mine” he panted maniacally in between words, “ I would do anything for you, Goddess I lo-”

My eyes rolled back into my head as an intense orgasm suddenly washed over me, I couldn't hear his rambling as he continued ramming his dick inside me. But the pleasure almost never stopped, the hot lava of overstimulation overtook my nerves. In a few seconds, it stopped, and Ray's hard and sloppy thrust filled my womb with his cum.

Laying on that cold table, covered in sweat, blood, and cum, I came to a sickening realization. This has awoken something: a dark twisted hunger inside me, insatiable…. And I knew, without a doubt, that I would never be the same again.

[mommyslittlebird]

It Was Never Perfect

Stepmom!Wanda x Reader

After your perfect week alone with Wanda, the rest of your family comes home. You start to wonder if it was the right choice to even come home in the first place.

CW: R is hella jealous of everyone, stepcest, shitty father, possessive sex, body writing, oral sex, overstimulation, risky sex, Freud’s rolling in his grave, R is a little freak

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: This one kinda sucks and it’s very angst heavy. It’s kinda a huge fucking downer but in a slightly ✨sexy✨ way. I promise chapter 5 will be well worth it though. Sorry this took so long to come out!

Part 4 of Her Special Girl

For what it’s worth, you did get to wake up in Wanda’s arms on Christmas morning. You were gently shaken awake at 6:30 in the morning with light kisses to your face. “Merry Christmas, little love,” she whispered. 

You flopped over onto her chest, a sleepy smile plastered across your face. “Merry Christmas, mama.”

The two of you spent the whole morning in bed together, tangled in each other's limbs. You didn’t even get up to brush your teeth before your lips were pressed to hers. Neither of you minded, though. You were far too concerned with having your hands and lips all over each other to let something as silly as morning breath stop you. 

Around 9 o’clock though, when your lips had just made their way to her navel, you heard the front door open. Wanda groaned, reluctantly pushing you away and rolling out of bed. She put on a pair of Christmas pajamas and threw you a pair onto the bed. You reluctantly pried yourself off her mattress, putting on the pajamas.   

You heard the shouts as soon as she left the bedroom. “Mommy!”s suddenly filled the foyer and the staircase as you heard little footsteps scramble their way up the stairs. The sound made your stomach turn with envy. That was your mama. 

You walked out of the bedroom to find everyone in the foyer. Billy and Tommy, your stepbrothers and Wanda’s other children, were wrapped tightly around her waist. Wanda’s real children, you reminded yourself. 

She had her arms wrapped around them as she kissed both of their heads. “I missed you boys so much! It’s been so lonely around here without you guys.” She knelt down on the ground, kissing all over their faces in the manner she’d kissed yours only hours ago. 

Your stomach went sour. Lonely? She’d spent the week feeling lonely? No. She was lying. She was just saying that to make them feel better. She hadn’t been lonely. She had you. You were all she needed, right?

She only twisted the knife further when she stood up straight to greet your father. “I’ve missed you, my love,” she said softly before taking his face in her hands and kissing him. 

You thought you were going to be sick. You turned around and ran into the bathroom, bracing yourself against the sink. This couldn’t be happening. You were her love. You were her baby. You were her favorite, her whole world, the only person she’d ever need. She spent the week telling you so. So why were suddenly feeling like the least important person in this entire house?

You turned on the sink and splashed your face with cool water. You watched yourself in the mirror as the cool water ran down your chin. Suddenly, you were 18 all over again…

—--------

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, getting ready for the day, beaming with pride and excitement. You’d been working for two whole years and it finally paid off. You’d spent months studying to get your GED, then even longer studying to get a near perfect score on your ACT, all to get to this moment: getting accepted to college. A full ride to the local university, nonetheless. Wanda was going to be ecstatic.

You’d found out last night, but you wanted to wait until morning to tell Wanda, when the boys had left for school, your dad had left for work, and it was just the two of you alone. You crept into her office, the piece of paper held firmly in your hands. 

By the time you knocked on the door though, Wanda looked tired and pissed. “Mama?” you called into the room, hoping this would cheer her up. 

You hadn’t noticed Wanda was on the phone. She put her finger to her lips to indicate you needed to be quiet. You dropped your hands to the side, chewing on your lip impatiently. 

 “Yeah, okay,” she sighed to the person over the phone. “I’ll be there soon.”

She hung up the phone and threw it into her bag. You opened your mouth to speak, but were quickly cut off. “I’ve gotta go to the school. Tommy apparently thought it would be funny to shove his brother in a locker,” she said with an exasperated sigh. She picked her bag up from under the desk, practically shoving past you to get out the door. 

“But, mama…” you said, trying to run down the stairs after her. 

“Can you make sure my computer doesn’t shut off before I get back, please? I’ve gotta go,” she interrupted again, walking out the front door and all but slamming it in your face. 

You froze for a minute, heart shattering into a million pieces. Time seemed to stand still as the letter fell from your hand and onto the ground of the foyer. You shrunk into yourself, feeling like the tiniest, most insignificant thing on the entire planet. You tucked your knees to your chest, sitting on the bottom step. Tears poured from your eyes, clogging your sinus until you could hardly breathe. Sobs ripped through your chest, echoing through the foyer so loud it shook the glass chandelier. 

It was always going to be like this. You shouldn’t have expected anything less, really. Wanda was never yours to begin with. You were stupid for thinking she cared. You were even stupider to think she cared about you over her own kids. Her real kids. Whatever you thought you had with her, whatever you thought she felt, was a fairytale. 

You had a mother, a real one, and she didn’t care about you. You were dealt a shitty hand, and you still thought you could somehow win the game. This “having a mother” thing was simply an impossibility for you. You could toil all you wanted. It was futile. You had already lost.

This was reality. You were alone. 

You were already tucked up in the furthest corner of your room when Wanda walked through the front door. “You, young man, are gonna spend the rest of the afternoon in your room finishing up all this homework you missed,” She sternly informed Tommy, sending him angrily up the stairs. He slammed his bedroom door, only furthering Wanda’s fury. 

She set down her bag and shoes at the door, huffing. She noticed a piece of paper carelessly discarded on the hardwood. She sighed in annoyance. Did anyone know how to pick up after themselves around here?

She picked up the piece of paper, charging up the stairs. She knocked on your bedroom door.. “Honey? You left this in the foyer. I really need you to start picking up after yourself, okay? You can’t just be leaving things all over the house.”

When you didn’t answer, she huffed again. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work.” She folded up the paper and slid it under the crack of your door without reading it. She went back to her office without another word. 

You made your way to the door, taking the letter in your hands and ripping it in half. You weren’t going to that stupid fucking university. You weren’t going to stay in this stupid fucking town. You were done playing house with a family that wasn’t yours. You were done savoring the praise of the woman who wasn’t even your real mom. 

You were going to go somewhere new. Somewhere better. You were gonna find people who cared about you. 

You didn’t need her. You didn’t need anyone. If no one else was going to be happy for you, you were going to be happy for you. And that was going to be enough. That was going to have to be. There was nothing else. 

—--------

You shivered, drying your face before heading downstairs. 

“Hey, honey! Look boys! It’s your sister!” Wanda cheered, trying to get the boys excited to see you. They shyly hid behind her legs, scared in the way children get when an unfamiliar presence intrudes on their familiarity. You hadn’t seen them in over two years. You were practically a stranger. 

“Are you coming to your grandmother’s with us?” your father asked. 

You looked at Wanda. She could immediately read more than just confusion. There was something very wrong. “She’s gonna stay here. With me,” she answered for you. 

Your father made no comment, turning back to the boys. “Alright fellas, go bring your bags up to your rooms. We gotta get to grandma’s for presents.”

“Presents” seemed to be the magic word, as the boys immediately ran up the stairs, carrying their bags with them and getting ready to leave again. You, Wanda, and your dad were all left in the foyer.

There was a terribly awkward silence, then Wanda spoke up. “Well,” she started, “speaking of presents, we were just finishing the last of the wrapping up in the bedroom. We should get back to it. So it’s done by the time you all get back. Right?” She looked at you, raising her eyebrows expectantly. 

You nodded, desperate to get out of this situation. “Right.”

Wanda wasted no time grabbing your hand and whisking you away. When she reached the top of the steps, she called back down to your father. “We’re wrapping things for you, so don’t come up here!”

She pulled you into the bedroom, shutting the door gently behind you. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What’s wrong, little love?”

Your brow furrowed in something between sadness and anger. “You’re my mama. Mine.” 

She cocked her head to the side, trying not to look amused as you were very clearly upset. “Aww, sweetheart,” she whispered with a slight chuckle. “Of course I’m your mama, sweet girl.”

You stood in front of her silently, the same angry and sad look on your face. 

“Oh come on, don’t give me that face,” she said quietly, cupping your cheek in her hand. “Is it hard for you to share mama after you’ve had her to yourself all week?”

You nodded, face softening ever so slightly. “You kissed dad! And… and you told the boys you had a bad week with me!”

“Honey,” she said, a bit firmer this time. “That isn’t what I said. I told the boys I missed them. And we both know I take no pleasure in kissing your father. Can you tell me what’s really got you so worked up? Talk to mama.”

You rubbed your arm, hesitant to spill your concerns. “Now that your real family is back you're gonna forget all about me like mom did,” you finally said, speaking just above a whisper. 

“Oh sweetheart. No no no. Mama’s not gonna forget about you,” she gently pulled you into her arms, tucking your head just under her chin. “I could never forget about you. You’re mama’s special girl, remember?”

“Promise?” You asked weakly.

“I promise,” she assured. 

You stood for a moment, trying to find solace in her arms. When you couldn’t find any, you desperately demanded “say it again.” 

But before she could respond you heard your dad shout up from the basement. “Come on boys! We’re gonna be late to grandma’s!” 

Wanda pulled away. “I should help them get ready,” she explained, turning to leave the room. You winced as she closed the door, leaving you alone in her room. 

You were beyond angry. You were seething, practically vibrating with jealousy. 

You sulked to the bed, looking to the nightstand and picking up the black sharpie Wanda was using to write on the gifts last night. You uncapped the marker, staring at the black felt tip. Permanent may not actually mean permanent, but it wouldn’t come off for at least a few days. 

You were gonna make sure everyone knew who she belonged to. 

It was only a few minutes before you heard Wanda shouting out the front door, wishing the boys and your father safe travels. You waited impatiently, counting each step you heard on her way back to the bedroom. 

As soon as she stepped into the bedroom, you were on her, tearing at her closer, trying to get her closer. She took your hands in hers, stilling them. “Woah woah woah. Slow down. We have plenty of time.” 

But when she looked in your eyes, she didn’t see the same seductive, blissful face she’d seen this morning where you’d left off before your dad got home. No. You were angry. Possessive. Jealous.

“So that’s how this is gonna be,” she conceded with a smirk. She didn’t say anything more, but she looked almost excited. You didn’t respond, holding that same dangerous glare. She let go of your hands, giving you silent permission to continue. 

You pushed her body backwards until it hit the wall. You lips met hers in a harsh, bruising kiss that would leave both your lips swollen. You only pulled away for a moment to rip her shirt off over her head. She moaned as your hands pawed at her breast, squeezing them hard enough to hurt. You teased her nipples between your pointer finger and thumb, pinching and pulling them until she yelped. 

When you were sure her lips were puffy and raw, you made your way down her body, kneeling in front of her until you were face to face with her center. You looked up at her hungrily as you slowly pulled at the waistband of her pajama pants. “Say it again, mama. Tell me I’m special and you love me the most.”

She gently cupped your cheek, tilting your head up and stroking your cheekbone with her thumb. Even in your lustful, jealous haze there was a moment of peace when she said “You’re my most special girl, little love. Mama loves you more than anything in the world.”

You made short work of pulling her underwear and pants the rest of the way down. You gently kissed her mound before hungirly diving into her core, sucking her clit into your mouth. Her eyes closed and her mouth fell open in a blissful expression. She reached down and grabbed your hair, keeping you pressed tight against her. “Oh… fuck… please… oh my love…”

She threw her leg over your shoulder, pulling you even closer as your tongue circled her entrance. You reached up to stead her waist with your hands, holding her in place. “You’re making mama feel so good baby. Fuck I love you so much,” she panted, her legs starting to shake. She pulled one of your hands from her waist, holding it tight for support. 

“You’re gonna make mama cum, baby,” she breathed, arching away from the wall. You could feel her heel digging into your back as her wetness coated your tongue. You were addicted to her taste, and determined to be the only one who ever got the privilege of tasting her again. Your nails dug into the skin of her thigh as her hand tightened in your hair. She came with a silent scream, nearly collapsing to the ground against the wall. 

She smiled at you, satisfied. But you had that same hungry look in your eye. A look that told her you were far from done. 

“Say it again,” you demanded weakly. As angry as you were, you still just looked so little and desperate. You just wanted to be loved. You just wanted your mama. 

“Baby,” she cooed. She was still panting and disheveled. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

“Say. It. Again.” You commanded, biting down on your own lip. 

“You are my most precious angel. My most special girl,” she repeated. 

Wordlessly, you laid on your stomach in front of her, your face hovering over her sex. You blew cool air against the sensitive skin. You brought two fingers to her entrance, which, coated with the remains of her orgasm, gave no resistance.

“Ah,” she hummed, “careful baby. Mama’s very sensitive. Oh fuck…”

She bucked into your hand as your fingers curled to meet that special spot inside of her. You lowered your head, pulling her clit back into your mouth and flicking it lightly with the tip of your tongue. She threw her head back, arching herself further into your mouth. She groaned as you added a third finger, pumping yourself in and out of her in rhythm with your tongue. 

She grabbed your hair, chanting your name and grinding herself against you. “No one else can do this to me baby. It’s only you. Only you can make mama fall apart like this.” Her words encouraged you and you doubled down, circling her sensitive bud with your tongue.

“Honey… fuck you’re gonna make mama cum again,” she breathed, biting down hard on her lip as she came around your fingers. 

This time, you didn’t pull away, continuing your ministrations even after her orgasm subsided.

“Please baby… I can’t…” she panted. She squirmed against your tongue, trying to escape the ceaseless pleasure. You pulled your fingers away, instead wrapping both your arms around her thighs. You held her in place, determined to draw one final orgasm from her. 

You alternated between her entrance and her clit, pressing your tongue hard against her. Her legs trembled around your head, unable to handle the sensation. You hummed around her clit, spelling your name with your tongue over and over again. 

She came faster this time, forcibly pushing you away as she sprayed a stream of cum onto the carpet. You watched in fascination. You had never seen anyone cum that hard. She went limp against the wall, exhausted. 

You helped her up onto the bed, letting her rest against the headboard. You ran to the bathroom quickly to get her a glass of water and a towel, just like she always did for you. 

“Thank you,” she smiled, gratefully accepting them both. She had taught you so well. 

You knelt down between her legs, laying your head down on her stomach. “I love you, mama,” you said softly, nuzzling into her navel. 

“I love you too, sweet girl,” she replied, running her fingers gently through your hair. “Are you feeling better now? Do you think you can play nice with your dad and brothers?”

You didn’t respond. You felt better, but swirling thoughts still lingered on your mind. You thought about your father taking your place in her bed. Would she let him touch her like you had? Would he draw the same heavenly sounds from her? Would she tell him she loved the way he touched her too? The thought made you sick to your stomach. You could deal with kisses, the hugs, the words of affection, but you couldn’t deal with that.

You sat up and grabbed the sharpie from the nightstand, uncapping with your teeth. She grabbed your wrist. “Honey. We can’t. You know that.”

“He’s not allowed to see you here!” You screamed in despair, pointing at her lower abdomen. 

She looked into your desperate eyes. Sex was a scarcity between her and your father anyway. He almost certainly wouldn’t see it. She would just have to be careful getting in and out of the shower. The risk was high, but, if it could bring you even a little relief, the reward was higher. She sighed. “Alright, sweetheart. Keep it below the waist and above the mid thigh.”

You started with your name, big and bold just below her abdomen. You wrote it smaller in cursive on her inner thighs and then initialled and put a heart right next to each of her nipples before sitting back to admire your creation. 

You added a few more hearts along her pelvis before capping the marker and putting it back on the nightstand. 

Your dialated eyes and possessive gaze didn’t escape Wanda’s notice. She reached up and rubbed your chin. “I’m all yours baby. Do you like that? Knowing no one else gets to touch mama like you do? Nobody else makes mama feel so good.”

You nodded eagerly. “Not even dad because you love me more than him, right.”

She smiled gently and pulled you down to rest against her bare chest. “That’s exactly right, sweetheart. Not even your father makes me feel like you do.” She tapped the tip of your nose affectionately. “Now let’s get this shirt off so mama can hold you nice and close.” 

You put your arms up so she could pull the dense sweater from your body. She discarded it to the side along with the clothes you’d torn off her earlier. You laid flat against her warm skin. Her nails gently scratched up and down your back. “There we go. That’s my sweet girl. Do you feel better now?”

You nodded against her chest, wrapping your arms around her in the tight space between her body and the mattress. She played with your hair, silently at first, but then she started to sing softly. You recognize the tune, but the words were in Wanda’s native language. 

You laid like that for a long time, listening to the soft beat of her heart, until the front door opened again and you heard two sets of little feet running through the foyer. Reluctantly, you peeled yourself away and put back on your sweater. 

Once you were both dressed, you reached to unlock the door, but Wanda grabbed your hand. 

“Wait. One more thing,” she said, turning you around to face her. She knelt down in front of you and lifted your shirt. “Hold this.”

You cocked your brow in confusion, but held your sweater up. It was only when she lifted her hand to touch your stomach that you noticed the sharpie between her fingers. You felt the cool tip glide across your stomach, just above your navel. In her neat cursive penmanship, she had written “Mama’s Special Girl”. She capped the marker and grabbed your hip on either side, pulling you close and kissing your stomach. The kiss left a distinct red lipstick print just under her words. You beamed as you looked down at what she had left. 

She climbed to her feet, dropping your sweater to cover the message. “Alright. Let’s go have Christmas.”

—--------

Despite your reservations, Christmas went better than expected. It helped that your father, in his usual shitty mood, left to go take a nap, claiming he was exhausted and it just couldn’t wait. No one protested. 

The boys opened their presents with all the excitement expected of 8 year olds. It did actually make you feel better that they warmed up to you quickly. Maybe you couldn’t be the only person in Wanda’s life, but it was nice to least be part of her family. You kept your hand on your stomach, soothing yourself with the thought of the special words that sat just underneath the fabric.

Wanda, as usual, went way overboard with the gifts, despite you not asking for anything. Some of them were marked “From: Dad” or “From: Santa”, but you knew they were all from her. She had gotten you some dorm room decorations, a lego set, and every item off of your amazon wishlist, a list you didn’t even know she still had access to. She must’ve kept the link from years ago when you still lived at home. 

Once all the presents were gone, the boys ran happily around the house, playing with their newly acquired toys. Wanda smiled from her spot next to you on the couch, pulling you into a quick side hug. “Did you get everything?”

You smiled and nodded. “And more. What about you?”

She rubbed your chin affectionately. “Well, you’re here. So you tell me.”

You chuckled and looked nervously down at your lap. “There’s actually something else.”

“Oh?” she asked cheekily. 

You got up from the couch and grabbed an envelope from the mantle. You fidgeted nervously with the corner as you brought it to Wanda on the couch. “To: Mama” was scrawled in your messy handwriting on the back.

She carefully opened the envelope revealing an acceptance letter. A full ride scholarship to your local university for the spring semester. You were coming home. For good.

Her mouth fell open and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Is this… are you…”

You nodded and she grabbed you, pulling you down on the couch with her in a tight hug. “I love you so much. After my boys, I never thought I could ever be so lucky to get another special blessing in my life. But I found you,” she cradled your head in close. “And I’m never letting you go. Never again.”

[lagunz]

𝖉𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞 𝖇𝖔𝖞 🛁

w! unsafe s3x, groping

izzy comes home after a bad day and you're the only thing that can help regulate him.

older!izzy fic

it was getting late as you heard your husband izzy return home.

you both owned a ranch a few minutes away from your home, it's where izzy would fix up some bikes in the barn instead of tending to animals, he didn't trust himself with animals. he enjoyed to spend his evenings fixing up bikes with foreign parts he finds in scrap yards, or trades in from his friends.

you look up from the couch, you're nursing a cup of tea as your eyes catch onto him. his skin is slightly coated in dust and oil, he looks like a whole hot mess.

he looks over to you and offers a lazy wave, he seems exhausted after his evening of fixing and building his bikes.

"what happened to you? you look like the oil canister came alive and attacked you..." you'd joke, trying to lighten his dimmed down mood.

he sighed huskily. "baby... you don't even know. shit kept going wrong, spilling... i need a cigarette." he said, stomping off into the kitchen.

you softly sighed, there he goes.

you put aside your tea and follow behind him. "baby, fix yourself something to eat and i'll run you a bath hm?" you'd offer kindly, a bath is what he needs.

he nods, crouching down to the refrigerator. "yeah... alright. thank you." he gruffed out.

you turn on your heel, heading up to the bathroom. your bathroom is quite big, izzy allowed that luxury with hie fame, he had cash. you had a nice big bath tub, separated from the shower.

you turn on both faucets, lighting some candles around for him. he needs to relax tonight. you get the bath at the perfect warm temperature for him, calling downstairs for him.

"it's done jeff." you'd say, voice raised slightly so he could hear. he arrives upstairs shortly after, he'd just eaten a lazy microwaveable pizza. he gives you a little forehead kiss as he goes into the bathroom.

a few minutes pass as you go into your bedroom, you hear izzy call out. "sweetheart?"

your head perks up. "uh huh?"

"please join me."

you enter the bathroom, heart beating a little. he's in the tub, bubbles all around him. his short hair is damp and you can see his chest. he nods for you to come in as you cautiously step inside, closing the door.

"in the tub baby." he said, almost as an order. you waste no time in undressing your clothes. you can see a sick grin form onto his dirty face as you soon become bare.

he watches you, looking down at the tub expecting you to obey. you step inside and sit yourself down with him.

"sweet girl." he sighed, admiring you. you blush a little, looking down. being the guy he is, he starts to gently fondle your waist through the water. the bath makes his hands feel so much better, flowing through the water with ease. his hands go higher and grope your chest gently, something he always liked to do to you.

you sigh softly, already feeling a little turned on. you just couldn't help but to feel that way. his hands on your chest, the smell of his dirty skin after a day of self work... it drove you crazy and he knew that.

he liked to take that factor to his advantage.

his hands slide down to your hips, he gently pulls you closer. with little effort due to the water, you come closer to him.

"baby please..." he said gently. he was pulling you even closer until you felt his hardness near your lower stomach. you raise a brow, he wasn't messing around.

you nod, needing him just as bad at this point. he holds your hips and moves you as if you weighed nothing, positioning you over himself.

he looks at you as if to ask for consent one more time, his eyes beady and full of desperation. he always got so needy after a hard day, you didn't complain tho. not one bit.

you nod, holding his shoulders. he pulls your hips down onto his dick, moaning softly. you loved hearing him get vocal.

he pulled your hips up and down as if you were some toy. it felt euphoric as the water helped pace you. he groaned out as his head fell back against the tub.

you rocked yourself onto him, moaning quietly. "fuck... you feel so good- ah..." he groaned out through a bitten lip, adams apple bobbing in his throat.

you could feel him pulsing inside of you as you moaned out softly, ruining the clean water. your nails scratched his shoulders as he couldn't hold himself anymore, completely filling you up. your moans mixed in with eachothers as the windows steamed up even more.

he was left panting, head dropped down. you could feel his legs shaking beneath you slightly, he sweat all of the soot off. guess he really needed that.

he lifts you off carefully, moaning a tiny bit as you pass the tip. he looks down at the white water, chuckling hoarsely.

"you did amazing... thank you sweetness." he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Glimpse Of Us

summary: routine became something finnick cherished. but course, the capitol must ruin everything, including his love. but he will still find a way to get her back.

finnick odair x fem!reader

content warnings for the whole story: descriptions of death, torture, starvation, and everything described in The Hunger Games, mentions of suicidal thoughts, implications of S/A

mood board + playlist

previous part | masterlist | next part

Chapter IV

"Run! Run! The fog is poison!" Katniss screamed as she ran back to the group.

Before you could even react, Finnick immediately grabbed your wrist, pulled you to your feet and started running alongside Katniss and Peeta.

He looked back for a moment, the fog was approaching from all sides, fast.

Finnick could tell you were still tired, but you had to keep moving. "Come on angel” he urges, tugging you closer as he runs faster.

As you all kept running, a sharp, searing pain shot through Finnick's body. His breath caught in his throat as the pain exploded through his calf, which caused him to scream in pain.

"Finnick!" you scream as the fog brushed against your arm.

Finnick gritted his teeth as the pain burned through his leg. His vision blurred for a second, his legs nearly giving out, but he forced himself to keep moving.

"Don’t stop!" he shouted. He tried reaching for you again, but then he heard you yelp. When he turned his head, you were on the ground.

"Finn!" you shout, crying out in pain as the fog grazed your leg.

Finnick hoisted you back up, wrapping his arm around your waist to keep you steady. "Can you move your leg?"

You shake your head and whine in pain. "Can't- I can't Finn" you say in a panicked tone.

"Okay- Okay- just hold onto me okay?"

He could feel how hot your skin was against his, burning with fever from the dehydration, and now the fog was making it worse.

"Keep moving!" Katniss urged, her voice tight with pain as she held Peeta up.

Finnick could feel you going limp against him, your body trembling violently. His chest tightened at the sound of your shallow breaths. You were barely holding on.

"Angel, stay with me," he murmured He tightened his grip on you, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. "Just a little farther. Please."

You nodded weakly, but Finnick knew you were slipping. Your skin was too warm, too pale beneath the flush of fever. The weight of you against him was growing heavier, and a sick sense of dread curled in his stomach.

"Come on!" Katniss shouted.

He adjusted his grip on you, gritting his teeth against the pain as he forced himself to run faster. "Almost there, angel. Just hold on."

He didn’t know if you heard him. Your head lolled slightly against his shoulder, your breaths coming out in short, uneven gasps.

Panic flared in his chest. He couldn't lose you. He wouldn’t lose you.

The fog was getting closer and closer by the second, and while you were all running, there was a decline that no one saw and after tripping over the vines, everyone went tumbling down the hill.

Finnick could barely feel his legs and arms, looking down he saw that they were covered in large blisters.

He only realized a second later that you weren't anywhere near him.

He called out you name in a weak panicked voice. When he didn't get an answer, he panicked even more.

Rolling over onto his stomach, he groaned in pain and looked around for you.

Then he saw you.

A few feet away, lying sprawled on the ground, motionless.

"Angel," Finnick choked out, forcing himself onto his elbows despite the burning in his arms.

He dragged himself forward, gritting his teeth against the sharp, searing, shooting pain that tore through his body. Every inch of him screamed, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He needed to make sure you were okay.

When he reached you, his hands were shaking as he turned you over onto your back. Your skin was flushed and feverish, your breathing shallow. Finnick's heart pounded wildly in his chest.

"Angel— hey, hey, open your eyes," he pleaded, cradling your face between his hands. His thumbs brushed against your cheekbones, sticky with sweat and dirt. "Come on, baby, wake up."

Nothing.

"Angel please- please wake up" he choked out, pressing his forehead against yours.

He then looked over when he heard Katniss speak up.

"The water- the water- it helps!"

He watched as she and Peeta plunged themselves into the water, and then a minute later, he felt them pick him up.

He wanted them to take you first, but too exhausted to protest, he felt the cold water hit his skin. It felt painful yet relieving at the same time.

Once he felt strong enough, he cradled you in his arms and placed you carefully into the water.

Nothing happened at first. You remained limp in his arms. His grip tightened around you as he cupped the cool water in his hands and poured it gently over your face.

"Come on, angel," he whispered, "Please."

You finally took in a sharp breath and you began screaming in pain.

Finnick let out a relieved sigh, pulling you into his arms as you trembled violently against him. "There you are," he breathed out, "I got you. I’ve got you."

His heart ached as he heard you groan in pain.

He hated seeing you in this much pain, but at least he could do something about this pain.

He couldn't do anything about it then.

***

Viewing parties were normally loud and energetic, but right now, everyone was silent. Nobody even dared to move.

Finnick's eyes were fixated on the screen. His heart was pounding heavily against his chest.

You and Kael had been ambushed by the female tribute of one and the male tribute of two. You were both able to hold them off for a while, and Kael was able to take out the girl from one. But then the cameras showed how Kael's face went pale.

Finnick furrowed his brows, but when the cameras panned over to you, he felt his heart sink to his stomach.

There you were, on screen, being held by the male tribute of district two with a knife to your throat.

Kael was standing a few feet away, his spear raised, but he was hesitant to attack.

"Your life for hers," the boy from two sneered.

Finnick could see your entire body trembling, not out of fear for yourself but for Kael. The way your wide, desperate eyes darted to him, the way you shook your head frantically.

"Kael, don’t," you pleaded, voice breaking. "Please, don’t- don’t do this."

Finnick could see Kael's jaw tighten, his chest heaving, his grip tightening around his own weapon. But the decision had already been made.

"It's okay," Kael said, voice steady despite the chaos around him. He looked at you, not at the tribute from two. "You're gonna be okay."

Just before he moved, he exhaled shakily and whispered, "Promise me, Tadpole. You’re going to survive." his voice broke, "You tell your brother I kept my word, alright?" his fingers curled into fists. "Tell him I watched out for you."

You let out a broken sob, shaking your head. "No, no, you can tell him yourself-"

"Promise me."

Then, before you could stop him, Kael dropped his spear and stepped forward.

Finnick flinched. The Capitolites gasped.

The blade plunged into Kael’s abdomen, deep and merciless. Kael staggered, but he didn't scream. He didn't fight it. He just… let it happen.

Finnick's heart ached as he heard your agonizing scream.

"Oh, what a moment!" a Capitolite swooned,

"So tragic, so selfless," another sighed dreamily.

"A hero," someone else added, sipping from a crystal glass. "The best kind of tribute. Willing to die for her."

Finnick barely heard them over the pounding in his ears. His stomach twisted painfully as he watched you fall to your knees beside Kael, hands frantically pressing against his wound as if you could will him back to life.

"Kael! Kael please- please- stay with me-"

You were sobbing uncontrollably. Your hands were stained red, fingers slipping against his bloodied tunic as you tried to hold him together.

Finnick clenched his jaw, his nails digging into his palms.

The camera zoomed in closer to you and Kael.

Kael's breath was shallow, his fingers weakly gripping your wrist. He blinked up at you, dazed, lips parting as if he had something else to say.

"Tadpole," he rasped, the word barely audible. He smiled, just a little, before his eyes fluttered closed. "Don’t forget... promise me." His grip on your wrist went slack.

"Kael?" you cried out.

The cannon fired.

Finnick’s breath hitched.

On screen, you had gone completely still. Your hands, still pressed against Kael’s unmoving body, slowly curled into fists. Your breath came in sharp, broken gasps. The cameras zoomed in on your face showing off the devastation, the grief, the flicker of something dark and determining in your eyes.

Finnick knew what was coming before it even happened.

He watched as you reached for Kael's spear.

The boy from Two barely had time to react before your spear-Kael’s spear-sliced across his throat. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t practiced, but it was enough. Blood gushed, the boy staggered back, and seconds later, another cannon fired.

The whole room erupted into cheers and applause.

"Oh, she snapped! Just like that!"

"Did you see that? She was so sweet, so innocent-"

"And then bam! The little darling has claws!"

"I love her," someone declared, lifting their glass. "She's perfect. A true survivor. A true victor in the making."

Finnick felt sick.

To them, this was the best entertainment they could ask for.

Finnick swallowed hard.

They were going to eat you alive when you come out.

***

You whimpered softly, curling up against him, your fingers weakly grasping at his wetsuit. Finnick held you tighter, his heart still hammering as he rested his forehead against yours.

"Don’t you ever scare me like that again."

You gave a weak, breathless laugh, barely audible. "No promises."

He pressed his lips against your forehead and then picked you up. He gently placed you against a tree and stroked your hair, he could feel you were getting warm.

"Rest for a little okay? You're starting to get warm.."

You nod and smile, "Okay..."

He smiles and then walks back to the water to get rid of the blisters he may have missed.

As he sits in the water, Katniss looks at you and then at him.

"Is she okay?"

Finnick looks up and nods, "I think, but she is starting to get warm...so I think she might be getting sick.."

Katniss furrows her brows and frowns, "Maybe someone will send medicine"

"Yea. I hope so." he says as he looks over at you.

When he looks back at Katniss he notices how there's a monkey-mutt leering at them.

Katniss armed herself with and arrow as she stood up.

Finnick gently called out your name and beckoned you over.

When you realized what was around the group, you froze and quickly made your way to Finnick. He grabbed his trident and handed you your spear.

When Katniss called Peeta, the mutt snarled and then they all began appearing from the shadows.

Finnick felt you get closer to him and he quickly grabbed your hand.

Your breath became shallow again and you started to tremble, and he knew why. You had been through something like this in your games.

"It's alright. I'm here" he murmurs.

You both then heard Katniss tell everyone to get to the beach, the mutts began to attack.

You all began to fight them off, but when it became too overwhelming, you all made a run for it.

Finnick grabbed your hand and started running, pulling you along as you both sprinted toward the beach. But with every step, the creatures got closer.

When first monkey lunged, Finnick didn’t think twice. He spun to face it, his trident raised, just in time to block it.

"Move!" Finnick shouted, his voice raw with urgency as he pulled you forward, forcing you to keep running. His eyes darted around, trying to make sure you were safe, but every second was a race against the oncoming mutts.

But then you both watched as Peeta fell. You quickly took your spear and slashed one of the monkeys, Finnick pierced another.

And then a morphling came out of her hiding spot, sacrificing herself for Peeta..

"Finn." you say, tilting your head to the morphling.

"Fuck." he says under his breath, still fighting off the monkeys.

But the another mutt darted toward you, and he shoved you aside just in time to spear it through the neck.

You stumbled, but Finnick kept pulling you forward. You could hear Katniss shouting command, trying to direct everyone toward the water, but with the mutts closing in, it was getting harder to fight them off. So you all decided to just run.

Finnick tugged on your arm, forcing you to keep running as the sound of more mutts coming from behind sent a fresh wave of panic crashing over you.

He tucked you close to him and covered one side of your head. "It's okay. It's okay. I'm here."

Finally, you made it to the beach.

Finnick shoved you behind him and raised his trident at the mutts, but they didn't move from where they were. They just kept growling and snarling.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. "Why aren't they coming towards us?"

"I..I don't know."

Not even a second later, the mutts retreated back into the jungle.

              🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

You were both in the shallows of the lake, looking for fish to eat.

Finnick noticed how you had that look in your eye, that look for nervousness.

He took a few steps towards you and put a hand on your shoulder. "Hey...you okay?"

You nod, but her raises an eyebrow.

"Are you really?"

You pause for a moment, shake your head, and lean close to him, wanting to be in his arms.

Finnick is quick to wrap you in his embrace.

"Is it because of the mutts?"

You nod and bury your head into his chest.

"Do you...wanna talk about it?" he says softly, holding you close.

You shake your head and squeeze your eyes shut.

Finnick nods and just holds you.

Of course you didn't want to talk about it.

After what happened to you in your games, he understood.

***

You had been hiding for two days, keeping to yourself in the think forest. The cameras had caught glimpses of you, but you hadn’t made a move. No alliances, no shows. Just silence. But now, tonight, the Capitol citizens watched as you were forced to face the consequences of your actions.

The screen flickered to a new angle, showing you crouched low in a small, makeshift camp in the woods, a fire barely burning. You were exhausted, your skin pale and slick with sweat, your face a grim mask of determination.

And then they came.

Two tributes, sneaking up on you in the dark. They had found your camp.

Finnick clenched his jaw. He knew what would happen next. What you would be forced to do.

You fought hard. The action was brutal, chaotic. The camera showed you, breathing heavily, your hands shaking as you struck one of the tributes down, then the other. The Capitol watched in awe as you dispatched them both.

Four kills now.

But to you, it felt like five.

Finnick’s heart clenched in his chest as the screen lingered on your face, the realization of what you’d done creeping over you like a shadow. The guilt was unbearable. He could see it in your eyes. He could feel it in your movements, the way your shoulders slumped, the way your hands shook as you wiped the blood from your face.

But that wasn't even the worst of it.

The worst of it was when you heard rustling in the trees.

Finnick could hear the unmistakable growl in the air. The noise grew louder.

Mutts.

But these weren’t just any mutts. These mutts had faces. Faces of the people you had killed.

Finnick’s breath caught in his throat as he saw you face.

Your face went pale when you saw a specific one.

Kael.

"No… no, no, no…"

The mutts moved faster, circling, snarling. Finnick could see their eyes glowing in the darkness, cold and unrelenting. Their mouths were open, showing rows of sharp teeth that glistened in the moonlight. They had the same faces of the tributes you’d killed, now twisted into grotesque mockeries.

And then, as they closed in on you, Finnick heard it.

The voices.

"Tadpole..." Kael’s voice echoed through the trees, distorted, terrifying.

"You killed me..."

The boy from Two’s voice joined in. "You killed me..."

The others—each tribute you’d killed—began to shout. "You killed me... you killed me..."

Finnick watched, helpless, as you stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror. The fear was raw, and it hurt him to watch.

The mutt version of Kael stepped closer, its mouth stretched in a sickening grin that you could never have imagined on his face.

"You couldn’t save me, could you? You tried, but you failed. You killed me, Tadpole. You killed me."

The mutt’s eyes gleamed as it snarled at you

"You couldn’t save me. You’re the one who got me killed. The one who stood there and let me die."

"Remember me, Tadpole. Remember me when you fall. When you fail."

It lunged toward you, its mouth opening wide, its teeth glinting in the moonlight

"Tadpole... You killed me... You're nothing but a murderer."

Finally, you started running, and so did the mutts.

Finnick’s heart raced as you sprinted through the trees, the mutts close behind. Every step you took seemed like it might be your last.

And then, he heard you shout, over and over, through the trees.

"I'm sorry! I didn’t mean to!"

"I didn’t mean to!" Your voice cracked, tears streaming down your face. You were running so fast, but the mutts were faster. They were gaining.

Finnick could see the exhaustion in your movements, the way you faltered, the way you looked over your shoulder, but still, you kept running.

And just as Finnick feared you might not make it—

You reached a clearing.

Finnick exhaled in relief, his chest tight with the weight of what he had just witnessed. He wasn’t sure how you had made it out, but somehow, you did. You had survived.

But that didn't mean you were okay.

The camera zoomed in on you, breathless, wild-eyed, your chest heaving with each sobbing breath. You were shaking, curled into a ball on the forest floor, face buried in your hands. You could barely breathe, and it was clear from the way your body trembled that you weren’t just physically drained.

You were broken.

"I'm sorry… Kael, I'm so sorry..." you whispered through your tears.

***

It didn't take long for you and Finnick to find some fish for the group to eat.

Sitting on the beach, as everyone ate, you leaned you head against Finnick's shoulder, clinging onto his arm for security.

He passed you a small piece of fish and watched as you ate it.

"You feel okay?" he whispers.

You nod and gaze up at him.

He smiles and presses his forehead against yours.

"Your temperature is back to normal.."

You nod, "It might've just been cause of the stress and lack of food and water.."

He pulls you closer. "I know. But promise you'll tell me if you feel sick later?"

"I will."

He smiles and plants a soft kiss on your forehead.

Suddenly, you hear screaming in the distance.

As everyone got up, you all watched as a huge wave came from across the lake.

Then a cannon went off.

It didn't take more than a few seconds for a hovercraft to come down to collect another fallen tribute.

"Someone's here." Katniss says, taking out an arrow.

You and Finnick both look to the side.

You squint your eyes to get a better look. "Is that?..."

"Johanna?"

You get a better look, and Finnick watches as your face lights up.

"Johanna!" you shout as you run over to her.

Finnick watches with a small, relieved smile as you run ahead, your energy seemingly returning.

He follows you behind you and stands next to you.

A few seconds later, Katniss and Peeta run over to the group as well.

"We were all the way deep into the jungle where I thought it was gonna be safe. But that's when the rain started. I thought it was water- it turned out to be blood."

"Hot thick blood. It was coming down and it was choking us!"

"Tick tock"

You frown and Finnick takes your hand.

"We were stumbling around, gagging on it blind."

"Tick tock"

"That's when Blight hit the force field"

Johanna pauses.

"He wasn't much, but he was from home."

You look at Johanna with sympathetic eyes and put a hand on her shoulder, "I'm sorry Jo..."

There's a second of silence, then...

"Tick tock"

"What's wrong with her?" Katniss says.

"She's in shock. Dehydration isn't helping. Do you have any fresh water?" Beetee says as Finnick helps him up.

"We can get some."

You watch as Wiress takes Johanna by the shoulders and as she starts spinning around.

Finnick feels you nudge his shoulder. "Finn.."

"Crap." he says under his breath.

It doesn't take long for Katniss to pounce on Johanna once she thinks Johanna is going to hurt Wiress.

You and Finnick both quickly pull Katniss and Johanna apart.

"I got them out for you!" Johanna shouts.

"Jo- Johanna calm down!" you shout, holding her back.

Once you both have Johanna far away enough from Katniss, you calm her down.

A few minutes later, your back sitting on the shore with Finnick, you head resting on his shoulder.

You sigh, "So...guess the plan is really starting now."

Finnick nods, "Guess so..."

You shift, taking his hand and squeezing it. "We’ll make it, right?"

He gazes down at you and intertwines his pinky with yours. "I know we will."

You smile and squeeze his pinky with yours.

Finnick gazes into your eyes and opens his mouth to say something, but before he can speak, the sound of thunder rings throughout the arena.

You both look up and see it striking the same big tree from before.

And then...

"It's a clock!"

A/N: i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!!! im so sorry it took me so long to upload this, idk why I took so long. I think i just didn't know what to write 😭 anyways, next chapter will be the last arena chapter (i think) and then we get to REALLY go into the glimpse of us story! as always, my requests r open so if you guys have any questions about the story, or wanna chat about it, or if you guys have any new requests for some finnick oneshots please don't be shy and send them in! thank you so much for reading this guys <333 hope you all have an amazing morning/afternoon/night!

Taglist: @jacaeryslover @sundawn1990 @redama @noodleisodd @amara-mars @lovemyself-m-k @goosy-goose *if you'd like to be included in this taglist lmk in the replies!

[blusandbirds]

eli moskowitz - "am i making you feel sick?"