#hats are a goddamn nightmare

[night-hunters-hat]

[madamechrissy]

Endless Summer

Pairings- Yandere! Caleb x F!reader

Summary- You are staying home from summer break before Senior year of college with your Gran, Josephine, when a huge surprise happens, after over a year of being unable to see Caleb, he comes back to stay. You're so happy, but there's just a couple problems - one, you want him in ways you shouldn't, and you're just starting to get over it with the distance. And two, Caleb is pretty fucking pissed that you have a date.

Warnings- eventual smut, light angst, taboo relationships (Stepcest) longing, mutual pining, JEALOUSY like a mf, yandere Caleb, he's a virgin bc that's canon to meee, him being utterly obsessed bc that's how we love him. This chap - teasing, sexual thoughts, SO MUCH TENSION, mentions of masturbation and jealousy

Third time writing Caleb but this will be my first LADS series!! I'm excited to write something longer

Part Two>>>

Part One

"Caleb!" You run up to him and he picks you up in his big arms, strong and so tightly wrapping you, you almost can't breathe. He's laughing, the sound you missed so badly in person - over the phone just wasn't the same. His big white grin melting your fucking heart, the arms you feel so safe in squeezing you so tightly.

"Pip squeak!" He's lifted you up in his arms, spinning you now, as Gran smiles at you two, crossing her arms and watching as you peck kisses along his head. "Stop, you're slobbering all over me!"

"You should thank me, you stink you know!"

"Hey!" He glares playfully, you're giggling, heart so full from seeing him again, as he eases you down, and for a moment you feel your cheeks heat up.

God he's gotten even buffer, hasn't he? Are his shoulders broader, what the fuck?

It seems completely unfair, in his black military uniform with ribbons and gold buttons decorating the chest, of the many accolades he's already gotten. His hat sits just so over his head, hiding those dark brown locks that used to tint gold over the summers you spent together, your hands touch that thick, sturdy material over his strong forearms as you smile.

You had a dream of him last night - but it wasn't some prophetic dream, no you wish it was something sweet like that. It was you in his bed, trying to inhale any scent left of him, soaking wet from picturing Caleb's head right between your thighs.

You'd woke up drenched, and cumming, your cunt pulsing without even touching yourself, as you wore one of those sweaters of his that hit right mid thigh, so fucking embarrassing. You refused to touch yourself to him, in his childhood bed, the one he'd hold you in when you had a nightmare, when you got scared.

It started before then, the obsession with Caleb, but you were able over these years to shove it back, to hold it in, to explain it away with this or that. Seeing him again, being in his arms, inhaling that musky scent of his was enough to do you in.

Little do you know, Caleb has no problem jerking his cock to you, in fact he does so every night - as much of a routine as washing his face and brushing his teeth. In that order actually, brush teeth, wash face, jerk off to your photos.

He used to have the scent of you on the panties he stole, but he's been gone far, far too long to have that anymore. Now, it's pictures of you, the selfies you send him, so innocent and sweet too, not knowing the boy you grew up with jerks and cums to them nightly.

The distance made it somewhat bearable, the torture he's been put under with his obsession with you, but now, holding you again?

He damn near forgets Gran is in the fucking room, he'd love to pick you up and press your body against that wall, or take you up to your childhood bed, the one he'd watch you sleep in, and tuck you in back then - but instead, now he would fuck you so hard he breaks the goddamn thing.

He can't stand your sweet scent filling his nostrils, the way your cheeks tint that perfect hue in his presence - He's hopeless for you, and he can't do a fucking thing about it in this proximity.

"Shower time for Caleb!" You tease, dragging him up by your hand now, and Gran laughs as the two of you shove each other playfully back and forth until you help him get settled in his old room.

"You all never change anything, huh?" he teases, running fingers over the photos of both of you lining the cork board on the walls. Over all these years, no matter how many women have tried, he's been unable to be with any of those girls, no matter if he's been as horny as can be, he's still waiting for something he doesn't even show.

He's pretty sure if anyone knew he was a virgin, they wouldn't believe him - including you. You tease him about his fanclub of girls he's always had, not realizing he doesn't even pay attention to a single one, how the fuck could he when you exist?

He has to wonder... it can't be the same for you, can it?

He'd die to lap you up right between your thighs, that are pressing together as you sit up on his dresser, smiling at him and swinging your calves back and forth, he admires the shape of them far more than is normal for any human being. He barely registers that your perfect lips are moving, then focuses.

"Of course Gran changes nothing, I haven't been here since spring for a couple days actually, I feel bad she's alone!"

"How's college going, make any friends?" You nod shyly, looking down, and he watches the lights from outside his window flicker along your skin, washing it in the golden light. He nervously unbuttons his jacket, feeling your eyes on his chest as he does.

"It's good, and I do have some friends. Oh! You still wear this?" You reach over, touching the dog tags you got him so long ago, back when he started training and you were in high school.

"Of course I do." He takes your hand, smiling the way only Caleb does, his hand feels too good, like everything is heightened from your stupid fucking dream now. "And do you, wear yours?"

You nod, and his fingers drift across your neck, eyes lit in a vivid amethyst as he sees a bare neck. "Here," you tug it out from under your shirt, smiling as he traces it with his long fingers, calloused and rough against delicate skin. "I always wear it."

"Even in the shower?" He teases, but the thoughts whirl in his mind, of you naked. He's seen you before of course, he's always averted his eyes, tortured by the memories, but you're entirely grown now, your body so sexy he's dying picturing it. You just get more beautiful every time he sees you.

"Yeah, in the shower, silly. Speaking of- go take one." You shove him off, before darting in your room, taking several breaths, shutting your eyes tightly.

You can't want him.

*****

The next day, you're all dressed up, trying to straighten your hair unsuccessfully, honestly Caleb spoiled you so badly as a teen that he dried and straightened your hair for you. You still kind of suck at it, always missing the back. He also cooked for you and Gran constantly, and you do tend to order out or make ramen, you just never liked food like you liked his.

Caleb walks by, just wearing a sweater, you're mortified as you remember you were wearing it and cumming the other day, but he doesn't seem to notice your expression. He's raised a brow, as you count the new freckles speckled across that straight nose of his, new ones you missed before.

"Need some help, punk? The back of your hair is a mess." You glare playfully, but nod, handing him the black straightening wand and your brush.

"Please."

"So spoiled, still huh?" He teases, and begins to move it slowly, detangling your hair as you sigh in bliss, remembering out it feels. "Why are you all dolled up, girls night?"

You smile a bit, curious if he'd notice your pretty outfit. When he said anything sweet to you it meant more than a compliment from anyone. "No, um... I have a date."

"A date?" Caleb's words come out hoarse, as he runs the burning hot straightener through your hair, his dark violet eyes unreadable as he stands so tall behind you in the reflection.

"Yeah, Caleb you haven't been home in a year and I hadn't really mentioned it because it's not too serious, but I am talking to someone," you murmur, not bearing to meet his reflection. How could you, truly, when the man you want is right here? "Me and gran are glad you visited you know!"

"Are you," his voice is darker than usual, the lilting and sweet way he speaks to you, it's different. Just like the darkness in his usually brilliant eyes, running the hot ceramic over your hair. "It's been so long you forgot about me?"

"What, Caleb!? No! I missed you so bad. I wrote to you constantly, you know," you frown now, and he sighs, moving to another section of your hair. "I miss this."

"Will someone else do this now?" You're blinking in confusion, his hurt tone, so soft yet something dangerous to it, something you can't quite place, as you eye him in the mirror.

"Will someone straighten my hair?"

"Yeah, a boyfriend maybe?"

"I..." you trail off, looking at him in confusion. Though unspoken surely, you've never worded just how you feel, nothing but countless entries in your diaries about the love you surely shouldn't feel, but have since you met him that day as a little kid.

"Your date is here, honey!" Gran says, just for Caleb to accidentally burn your neck then, you gasp in pain and he curses, so furious about the thought of anyone with you, he didn't pay attention. Now he's hurt you, the last thing he ever wants to do.

God he just wants to kiss it better.

"Shit, I'm sorry pip squeak." He's immediately setting the straightener down, turning and touching your neck, you cry out in pain as he observes the burn forming on your skin. "I'm so sorry."

"it's okay, mmm," you try to put on a tough smile, but you see his sweet puppy dog eyes, that little expression that tugs on your heart.

"Let me take care of you, please," he says softly, you shake your head, and his brows lower. "Let me help."

"It's nothing-"

"I'll get some aloe, hold on." You're running cool water on your neck as your gran comes up, she took the two of you in a very long time ago, but Caleb's military training has left her alone, mostly, when you're not in school. She treasures every visit, especially the two of you together.

"Are you all right honey?" She asks, you nod asCaleb frantically runs and grabs it, eyeing the man that walks in calmly now into the kitchen.

He pauses, glaring, dark lashes narrowed as he takes him in - he wants to fucking kill him just knowing he'd get a chance at taking you out, when you're his and always would be. Those memories of being a kid, when you two first met and he said those words -

I'm Caleb, and I'll always be by your side.

Well, Caleb meant it, yes he had to be out of town and missed a lot of time to make sure you all had anything you needed financially, but that doesn't mean he's not just as much a part of you as you are of him.

"And who's this, Gran?" He asks, as she's back down stairs, he can still hear the water running upstairs.

You always do that when you get burnt, when he's told you many times it's not the best solution, but you're stubborn.

Caleb smiles as he grabs the bottle of dark blue aloe, and Gran looks at him with a smile. "It's her date for the night." She introduces a name he barely registers, shaking the young guys hand, a good six inches shorter than Caleb, squeezing the shit out of it with a smirk.

"Oh, hi there. I'm Caleb." He says, and the man clears his throat, shaking his hand out.

"And you are..."

Caleb pauses- just what is he to you? After all these years, you are his everything, all he lives, breathes and dreams, but what do you feel for him now? Grown up, grabbing plates off shelves yourself, living at your dorm and enjoying your own life, your own world, where does he fit in anymore?

A week here, a week there, writing you letters every time he leaves for a mission, knowing he may never see you again. You've never seen them, he's never told you that he wants more, so much more, than just being 'family' or whatever the fuck this was. That he wants to kill anyone that comes near you.

How does Caleb ever explain that?

"He's our family," Gran says with a smile, touching his shoulder. "Did she hurt herself bad?"

No, Caleb hurt her, and it feels horrible knowing he did. The last thing he ever wants is to hurt you.

"She just burned herself with a straightener, so it'll... be a few." He murmurs, Gran nods a bit, and Caleb runs back up, seeing you bent over the sink now, in a skirt that's way too fucking short. He can see the outline of your cunt under panties he'd die to have against his face, filling him with the need to just devour you.

If he could, he'd have his own perfect little fucking world, with just you and him.

"Caleb?" You ask, standing, the water dripping down your top, little droplets that trail down your perfect breasts.

He says nothing, cock throbbing under his jeans, mind in a mix of hatred for this random boy, and desire for you, equal parts fucking his entire brain up now.

"The aloe?"

"Yeah, here..." he shuts the bathroom door, leaving the two of you completely alone, far too close, you have to angle your head up to look at Caleb, as tall as he's gotten. He takes two fingers, pumping the clear gel onto them, brushing your hair back with his other hand, so intimate your breath catches.

There's just one problem lately, and that's the fact that you want Caleb, more than a family should, more than friends should. You want him to touch you in places you touch yourself, thinking of him shirtless and sweaty after a workout, thinking of his long fingers buried inside you so deep.

You hate the thoughts, you hate how lonely you get when he leaves, how badly you want him to come home, but when he does, especially over summer break, when you climb into bed during a storm? It's very clear you're not a little girl anymore, not when his hard body does things to you.

Not when you wake up embarrassingly wet in his arms and pray he doesn't notice.

Now, he's touching your fingers gently with the gel, as he watches your pretty breasts heave up and down, the icy cool gel soothing your burned skin. Your eyes shut, sighing in pleasure, while Caleb bites down on his lip to prevent his own sigh, of how perfect your skin feels for him.

He wants to tear this slutty little outfit off of you. He doesn't want the random guy to see it, he doesn't want him touching you, he doesn't want anyone to touch you, but him. He wants a perfect world where it's the two of you, and no one else, tracing his finger across your collar bone, while your eyes flutter open now, looking at the darkened gaze.

"Feel better, Pip squeak?" He manages hoarsely, you shake your head nervously. "No, need more?"

"Please," you whisper, he takes a little more of it, stepping even closer, your back is against the bathroom sink, as he leans low, so big over you. "Hurts."

"I don't want you to hurt, ever," he touches that spot again, but then his hand slips lower, down your arm, leaving goosebumps in it's wake. "Why are you going out tonight? When I'm here?"

You swallow nervously, feeling his breath against your neck, his huge hand gripping your wrist. "Because I... have to have a life, Caleb, you can't just take me on a date you know. I... need things."

"You need things?" He presses a kiss right over that burn, his lips dry and cool, as his hand brushes the side of your breast, and you gasp at it. "I will give you everything you ever need."

"You can't give me everything, can you?" A thigh comes between yours now, and he whines softly in your ear as he feels your heat. "Can you, Caleb?"

"I'll give you anything-" Knock Knock Knock.

Caleb steps back, as you panic, and he sees how hard your nipples are, infuriated that this guy is going to get to look at you like that. You turn, brushing your hair now. "Is the burn okay hunny?"

"Yes, Gran, Caleb put aloe on it." You smile as you brush past him, seeing the tense look on his face and shoving it back.

You and Caleb can't be more than this, you can't let yourself even think it.

"I'll be down in a minute!" You wave down to the sweet boy from college who asked you out from on top of the stairwell, going to your room to put on a pair of high heels.

Caleb follows you, leaning on your doorway, so broad shouldered he takes over the fucking doorway. "Shouldn't I know about him, to keep you safe?"

"I'll be fine, you trained me well. And look." You pat the gun on your thigh, showing him far too much of those thighs he wants to grip onto. "I know how to use it if I gotta."

"That's my girl," he bends down, helping latch the little buckle on your heel, his breath right against your thigh, making you soaking fucking wet, as he looks up at you like that, making you think the worst things that you cannot think.

God if he inches his lips up a little higher...

He eyes the slick on your inner thigh glistening in the light, he doesn't say anything about it, god he'd never embarrass you, disrespect you, despite thinking of all the ways he'd love to take you. From the back with your ass arched up, mating press so you'd take all his cum, but mostly grip your hands, so small compared to his, and look right in your eyes as he fucks you slow. As he makes love to you.

He just kneels before you for a moment, swiping it off your thigh and hearing your intake of breath, he wants to taste it immediately, but he waits. It's too long of a moment, before standing up and holding one of your hands tightly. He's now the supportive Caleb, the sweet Caleb - But you want more.

"If you need anything, I'll be here, just call me, okay honey?" Honey, the way that rolls off his tongue almost does you in, as sweet as the substance itself. You somehow maintain that composure, when haven't you had to with him since you became a teenager?

You can do it, you can keep it normal, it's just a couple of weeks.

"It's a dinner date, relax." You smile, kissing his cheek, in the sweet and friendly way you always have, reminding yourself - You can't feel this way - you smile at your date, so sweet he's brought you flowers. You resign yourself to go have fun, to have a life - it can't just be waiting around for Caleb forever.

Surely, he's had a life, he's had women - just look at him, the thought alone makes you unreasonably jealous, you hate feeling that way, it's like him coming home brought it all up when you had done such a good job of tucking it away. You feign a giggle and a bright smile as you two walk out the doors, and down the front porch.

You feel it, some eyes on you, you look up to see the curtains close in your room now. Surely he just wants to make sure you're okay, as you step inside the car, the feeling making you just stare up at that window, wondering if he went through anything in his mind even close to you - and not seeing him eagerly sucking your arousal off his fingers.

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[arthurmorganswh0re]

The Things We Carry

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

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

wc: 15.7k

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

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

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

“Y’alright out here?” 

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

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

“Wasn’t hungry.” 

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

There it was. 

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

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

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

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

“I’m pregnant.” 

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

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

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

“What did you say?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How far along?” he asked, gruff. 

You swallowed. “Couple months, maybe less.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Arthur didn’t say a word.

Not a damn word since the night you told him.

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

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

At first, you were angry.

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

And now? He was gone without ever leaving.

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

“Arthur…”

He didn’t look up.

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

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

He kept walking.

By the third day, you stopped trying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As he left, something inside you went still. 

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

He wasn’t coming back.

Not to you. Not to this.

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

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

Except you.

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

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

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

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

You thought about leaving.

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

No.

You knew better.

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

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

You were going to leave.

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

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

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

Either way, it didn’t matter.

You were leaving.

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

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

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

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

And that was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then softly: “Arthur.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“By pretending I didn’t exist?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold. 

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

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

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

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

“I wanted you. That’s different.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he muttered. 

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

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

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

Then: “I don’t know.” 

Your heart sank, slow and heavy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Axe is out back.”

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

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

You pretended not to notice.

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

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

The days passed like that. Slow. Simple.

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

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

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

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

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

Or what it might become.

On the sixth night, the snow stopped.

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

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

He turned.

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

You tilted your head, unsure where it was going.

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

Your hand went unconsciously to your belly.

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

Not fear. Not shame. Something softer.

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

“Different how?”

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

You blinked, heart tight in your chest.

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

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

He came closer.

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

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

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

“That okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You smiled, faint and sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stepped outside just as the riders crested the path.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

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

“What kind of job?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A long silence settled over the yard.

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

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

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

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

You stepped forward, voice calm but firm.

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

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

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

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

You crossed your arms, holding yourself tight.

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

Arthur looked down, jaw tight.

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you replied.

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

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

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

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

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

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

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

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily.

“I need time,” he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t expect you to wake.

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

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

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

“You didn’t.”

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

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

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

“Blackwater?” you asked.

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

You swallowed thickly. “And then what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked back at you, voice low.

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

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

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

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

“I promise.”

You stood on the porch when he rode off.

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

And then he was gone.

The cabin felt too quiet without him.

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

The days blurred.

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

You wrote letters you never sent.

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

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

Arthur— Where are you? Come home.

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

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

But it had.

At least the part that mattered most.

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

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

You didn’t cry.

You’d done enough of that.

You just waited. Quiet and still.

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

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

But he didn’t come back.

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

Not until the letter came.

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

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

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

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

Arthur’s handwriting.

Your heart plummeted.

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

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

My girl,

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

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

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

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

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

I’m sorry.

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

Tell them I loved you.

— Arthur

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t.

Instead, you read it again.

And again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But part of you had gone quiet again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May looked you dead in the eye.

“You already are.”

The first contraction came in the middle of the night.

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

You sent your loyal hound hurrying down the trail, tail tall, a note pinned to her collar: “It’s happening. Please come.”

May arrived before sun rise, already rolling up her sleeves.

What followed was a blur of breath and sweat and pain that reached down to the bone. Hours passed in a haze of heat and tears. May barked calm orders, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered encouragement like spells.

“You’re almost there. That’s it. You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

And you did.

Because there was no other choice.

Because you weren’t just giving birth to a child. You were giving birth to a future Arthur might never see, but that you would carry for him.

The baby arrived just after sunset, as the sky went soft and lilac beyond the trees. A scream—yours—and then a cry that split the air like thunder. May lifted the child, wrapped them in a soft linen blanket, and placed them gently in your arms. You stared down at the tiny face, flushed and squirming, their cries already fading to soft hiccups against your skin.

A boy.

You felt it then—all of it. Joy. Relief. Grief so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs.

You traced your fingers across his damp hair, whispered his name—a name you’d chosen weeks ago, when hope still burned a little brighter.

Arthur Alexander Morgan. You decided he’d go by his middle name. 

The tears came fast and hot, slipping silently down your cheeks as you held your boy close. You wanted him there. You wanted his voice, his hands, his steady calm. You wanted him to see the way Alexander clung to your finger. The way his little chest rose and fell. The way he already had his father’s brow. But there was only the firelight, and May’s quiet footsteps, and your own sobs muffled into a blanket as you whispered through the ache in your chest,

"You should’ve been here."

The days came slowly after the birth.

Not gentle—never gentle—but steady, like the tide. Predictable in their routine. Wake. Feed. Rock. Change. Sleep, if you were lucky. Repeat.

Your world shrank to the size of your cabin and the woods beyond it. The creek, now swollen with summer rains, offered a lullaby for quiet nights when Alexander wouldn’t stop crying. You walked him up and down the porch, whispering lullabies against his tiny ear, pressing your lips to his soft scalp, breathing him in like he was the only real thing left in a world that had gone silent.

And in a way, he was.

You still whispered Arthur’s name sometimes. Quietly, like a sin. Like a prayer.

You still kept the letter tucked in your drawer, edges curled and worn soft from being unfolded so many times. You’d memorized it now. Every crooked word. The apology he’d poured into ink. You didn’t cry anymore when you read it. Not like you used to. But you still felt it, like a bruise under your ribs—tender when touched.

Alexander grew fast. Too fast. He had Arthur’s eyes. You saw it more every day. That dusky blue that sometimes looked gray in the shade, piercing and soft all at once. He furrowed his little brow when he was focused, just like his father. Made a low, thoughtful noise when he was frustrated. His hands—God, his hands—were already shaping to be big like Arthur’s, even in miniature. It was like living with a ghost. A sweet, smiling ghost who learned to crawl, then walk, then toddle across the porch to chase butterflies in the tall grass. And every time you looked at him, your heart broke just a little, pieced itself back together, and broke again.

Because Arthur wasn’t here. Because he was supposed to be.

You stopped expecting him around the six-month mark.

Not that you’d given up hope. Not entirely. But something inside you shifted the day you caught yourself leaving the front gate open. A habit you’d built after his letter came. A silent offering. A beacon. You stood at the edge of the trail that morning, Alexander on your hip, the wind stirring the hem of your skirt. The trees swayed overhead, and for a moment—just a single, stupid moment—you thought maybe you’d hear the thrum of hooves. The jingle of tack. The familiar silhouette riding up from the woods.

But there was nothing. Just wind and birdsong. The rustle of a squirrel darting up a trunk. And it hit you, then. He wasn’t coming back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d died somewhere out in the world, a bullet in the dark, no name on his grave. Or maybe he was still alive, running, hiding, surviving—whatever the gang had become now that Blackwater had blown them to pieces. You didn’t know what was worse: thinking he was gone forever, or thinking he was still out there… choosing not to return.

You started closing the gate again.

You packed the letter in a wooden box along with the first blanket Alexander had been swaddled in, a broken feather Arthur had tucked behind your ear once, and the silver ring he’d left on your nightstand before the Blackwater job. You stopped going into Strawberry as often. May still visited, sometimes bringing books or biscuits or idle gossip about some cattle rustler passing through. You smiled, nodded, listened. But your heart stayed quiet. The silence didn’t hurt as much anymore. It just… was.

You sat with him under the birch tree beside the creek when Alexander was 11 months old, planning his first birthday. The grass had grown wild around the large birch tree. He giggled, blue eyes sparkling, without any worries. And you laughed with him. Genuine. Loud. The kind of laugh that felt strange leaving your mouth after so long. You kissed his forehead and held him tight, even as he squirmed to chase a dragonfly. “I wish he could see you,” you whispered, not for the first time. But this time, your voice didn’t shake.

You didn’t stop loving Arthur. You knew you never would. But love—real love—wasn’t always enough to keep someone by your side. Not in the world you came from. Not with the choices you’d both made. So you loved him the only way you could now: by surviving. Like he asked of you. By raising the son he never got to meet. By building a life out of quiet mornings, muddy boots, and lullabies. You’d made peace with your grief. Not because it left, but because you learned to live beside it. Like a scar. Like a shadow. Like the memory of a man named Arthur Morgan, who once rode away with a promise on his lips… and left behind a piece of himself in your arms.

The air smelled like moss and the river, and the breeze carried just enough of the summer heat.

Alexander sat beside you, legs splayed in the grass, a small wooden horse clutched in one chubby fist. He was babbling to himself, brow furrowed in concentration as he dragged the toy through the dirt like it was galloping across plains only he could see. You leaned your head back against the tree, half listening, half dreaming. You hadn’t slept much the night before—he’d woken with a fever that thankfully passed by dawn, but the worry had left its mark. The days were long, and you carried all of them alone.

You didn’t hear the footsteps. Not at first. But you felt them. The weight in the air shifted—heavy, like a storm building behind clear skies. The hairs on your arms stood up. The silence bent around something.

Someone.

And when you opened your eyes—

He was there.

Arthur.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long, not believing what you saw. Not wanting to. Not daring. He stood at the edge of the clearing, hat in hand, shoulders sloped forward like the world had tried to crush him and nearly succeeded. His coat hung loose on him. His eyes were sunken. His skin—what you could see of it—was pale, waxy, like a candle burned down too low. His chest moved with short, shallow breaths. And even at this distance, you could tell he was struggling to stand upright.

You didn’t remember getting up. You just remember running. Across the grass, heart pounding in your ears. He flinched like he thought you might slap him—or worse. But you didn’t. You wrapped your arms around him, hard and fast, like the earth might steal him away again if you didn’t anchor him here. He tensed. Then, slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. One hand at your back. The other hovering, trembling. You felt the way he shook. The way he pressed his cheek to your hair, his breath catching in his throat like it hurt to hold on.

“I missed you,” you whispered, voice breaking, fighting back tears. “I thought—God, I thought you were dead.”

“I should be,” he rasped, the words barely there. “But I ain’t. Not yet.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were the same. Blue as ever. But there was a tiredness behind them now, so much deeper than before. Not just exhaustion—acceptance. Like he’d stopped fighting something he knew he couldn’t outrun.

You lifted a hand to his cheek and he leaned into it before stepping back, coughing once into his sleeve. He looked toward the tree where Alexander sat in the grass, blinking up at the new stranger. Arthur’s eyes softened. And then filled with something you hadn’t seen in them in a very long time.

Wonder.

“Is that…?” His voice faltered.

You nodded. “That’s your son.”

Arthur stared. The wind caught his coat, and he swayed where he stood, but his gaze never left the boy. Alexander tilted his head, curious, then clambered to his feet and toddled toward you with wide, bright eyes. Arthur watched every step like it might shatter him.

“He looks just like you,” you said quietly, voice as unsteady as ever.

Arthur took a shaking breath, his jaw working.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to… be gone so long. But after Blackwater… the Pinkertons… things went bad. I figured stayin’ away was the only way to keep you safe.”

You said nothing at first, letting the wind answer for you. Still, under all the pain and deterioration, he was as beautiful as the first day you saw him. 

Then Alexander reached your side, grabbing the hem of your dress and peeking up at Arthur with the hesitant curiosity only small children possess. You picked him up, pressing his head to your shoulder. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists. His chest rose, fell, rose again, like he was fighting the urge to cry. Or collapse.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see him,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d see either of you again. But I—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t go without meetin’ my boy. I had to see him. See you.”

You stepped toward him, slowly.

“You’re sick,” you said. Not accusing. Just truth. Your heart ached for him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Dyin’?”

He hesitated. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Not long now. I don’t reckon.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He looked so tired. So hollowed out. Like something had been burned away in him, but the ember still smoldered.

Alexander squirmed in your arms, reaching a hand toward Arthur, fingers outstretched like he knew—like he felt the tether. Arthur looked down at his son’s hand like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. And then he broke. Not loud. Not messy. Just a single tear slipping down his cheek, his voice thick with sorrow and awe.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “For not bein’ here. For missin’ everything. You didn’t deserve that. He didn’t either.” 

You reached out, pressing Alexander’s tiny hand into Arthur’s. It finally felt like your family was complete, even if it was on borrowed time. 

The days that followed blurred into a soft, dreamlike haze — too tender, too precious, and too fragile to fully hold.

Arthur stayed.

He didn’t ask if he could. He didn’t need to. You made up the bed with shaking hands that first night and watched him fall asleep beside the fire, bundled in blankets that barely kept his trembling at bay. His breath came rough, rattling in the quiet hours when you couldn’t sleep, and each cough that shook his body tore something from your chest.

But still, he stayed.

And you cherished him in ways that didn’t need words.

You cooked for him, quietly setting small bowls of stew or porridge beside his chair. You laid Alexander in his arms when the boy reached out with chubby fingers and babbled “Dada” like it had always been part of his world. You didn’t flinch when Arthur staggered, when he had to lean against the table just to catch his breath. You held his hand as he sat out on the porch in the evenings, watching the summer’s light sink behind the trees.

Sometimes, you pretended he wasn’t dying.

Sometimes, you let yourself believe he might stay.

But at night, when he coughed into his pillow and curled inward like he could hide the sickness in his bones, reality clawed its way back in.

You were losing him.

Piece by piece.

And there was nothing you could do.

It was the fourth night when he finally told you how it all happened.

You sat together by the fire. Alexander was asleep in the back room, his little body wrapped in quilts, one thumb in his mouth. The house was quiet. So quiet.

Arthur stirred the mug in his hand, not drinking. His eyes were far away, like he was watching ghosts.

“It was down in Valentine,” he said finally. His voice was rough. Worn thin. “Had to collect some debt from a fella… Thomas, his name was. Died not long after I beat him half to death. And I—” He paused, coughed into his fist, then kept going. “I started feelin’ bad not long after. Sick. Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t ride long without spittin’ blood. Guess that’s what I get for hurtin’ a family that needed help.”

You turned toward him, heart caught in your throat.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Doctor told me it was tuberculosis down in Saint Denis. Said there weren’t nothin’ to be done. Just… wait it out. Die slow.”

The words hit like cold steel in your gut. You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes brimming.

“I’m sorry,” he added, and it shattered something in you.

“Stop,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t apologize. Don’t—don’t do that.”

But he did. Again and again, like a man trying to confess every sin before the reaper came knocking.

You broke then, curling into yourself, sobbing in a way you hadn’t since the night he’d left for Blackwater. Arthur reached for you, gently, his arms weak but still familiar. You buried your face in his chest, careful of his breathing, and let yourself fall apart.

“I thought I was ready,” you choked. “To raise Alexander alone. To let go. But now you’re here and I’m not ready. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want it to end like this. I want us to be a family.”

Arthur’s hand moved slowly up your back.

“I want that too,” he said softly. “More than anything. I’ve dreamed about it, y’know? Every night, since I left. You. Him. This little place in the woods. No Dutch. No runnin’. Just peace.” He kissed your hair. “But the truth is, I’m runnin’ outta time. I came back 'cause I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave this world without seein’ you again. Without meetin’ my son. But I can’t give you what you deserve. Not for long.”

You pulled back to look at him, your face wet, your hands trembling as they held his.

“Then give me what you can,” you said. “Just… whatever time we have. Don’t spend it apologizing. Don’t pull away. Just be here. With us.” You nearly begged.

Arthur smiled, tired but warm. “You always were better than me,” he whispered. “Knew how to love when I was too scared to.”

You leaned in and kissed him. Gentle, aching. A kiss filled with every unspoken promise, every memory, every dream you’d built in the quiet spaces of your heart. No fear. 

And he kissed you back.

That night, Arthur held Alexander in his lap by the fire, humming a soft song you didn’t recognize. His voice was rough, but steady. The baby stared up at him, transfixed, one hand curled around his father’s finger.

You stood in the doorway and watched them, trying to memorize the moment. The shape of Arthur’s face in the firelight. The curve of his smile. The way his thumb stroked slow circles against Alexander’s tiny hand.

You wanted to bottle it. Bury it. Keep it forever.

But time wasn’t kind.

Time was never kind.

You could feel it before he said the words.

The distance in his eyes, the quiet grief he tried to bury behind soft smiles and trembling hands. The way he lingered outside in the evenings, staring out at the tree line long after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. He was still here — in body — but you could feel him slipping away, like water through your fingers.

The sixth morning, you found him on the porch before the sky had turned gray with dawn. His coat was drawn tight across his hunched shoulders, his hat low, the air around him heavy with the scent of dew and woodsmoke. He didn’t turn when you stepped out beside him.

“I have to go,” he said. Quiet. Like the trees were listening.

You didn’t answer at first. Just let the words sink in.

“I’ve thought on it,” he went on, his voice rougher than usual, laced with that familiar rasp. “Long and hard. And I don’t wanna leave. God knows I don’t. But I’ve got… responsibilities. Loose ends with the gang. Things I gotta try and make right.”

You folded your arms around yourself, the morning air biting through your thin sleeves. “Arthur, you’re dying.”

“I know.” He nodded, still not looking at you. “And that’s just it. I ain’t got much time left. But if I stay here… if I get you or Alex sick—if I bring the Pinkertons to your door—I won’t be able to live with myself. I’ve seen what they’re capable of. And I ain’t about to risk either of you for my own comfort.”

You felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwelcome. You swallowed them down. “You promised you’d come back,” you said.

He turned then.

There was something shattering in his expression. Not just guilt — grief. The kind that lives deep in a man’s bones, where no apology can reach.

“I meant it,” he said. “And I’m here now, ain’t I? But I also promised to keep you safe. And I can’t do that if I’m dyin’ under your roof. Or if I lead them bastards here. They’re still after us. After Dutch. After me.”

You stepped forward, clutching his coat lapels in trembling fists. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’re leaving… again?”

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice.”

You looked up at him — at the man who had returned to you broken, thinner than he’d ever been, but still him. The man who had made your son smile. The man you still loved.

“I want more time,” you said, voice shaking. “I know that’s selfish. But I want another morning. Another day. I want him to remember you.”

Arthur cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that finally fell.

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured. “I want that too.”

That evening, the sky bled orange and violet across the ridgeline. A storm brewed on the far horizon, thunder rumbling low like the growl of some distant animal. You watched it come in from the porch, Arthur sitting beside you, legs stretched out, a blanket across his lap to keep off the creeping cold.

Alexander curled against his father’s side, giggling softly as Arthur lifted his toy horse in slow, deliberate swoops, making tired, wheezing horse noises.

You made supper — rabbit stew and cornbread, just the way he liked it — and Arthur ate what little he could, forcing it down between ragged breaths. He winced every so often, pressing a hand to his ribs, but he smiled when you offered him more tea, when you ran your fingers through his hair.

You tucked Alexander into bed together that night.

Arthur sat on the edge of the mattress, calloused hands brushing back your son’s hair, eyes shining in the candlelight. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead, lingering there a moment longer than needed.

“Be good for your ma, alright?” he whispered, voice thick.

Alexander didn’t understand. Not fully. But something in your silence must have spoken for you, because he clung to Arthur’s shirt for a long time before sleep finally took him.

Later, when the house had gone still and the rain tapped gently against the windows, you sat together in front of the dying fire, wrapped in silence and the weight of goodbye.

Arthur reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small — a folded scrap of paper, worn at the edges. He handed it to you.

You opened it slowly.

A sketch. You recognized his hand immediately. Charcoal lines, soft and smudged: a small cabin under the trees. A porch. A swing. A family.

You. Him. Alexander.

A dream he’d never stopped carrying.

“I drew that in camp,” he said softly. “Kept it in my pocket. Every time things got bad, I’d pull it out. Remember what I was fightin’ for.”

You pressed the paper to your chest, eyes burning. “Why can’t it be real?”

He looked at you then — really looked. With everything in him.

“It is real,” he whispered. “Just… not forever. But I had it. I had you. I had my boy. Even if it was only for a few days… I’ll carry that with me. Always.”

You climbed into his lap then, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too hard against his ribs. He held you there, breathing you in like you were the last thing on earth that felt right.

And you stayed that way for a long time, wrapped in each other and the quiet hum of a life that could have been.

The goodbye didn’t come easy.

You’d both known it was coming, had been dancing around the edges of it since that morning on the porch. But the hours passed too quickly, slipping through your fingers like river water. No matter how tight you held on, you couldn’t stop the sun from rising again. Couldn’t stop Arthur from saddling his horse in the dark before dawn.

He moved slowly, not from hesitation but from the weight of his own bones. Each breath came labored now, his coughs quieter but deeper, rattling in his chest like something shaking loose. His skin had taken on a paler shade, lips thinner, the hollows under his eyes darker with exhaustion he could no longer outrun.

You stood on the porch barefoot, holding Alexander, wrapped in one of Arthur’s old flannel shirts — the one that still smelled like him, like leather and campfire smoke. The baby shifted against you, blinking sleepily, unaware of what was being taken from him.

Arthur stepped forward, reins in one hand, the other clenched at his side like it hurt to let go.

You didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t.

Instead, you stared at each other — memorizing. Burning every inch of him into your mind: the curve of his nose, the gray in his beard, the sadness behind those blue eyes. He was still the man you loved. Still the man who had held your hand during the hard nights, who had returned against all odds just to meet his son. But you could see the farewell in the way he stood, chest rising slow and uneven, lips pressed into a thin line to keep from trembling.

“I ain’t gonna make it back,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

You felt it then — your throat closing, your breath catching. “Don’t say that.”

Arthur’s jaw tensed. He looked away, toward the line of trees beyond the fence.

“If I could stay,” he said, quieter now, “you know I would. If I didn’t have this… thing rottin’ me from the inside out—if the Pinkertons weren’t huntin’ us—I’d be here. With you. With him.”

You stepped forward, voice cracking. “Then stay anyway. We’ll hide. We’ll disappear. I don’t care where we go. Just… don’t leave, Arthur.”

His breath hitched. You saw it in the way he blinked too fast, looked up at the sky like maybe it could give him strength. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. His thumb caught a tear before it slipped down.

“I want that,” he said, his voice so low you barely heard it. “More than anything. But I can’t live with myself if I run and leave John behind. He’s got Abigail. Jack. They still got a chance. And Dutch… he’s lost. I can’t save him, but I can help the ones who still got hope.”

You shook your head, tears falling fast now, shoulders beginning to shake. “What about us? Don’t we get hope?”

He looked at you then, eyes glassy, rimmed red with unshed tears.“You and Alex… you gave me somethin’ to come back for. You gave me peace. For a little while, I felt like I had a home.”

Your knees buckled, and he caught you before you could fall, wrapping you into him.

You sobbed into his chest, clinging so tightly to his coat that your knuckles ached. The tears came in waves — all the fear, the sorrow, the heartbreak you’d buried these last days spilling out like floodwaters. He held you through it, his own shoulders trembling as he buried his face into your hair. You felt the warmth of a few tears against your scalp — hot, silent — and it shattered you all over again.

“I can’t do this alone,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You already have. And you’ll do it again. For him.”

You looked down at Alexander — now awake, squirming in your arms, reaching toward Arthur with tiny hands.

Arthur reached out and took him, arms shaking but sure. The baby nestled into his chest immediately, resting his head right over Arthur’s heart like he knew exactly where he belonged.

“I’m sorry, little man,” Arthur choked out, holding his son tight. “I’m so damn sorry I couldn’t be more for you.”

Alexander whimpered softly, then began to cry, sensing the shift, the pull of something coming undone. Arthur blinked rapidly, brushing his nose against his boy’s soft hair, cradling him like porcelain.

It took everything you had to take Alexander back, the child clawing at Arthur’s shirt, not understanding why he was being pulled away. He reached for him again and again, and Arthur turned his face away, biting his lip to keep from sobbing.

You stepped forward, once more, and cupped his face.

“If you survive this,” you whispered, “come home to me.”

He nodded. “If I can… I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said, lips brushing your forehead. You nodded through your tears, though your heart screamed otherwise.

Then he pulled you in, one last time, and kissed you like he’d never kissed you before — full of everything he hadn’t said, everything he couldn’t. It was desperate and slow and full of pain, the kind of kiss you never forget. One you feel for the rest of your life.

When he pulled away, he left part of himself with you.

Arthur mounted his horse slowly, glancing back once, twice.

And then he rode off into the trees, the early morning mist swallowing him whole.

And you stood there in the doorway, clutching your crying child to your chest, the last of your heart galloping into the forest.

Time passed in quiet, uneven measures.

Morning became your anchor. The rhythm of the stove crackling to life, of Alexander’s little footsteps echoing through the cabin like music. You marked the days by his growth. The first time he said dog, then cat, then horse. The first day he ran off at full speed down the beaten path-hair blowing through his curls, you in a frenzy to catch the wild boy. Each moment carved into your memory like tally marks on the wall. But Arthur didn’t return.

Every sunrise without the sound of hooves on the path chipped away at your hope, just a little more. You tried to tell yourself he was still out there. Still breathing. Still fighting. That he had kept his promise, and one day you’d see his shadow cast long across the porch again.

But deep down — in the aching, wordless place inside your chest — you knew.

He was gone.

You mourned him slowly, the way women do when they have no grave to stand over. No final words. No body to bury. Just an old flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair, worn edges and all. Just a drawing of a cabin and a dream tucked safely in your nightstand drawer. Just the echo of his voice in the way your son laughed.

And even still… you waited.

Autumn came gently.

The trees flamed in shades of gold and rust, their leaves spiraling down from the canopy like bits of sun. You harvested what you could from the small garden out back, chopped firewood until your hands blistered, and kept the cabin warm with extra quilts as the days grew shorter.

Alexander was a well over a year old now — wide-eyed and wild-haired, with Arthur’s smile stamped plainly across his little face, proud as can be. He liked to toddle over to the fence line and stare out into the woods, as if he was waiting for something.

Like he remembered.

Like he knew.

It was late afternoon when it happened. The sky was pale and streaked with thinning clouds, the scent of damp earth and dying leaves thick in the air.

You were outside, hanging a blanket on the line, Alexander crawling at your feet. The wind stirred just enough to carry the soft crunch of hooves from down the path.

Your head snapped up.

Your breath caught in your chest.

There — beyond the trees — a figure on horseback. Alone. Moving slow, as if weary from long travel.

You stood still, squinting, heart hammering in your ribs. You knew Arthur’s gait on a horse. The curve of his shoulders. The way he leaned forward like he was always chasing something.

This man… wasn’t him.

He rode different. Straighter. Leaner. And as he got closer, you saw a wide-brimmed hat and the worn duster of a younger man. His horse was familiar, though — dark, with a white blaze down the nose.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

John.

He stopped a few feet from the porch, tipping his hat, his face somber beneath the shadow of the brim.

“Miss,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t.

He dismounted slowly, walking forward with that signature limp, eyes flicking to Alexander — who had gone still in the grass, staring up at the stranger like he understood too much for his age.

“Thought I’d check in,” John said quietly. “Been a long time.”

You swallowed. “You came alone.”

He nodded. “Ain’t nobody left to come with.

The world went quiet. The wind shifted. Your throat tightened. You looked at him, there was something heavy in his gaze. Something final.

And you knew.

He didn’t have to say it. He didn’t want to say it. But you saw the truth in the sorrow that pooled in his eyes.

Arthur was gone.

You don’t remember falling, but you must have, because your knees hit the earth and the cold bled up through your skin like water through cloth. You doubled forward, hands gripping your skirt, trying to pull breath into lungs that didn’t want to work.

John dropped beside you, catching your arm with rough fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking in a way you hadn’t expected.

You shook your head, tears spilling freely now. You didn’t care. You couldn’t. The pain came in waves — thick and violent, laced with every night you’d spent staring out the window, hoping to see him coming back to you.

“He—he said he’d come home,” you managed to whisper, choking on the words. “He promised.”

John’s jaw tightened. “He wanted to. He fought for that. ‘Til the end.”

You turned your face into your hands, trying to muffle the sob that tore free from your chest.

John sat with you. He didn’t try to tell you it would be alright. He didn’t offer hollow comforts. He just sat there, his hand on your shoulder, the only witness to the breaking of a heart that had been holding out far too long.

Alexander wobbled forward, confused by your crying, small hands reaching for you. You pulled him into your lap and buried your face in his curls, breathing him in.

“He looks like him,” John said after a moment. “Spittin’ image.”

You nodded against your son’s soft hair. “He deserved to meet him like this. Healthy. Whole.” You managed. 

“I think he was,” John murmured. “For a while. With you. You gave him peace… more than most of us ever got.”

You sat there until the sun slipped lower, until the light turned gold behind the trees and the wind grew colder.

John stayed beside you.

And though it wasn’t the man you’d prayed to see again… he brought the weight of Arthur’s love in his silence. A shared grief that lived between them, now passed on to you. A reminder that Arthur Morgan had lived. And that he had come back — even if it was only once.

John stood there for a long moment, glancing between you and the boy cradled against your chest. His face was solemn, weathered from too much death, too much running, too many goodbyes. Then, slowly, he turned his attention to the small child. Alexander looked up from your arms, curious but cautious. He was too young to know the full meaning of grief, but he felt the tension, the silence, the way your body trembled when you held him.

John crouched low in the grass in front of him. “Hey, little man,” he said gently, voice cracking just slightly. “You don’t know me, but… I’m your uncle John. I used to ride with your pa. We were family, him and me.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled something out — something you hadn’t expected, something you weren’t prepared to see.

Arthur’s hat.

Worn, dusty, wide-brimmed and familiar. The sight of it knocked the air out of your lungs. You bit down on a sob, knuckles white where you clutched the hem of Alexander’s shirt.

John held it out and gently placed it over the boy’s head. It was far too big — it fell over his eyes and nearly swallowed his whole head — but Alexander laughed, a pure little sound, and tugged at the brim with both hands.

John smiled, though there was something deeply mournful behind his eyes. “That was your pa’s,” he said. “He wore it every damn day. Through rain, snow, blood, and fire. Reckon it’s yours now. You keep it safe, alright?”

Alexander blinked up at him, then babbled something unintelligible — some mix of sound and joy — and carefully walked toward John with his arms open.

You covered your mouth with your hand and turned away, the grief swelling in your chest like a storm surge. It hurt — God, it hurt — to see something of Arthur in your son that wasn’t just a smile or a freckle. It was a piece of him, worn and passed on, a legacy held in cotton and sweat and old leather.

You didn’t realize you were crying again until the taste of salt hit your lips.

Eventually, you stood.

“Come inside,” you said, your voice hoarse from tears. “Please.”

John nodded and helped you gather Alexander. The hat stayed perched clumsily on the boy’s head as the three of you stepped into the warm cabin, where the hearth still glowed from the morning’s fire.

You sat down in the chair by the fire, holding Alexander against your chest. He was growing heavy now, his head drooping against your shoulder as sleep pulled at him.

John stood for a moment, glancing around the cabin. His gaze lingered on the little details: the hand-carved crib, the boots tucked by the door, the rifle resting above the mantle. Then, with careful hands, he pulled something from his satchel and stepped forward.

“I brought you this,” he said. “It’s his. Was his. He always kept it close.”

He handed you Arthur’s journal.

The leather was worn smooth from years of travel. You recognized it — you’d seen him scribble in it late at night, hunched over by firelight, mumbling half-formed thoughts and drawing pictures of birds and bison and flowers and distant mountains. The very last thing he ever owned that was truly his.

Your hands trembled as you took it.

John cleared his throat. “Last few pages… they were about you. And the kid. Didn’t mean to look but…”

You opened it slowly, carefully, afraid the moment might shatter if you breathed too loud.

There — in Arthur’s unmistakable, scratchy handwriting — were the final entries.

You traced his words with your fingers.

“I saw her again today. She had the boy in her arms, sittin’ under a tree. Looked like sunlight caught in her hair. Never seen anything so beautiful. I wanted to run to her, but I knew I shouldn’t… not right away. I’m sick. Didn’t want to bring danger to their door. But I needed to see ‘em. Needed to know they were alright.

Alexander’s got my eyes and he smiles like me — poor kid. He’s got a wild spirit. I can tell, even now. He’ll be strong. I hope he remembers me kindly, even if I ain’t there to teach him right from wrong.”

The tears came harder now, falling in thick, silent rivers. You turned the page and found the last entry.

“I ain’t got much time. Breathin’s hard. Nights are worse. But I’m glad I came back home. Glad I saw her. If there’s any justice in this world, maybe she’ll find peace. Maybe she’ll tell the boy about me — maybe not who I was, but who I tried to be in the end. It’s all I want.”

“I love her. More than I ever said. I hope she loved me too.”

That broke you.

You doubled forward, journal pressed against your chest like you could absorb the words, like they could bring him back if you held them tightly enough.

John stood quietly, letting you fall apart. When you looked up, his eyes were wet too — not sobbing, but heavy. Heavy with shared loss.

“He was a good man,” you whispered. “Flawed, stubborn… but good.”

John nodded. “The best of us, in the end.”

Eventually, the sun began to dip behind the hills, painting the walls of the cabin in gold.

John walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame.

“I’ll check in from time to time,” he said. “Make sure you’re both alright. Arthur… he asked me to. Said if he didn’t make it, I was to look after you. Best I can.”

You nodded slowly, your voice caught in your throat.

“Thank you, John.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then tipped his hat and stepped outside, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood in the middle of the room, Alexander asleep on your shoulder, Arthur’s journal pressed to your heart, the fire crackling low beside you.

The cabin was warm. Safe. But it felt emptier now than it ever had before.

You walked to the window and watched as John mounted his horse and disappeared down the path, swallowed up by the trees and the growing dusk.

And then, you were alone again.

You stared at the empty chair across from you. The one where Arthur had sat just months ago, brushing his fingers through your hair, telling you he’d do better. That he’d try.

You pressed your lips to Alexander’s head and whispered, “He did, baby. He really did.”

And though your heart was broken — shattered in places you didn’t know existed — you knew you would carry him. In memory. In love. In your son’s every breath.

It was late spring when you finally made the journey. The snow had melted from the hills, leaving behind rolling green meadows speckled with wildflowers and the early buzz of bees. The sun hung warm and low in the sky, stretching gold across the horizon as you followed the narrow trail winding through the trees, your son nestled on your hip.

Alexander had grown since John’s visit. His legs were longer, his eyes sharper, his laughter louder. Every day he looked more like Arthur. Every crooked smile, every tilt of his head, every stubborn little stomp of his feet when he didn’t get his way — it was all him.

You couldn’t stop seeing him in the boy. And it hurt.

You reached the ridge by mid-afternoon. The trail had thinned out, roots knotted beneath your boots and ferns brushing your skirt. You remembered the spot — John had marked it on a crumpled piece of paper, his handwriting rough and direct: Look for the overlook above the valley. Near the old pine, the one with the lightning scar.

You saw it before you even stepped clear of the trees.

The grave.

Modest. Quiet. Just as he would’ve wanted.

There was a cross, its planks hand-written and uneven, but with his name etched into it clear and clean: Arthur Morgan.

You stood still for a long while, heart hammering as though he might rise up from beneath the earth just to greet you.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn���t.

You let out a shaking breath and stepped forward, the weight of your son grounding you.

Alexander, curious, reached toward the cross. His fingers brushed the top of it gently, almost reverently, as if some part of him knew.

“This is your pa’,” you whispered to him. “He was a good man. The best man I ever knew.”

The wind stirred through the trees above, soft and steady. You lowered yourself to the ground, settling on your knees beside the grave, and let Alexander sit in your lap. He leaned his head against your chest, blinking slowly, the brim of his too-big hat — Arthur’s hat — dipping low over his brow.

You reached out and touched the stones that sat underneath the cross.

“I miss you,” you said softly, throat closing around the words. “Every single day.”

Your eyes stung, but you kept going.

“You should see him, Arthur. Our son. He’s smart. Brave. A little reckless, like you. He makes me laugh. Drives me crazy sometimes, too. But he’s… he’s everything.”

You drew in a trembling breath.

“He has your eyes. Your smile. Your soul. I see you in him more and more with each passing day. And God, Arthur… it hurts. It hurts so bad not having you here. I wanted you to be part of this. To see him grow up. To hold him, to teach him how to ride and track and… just be his father.”

The words cracked in your throat.

You reached into your satchel and pulled out a bundle of wildflowers — lupine and yarrow and tiny white daisies Alexander had helped you pick along the trail. With gentle fingers, you laid them on the grave, brushing away a few stray leaves that had gathered near the stones.

“I still love you,” you whispered. “I never stopped. Even when I told myself I should let go. Even when I knew you weren’t coming back… I still held on to you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the breeze move through your hair.

“I hope you found peace. I hope wherever you are, you're free of pain. I hope you know how hard you tried… and that you didn’t fail. Not with me. Not with Alexander. You gave us something worth carrying. And I’m thankful for the time we had, even if it wasn’t enough.”

Alexander stirred, glancing up at you, then at the stones. He pressed his tiny hand against them, and you couldn’t help but sob softly at the gesture.

“I love you,” you whispered again, your voice barely audible now. “Always.”

You stayed a while longer, sitting in the soft grass beneath the trees. The sun slipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance. And for a fleeting moment, you imagined he was there — just over your shoulder, watching the two of you with that quiet half-smile he wore when he thought no one was looking.

Eventually, you stood.

You adjusted Alexander in your arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and gave the grave one last glance.

One last goodbye.

And then you turned away and walked back toward the trail, your son holding tight to your shirt, the brim of Arthur’s hat bobbing slightly as you disappeared into the golden light of late spring.

Arthur Morgan was gone. But what he left behind — the love, the strength, the memory — lived on.

In you. In Alexander. In every step you took forward.

And the wind carried your final words back to the ridge:

"You’ll always be with us. No matter how far."

[lavandulawrites]

Yan!genshin thoughts? Bet.

Tighnari's darling likes being loud just to annoy him since he has sensitive years. His darling probablu also likes using strong smells to make sure he stays away for a while, at least till they fade away.

Yan! Diluc definetly baby proofs every single corner from the manor. Also, against popular belif, I dont think he would baby trap his darling. Like, yeah, he does realise it could keep her with him forever, but at the same time, he is probably too scared she is going to die during child birth(I see teyvat as at least a few centuries in the past. A period when women dying during childbirth was the norm).

Yan! Capitano is scared to hurt his darling more than he'd like to admit. Probably had a nightmare about it one time and left his bedroom faster than my last braincell during the math test, to check on his darling...possible that due to the comotion she woke up and threw the pillow at him....well, at least she is alright.

If Xiao'd darling compliments some hybrid's animal features, he 100% will scoff and let her see his wings(jealousy jealousy?). Also, if she is being held in the abode, he most likely lets her out during lantern rite. Under his strict supervision ofc.

If Kazuha's darling is wearing a hat, Kazuha definetly stole it so "people wont recognize her"(what a load of bs). Also, I hc that Kazuha accepted the smth's offer and went back to represent the Kaedehara clan...just so he can trap his darling more.

Yan Neuvillette secretly reads the novels he gifts his darling (totally doesn't enjoy them himself more than her). If his darling asks for some fish an aquarium, he might complain that fish need to be free(ironic, isnt it?). Also, he daydreams about taking a bath with his prisoner lover.

Wriothesley 100% gets his darling a cat and gets jealous of it if(rather when) his darling shows more attention to the cat...or when the cat is making biscuits on his darling's chest(this is way more common than one might think)

Unpopular opinion, Dottore is absolutely touch-starved and loves cuddles. After a long day of torture testing in the lab, he just wants to lay down with his darling. Probably also got his lover a pet, just to make sure she gets attached to it and use it as blackmail.

Ajaw and Kinich's darling are great friends.Ajaw likes his darling because she does anything in her power to annoy Kinich after well, being abducted. The difference however is that when his lover does it, it feels more personal. Ajaw and Kinich's darling often times advise each other on how to be the biggest pests alive.

Also, googletranslate is hot.

Goddamn you cooked🫶🏻Also, I haven’t forgotten your Kazuha request🤫

Poor Tighnari, he is really gonna suffer😭 Though I believe he manages to turn the table one way or another…

I 100% agree with you. Diluc would definitely baby-proof absolutely everything. He is so extremely overprotective (I ain’t complaining🤭). I also agree with the baby trapping. I think he has considered it, but he chooses not to, as it would do more damage than good.

Yeah, Capitano is definitely very paranoid. It does make sense after all the things he has experienced, paranoia is only to be expected. I think he would make his darling sleep in the same bed as him in order to watch over her.

Hahah Xiao is so petty (kinda cute). He definitely would want her to see the beautiful lanterns with him. It would be like a date that the humans talk so much about.

Awww he definitely would. If he did go back to restore his clan, Kazuha would definitely have enough power to keep his darling close to him at all times. It would be a wise move. Thigh his longing for freedom would make it difficult, so he would have to sacrifice something.

Hehhe that’s definitely something he would do. He really is a hypocrite🙄 Though he would definitely argue that he is only doing so in order to”to protect you”. Oh yeah, Neuvillette definitely daydreams a lot about taking a bath with his darling.

Wriothesley getting jealous of a cat is something I never knew I needed😭 It’s kinda cute tho tbh. Though I don’t think he would dislike the cat, he would definitely compete with it to see who gets your attention first. The cats wins every single time (as it should).

I agree with you. People forget that Dottore has been abandoned and hated through all his life (not to say that some of it is without reason) and it’s only natural that he would crave affection when he has gotten his hands on his darling. Ooof he is really sly with that pet thing😬

Ajaw and Kinich’s darling would definitely be besties. I really pity Kinich. Both Ajaw and darling would give him grey hairs rather fast😭

All in all, you really cooked with your headcanons😌 they’re all on point in my opinion🤭

Give me your yandere thoughts

[shanburuzu-a]

@sirensofthefiveseas liked for a starter! (for Black Maria)

You've got to be fucking kidding me. Of course, he had the shit luck of running into one of Kaido's Tobiroppo before the rest of their allies had even made it to Wano. What the hell she was even doing in this area of the country was beyond him and yet here she was. Her presence drawing the attention of one of his crewmates not because of who she was but her beauty from the look on the idiot's face. A look that earned him a swift kick under the table even as he lifted his drink to his lips.

He knew he shouldn't have agreed to allow his crew to experience the pleasures of the red district. This was a goddamn nightmare. If their cover was blown because of him he'd never hear the fucking end of it from Straw Hat.

[hihomeghere]

Nightmare | Arthur Morgan x f!reader x Charles Smith

Summary : Arthur has a recurring nightmare. Part of the series Baptized by Fire

Word count : 3k

Warnings/tags : Mention of death, slight panic attack for Arthur, talk of dead child (Isaac), feelings of inadequacy, poly relationship, Arthur morgan x reader x Charles smith, reader has female gentalia and menstruates, talk of children and pregnancy, talk of natural contraception

this will be the last chapter in Spring! This is my favorite that I've written for these three so far, so if you enjoyed it please let me know!

divider by @saradika

Arthur knew this trail by heart, the map in his satchel long forgotten as he led Boadicea along it. The sun peeked through the trees, golden rays guiding him through the spotlights from above. He tipped his hat a little lower on his face, shielding his eyes from the rays. 

Birds raised their melodious voices into a natural chorus, accompanied by Boadicea’s hooves clopping along the dirt path. A breeze rustled through the leaves, pulling his attention away from the path for only a moment. Arthur’s heart felt light, as though whatever weight had been pulling him down was lifted. A sense of anticipation built in him the longer he rode. He wanted to set his heels in Boadicea’s side, urging the horse into a sprint, but he refrained. Letting her easy trot take him along. He emerged from the canopy of trees, leaving his sanctuary from the blistering heat. 

Still, he would endure whatever Mother Nature sent his way. There was nothing that could damper his spirits today. He was going to see them today. The thought sent a flutter through his stomach, his hands tightening around the reins. The worn leathering creaking under his hands. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, dryer than ever under the smoldering sun. 

The fauna felt it too, the further he ventured the more barren it became. The wildflowers and ferns, wilted and yellowed against the harsh conditions. Arthur felt sweat run down his temple, wiping the salty streak away from his face.

Jesus, it was hot. 

That trickle had now turned into rivulets, pouring off of him the longer he rode. He raised his eyes, catching the waves of heat as they danced on the horizon. Turning the sky and earth into a watercolor, the two bleeding into each other. 

He pulled out his handkerchief, wiping it haphazardly across his face. Boadicea’s hooves crushed the scorched dirt beneath them, although all Arthur cared about was in front of them. 

His life was ahead, in that tiny house. Those tiny fingers and toes, that mop of sandy brown hair much like his own. Her warm and welcoming smile, never changing no matter how long his sorry ass had been gone. 

He had made up his mind, the pack on Boadicea’s rump confirming it. This time, this time, he was staying. 

No more running, no more being a damn coward. He was gonna own up to his actions, not mistakes, never a mistake. The ruby ring weighing down his pocket, never straying far from his mind. He would do it right, after being wrong for this many goddamn years he could do right by her. He could be happy with her.

Despite the sweltering heat, damn near stealing the breath out of his lungs with every breath, he smiled.

And finally, finally, the house came into view. He couldn’t help himself, digging his heel into her side with a resounding ‘hyah’, they raced towards the house. 

Only they didn’t make it far before he saw the graves.

His stomach sank like a rock, the world fading away as his eyes fell upon the two crosses. He urged her to go faster, as though that would clear the image like a mirage. He slung his legs over her back, his knees almost buckling as he hit the ground. 

He smacked his lips together, all the moisture sucked out of his body, he didn’t know if it was from the sun or… this. Two graves. 

He raced towards the small house, tears clouding his vision. He hastily wiped them away, swallowing past the growing lump in his throat. 

But this wasn’t right. It wasn’t like before, the graves… they weren’t packed with dirt. They were open, and instead of Eliza and Isaac’s bodies buried deep in the ground, it was you and Charles. 

“No.” He whispered, his voice shaking as he dropped to his knees. “No- no, no, no.” He repeated as though his words could turn back time. Could undo what monstrosity had been done to the two of you. His heart thudded against his ribs as he jumped into one of the graves. He gathered you in his arms. “C’mon sweetheart- c’mon wake up. Open- open those pretty eyes f’me.” He babbled, pleading for you to look up at him. His hand gripped your hip, feeling the ice cold flesh under your blue dress, now stained with dirt. It was one of his favorites. He held your lifeless body, his hand brushing against your stomach. It was like he was shot, the air knocked out of his lungs as he felt what was obviously a bump. Your stomach rounded with a child, their child. He drug himself out of the grave, pulling you with him. He laid you down on the ground, his body pulled towards Charles, his body much heavier and bulkier than yours, but he still managed. His eyes moved from you to Charles, bile held behind his clamped jaws until he couldn’t hold it back anymore. Bracing himself on his knees as he emptied his stomach onto the grass. Tears streamed down his face, his nose running like a spigot. How damn pathetic he looked was the last thing on his mind. 

You looked so peaceful, like you were only sleeping. His angels, just sleeping, that’s all. 

But the cold chill of your bodies brought him back to reality. He clasped Charles hand in his own, pressing kisses to his palm as he dragged you into his lap.

He had failed again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“ He cried, his chest constricting painfully with each ragged breath. “I love you, I’m sorry!”

Arthur woke with a start, his heart pounding as he sat up in bed. He hadn’t had that dream in a while. Charles' warm back radiated heat to one side of him, while you slept curled up on the other. He panted, running his hand down his face as he tried to gain control over his sporadic breathing. He didn’t need to wrack his brain to figure out why his subconscious had pulled it forward.

You were late. It wasn’t something that didn’t need to be spoken out loud to be known. You were quite regular with your monthlies, sometimes they were a day later or perhaps a day earlier. But never for three days.

They were always prepared. Extra sheets set out on the trunk at the end of the bed. In case the red devil came when you were sleeping. Charles would have tea ready to be brewed once the cramps started in your lower belly. The cloths you used were cleaned and laid out, ready for use, along with your sanitary belt. 

But you hadn’t needed any of them yet. 

He supposed he shouldn’t have been so surprised, him and Charles were always spilling into you. But only on the so called ‘safe’ days. Arthur still didn’t quite understand how there were days of the month you weren’t ‘fertile’. Although he wasn’t well versed in the way women’s bodies worked despite having gotten Eliza pregnant all those years ago.

But it didn’t matter to him, you said you couldn’t get pregnant on certain days, so he believed you. So why the hell were you late?

Sure, you and Charles had times where Arthur didn’t join you. It didn’t matter, he trusted the two of you. There were times when it was just him and Charles, or just him and you.

But he didn’t believe that you’d go behind his back trying to get pregnant without at least talking to him about it first. 

It was moments like this that the little bug began to whisper in Arthur’s ear. Telling him he didn’t belong with the two of you, that he was only bringing you two down, that you’d both be better off without him, that you didn’t need him.

Normally a kiss from Charles or your arms wrapped around his waist would silence this little bug, but this one couldn’t seem to be quieted. 

He groaned, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. You shifted, seemingly disturbed by the noise. You swung your leg up onto his hip, pressing yourself against him. Instinctively he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. He felt something against his thigh as you cuddled up against him. Something wet.

Arthur nudged Charles, pushing the bigger man’s shoulder. 

“Hm?” Charles mumbled, looking over his shoulder at Arthur. His eyes squinted in the low light of the dawn. 

“Reckon, we're gonna need to change the sheets.” He said softly, looking back down at you. Charles nodded, immediately getting out of bed. Arthur shook your shoulder, gently rousing you from your sleep.

“C’mon sweetheart, let’s get you up.” He said softly, rising from the middle of the bed. Charles was lighting the oil lamp on the bedside table, casting a golden glow over the three of you.

You quickly realized what was happening. A low sigh leaving your lips as you started to strip out of your blood stained nightgown and bloomers. Arthur went into the main room, grabbing a wash rag from the kitchen. He wet the cloth in the basin before returning to the bedroom. Charles pressed a kiss to your crown as he moved to the other side of the bed, collecting the sheets. Arthur handed you the rag, letting you clean your thighs off before you put on your sanitary belt.

He headed back into the main room, working on getting the fire going before you eventually made your way out to join him. 

As he added the logs to the hearth, he couldn’t get the image of you and Charles’ lifeless bodies out of his head. The almost waxy look of your skin, the unmistakable bump under your dress… He shook his head, trying to clear the image as he sat down in his chair.

You shuffled out of the bedroom, Charles poncho falling to your thighs. You curled up on his lap, resting your head on his chest. He wrapped his arm around your waist, feeling your body heat under his fingertips. So unlike his nightmare, you were alive, both you and Charles were alive. 

The only sound was the gentle creak of the rocking chair and the light crackle from the fire. But it wasn’t tense or awkward, just comfortable.

Charles came out of the bedroom, laying the sheets in the basin to soak. He sat down on the identical rocking chair, rubbing his eyes as he let out a yawn.

“What woke you up?” He asked, looking over at Arthur. Of course he would ask that.

“Nothing.” He mumbled, brushing his fingers through your hair. He knew he had given himself away almost immediately. You stiffened just slightly before you lifted your head off his chest, sparing a glance at Charles. 

He understood what you meant now. When you had first come to live with him and Charles you would complain about the ‘silent’ conversations that were had. Arthur was now on the outside of one of these conversations. 

“Arthur, are you alright honey?” You asked looking back at him.

God damn that sweet honeyed voice, how could he ever lie to you? Not that he was the best liar anyway, not when you and Charles could read him like a damn book. 

“You know how I was almost married before.” He asked, his fingers running over the ruby ring resting on your finger. 

“To Mary.” You nodded, furrowing your brows as you tried to figure out where he was going with this. 

“After she… after she called it off there was another girl. She- she was young and I was a fool.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I got her pregnant.” He didn’t miss the way your eyebrows shot up. “She had Isaac my- my boy. I’d visit when I could but each time I was gone it just- just felt like an eternity. Christ, he’d go from sitting to walking, babbling to talking. But I had the gang and I’d send her money, not that that counted for much.” He knew he was rattling on but he couldn’t help himself. “I was such a fool back then, still am in some ways I suppose. I was so focused on the gang, on Dutch…” He trailed off, anger and guilt burning deep in his belly, only cooled by the gentle touch of your palm on his chest. “One day I rode out there and-“ He cut himself off, the lump in his throat growing too large to speak.

“Oh Arthur,” You said softly, running your thumb over his cheek. “I’m so sorry.” He didn’t deserve to be comforted, but he couldn’t bear to push you away.

“All over a few dollars.” He shook his head, “I didn’t know the first thing about being a father and- I doubt I’d be any better now.” He muttered, looking into the low burning flames. 

“Did you know?” You asked Charles, raising your head to look at him. He nodded, moving his gaze back to the fire.

“I… I used to dream of them, finding the graves…” His voice broke as he fought to speak, “But this time it- wasn’t them. It- it was you n’ Charles.” He saw Charles wince out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh honey.” You sighed, his words tugging at your heart strings, “Honey it’s okay, it’s okay.” You said cupping his cheek, running your thumb over his cheekbone. Brushing away any stray tears. “What happened was a tragedy, but it wasn’t your fault-“

“If I had been there-“ He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, “I could’ve saved them. If I would’ve done right by them they’d still be alive.” He choked back a sob. 

“Arthur-“ Charles sighed looking over at the two of you.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling his head to your breast. He melted in your embrace, holding onto you like you would disappear into thin air if he let go. He listened to the thump of your heart against his ear, his tears slowly drying as he took in a few shuddering breaths.

How the hell did he manage to find two of the most understanding people in the world, and how did he make them both fall in love with someone like him?

The awful part was he was disappointed when you started to bleed. He wanted it. He wanted to see you grow round with Charles and his baby. To feel the babe shift and kick under your skin. To watch as you grew into a mother, he knew you’d be perfect. To see Charles be a father. To have a second chance at what he missed with Eliza and Isaac, to make them proud.

But he didn’t deserve it.

“We’ll be careful Arthur.” You said, petting his hair, “We’ll just keep track of the days and if you’re really worried we don’t have to-“

“I don’t want to be careful.” He huffed, pulling away from you. He got to his feet, pacing in front of the fireplace. “I don’t want to be careful I want-“ He ran a hand through his hair, knowing he probably looked like a fool. “I want- I want…” He trailed off, biting his lip as he shook his head.

“Arthur?” Charles asked, his deep timbre voice setting his blood ablaze.

“I’m making a damn fool of myself.” He grumbled, running his hand down his face.

“Arthur.” You stopped him, grabbing the hand that had been clenched into a fist at his side. “If… if having a- a family- is something you want,” You started slowly, looking over at Charles before you continued, “We want it too.” You said, running your thumb over his knuckles.

“You mean it?” He asked breathlessly, looking from you to Charles.

“Yeah.” Charles nodded, an easy smile on his plump lips. Arthur looked between the two of you, seemingly stunned for a few moments before he pulled you towards him. His hand grasped at Charles' shirt before he too was pulled into Arthur's embrace. 

“Yer serious?” Arthur asked, his voice slightly muffled as he pressed his face into Charles' neck.

“We’re serious honey.” You said wrapping your arms around the two of them. “I mean, it ain’t no secret that Charles has wanted to see me in that way.” You giggled. Charles let out an amused huff, shaking his head. “Just didn’t know you wanted it too.” You hummed, moving back to kiss his cheek.

“I’m a lucky son of a bitch.” Arthur said, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he looked from you to Charles. The loves of his life, here in his arms, agreeing to start a family.

“We’re pretty lucky too, cowboy.” Charles chuckled, squeezing your waist before pressing his lips to Arthur’s, “Now I’m going back to bed, and I think you all should join me.” He said with a yawn.

“What do you say honey?” You asked, leaning your head on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Let’s go to bed.” He nodded, letting you and Charles walk him back to bed.

Arthur fell asleep, tucked in between you and Charles.

He dreamt of Boadicea, riding her along the dirt road. His heart in his throat as he watched the door open, Isaac’s sandy brown hair flying in the wind as he raced towards him. Arthur jumped down from her back, his arms flung wide as he caught him in his embrace. Through tearful eyes he looked up towards the house. Eliza stood on the porch, her warm gaze finding him. From the inside of the house you and Charles walk out, his arm around your waist. That pretty little blue dress hugging your figure as Charles cups your belly.

“C’mon pa!” Isaac said in that sweet boyish voice, tugging on his hand as he led Arthur to the house.

He never had that dream again.

Tag list :

@photo1030 , @emerald-ranch @highlandhour , @buffkirby2020 , @esquilone , @cyb3rsx , @whalecage , @idekraeven , @calcarius445 , @heloixe , @heron-feathers , @bluebxrrxl , @youngwhisperstree , @snoorio , @punctatum

[kechiwrites]

mirror image

toxic baby daddy!ghost x reader

part 7/8

synopsis: two weeks into your uneasy truce, simon gets introspective.

wc: 811

cw: afab!reader, angst, banter that becomes arguing, hurt and the tiniest bit of comfort, language, trust issues, simon's pov, no gendered language. no use of y/n ever.

author’s note: well, we back at it, the second last installment of this verse. i'll still take requests/thots for it of course, but soon we'll get closure for these two. for now, simon's thoughts on their situation.

new to baby blue? start here.

It’s disarming. 

And Simon Riley doesn’t like being disarmed. He doesn’t like being caught off guard, off kilter, unstable. 

It’s been happening more and more often though.

When you and Tommy look at him in perfect unison, he is struck stupid by your eyes, like you copy and pasted them onto your son. His son. His kid. His perfect, funny kid. Unmuddied by everything bad in the world. His life is pancakes and dinosaurs and that horrible fucking tv show that he’s sure rots his little mind. His life is you. Your smiles, your laugh, your cooking, your hugs. Things Simon cheated himself of when he walked out on you, choked with fear and bleeding misery.

Simon is disarmed, totally fucking helpless, a veritable babe in the woods when you let him hold you. When for the first time, in a long ass time, he gets to watch your lids flutter closed and slip into unconsciousness, in that quick, carefree way he’s always envied. 

He barely sleeps, even less so lately. 

After all, no sleeping meant no nightmares. No cloying, choking smoke-like fears reaching for the frayed edges of his subconscious. No sleeping meant he couldn’t play on your kindness, your goodness, and guilt you into holding him back when he woke up screaming, sweating, no matter how bad he wanted it.

It’s two weeks later. Two weeks after sleeping together but not sleeping together. After breakfast and an uneasy truce. Two weeks after kissing you and touching you and holding you like you both had all the time in the world. 

You’re not in a good mood. And he knows that. But he pushes you anyway, pokes and prods you even as you slam through your kitchen, noisily pulling out a pot and a huge bag of pasta shells.

“Let’s talk.” He approaches, arms crossed, full kit traded in for a skull emblazoned cloth mask, jeans and a threadbare black t-shirt, one he’d found in your bedroom days ago, stashed in the back your drawer, crumpled in a wrinkled ball, like you didn’t want to see it, but you didn’t want to trash it either. He’s been doing that lately, staying over for days and rifling through your shit, finding old relics and artifacts from a time neither of you can let go of. An old mask, a hat, t-shirts.

So many goddamn t-shirts.

“Talk?” you snort derisively, filling the pot with water. He watches you test the water with your fingertips and curse under your breath, mumbling something about shit pipes. When the pot is full, you turn to face him, lips curled, sneering. “I wasn’t aware you were capable of that. Thought you just communicated in grunts.”

“You’re funny. That's new.” He jabs, advancing in the conversation much faster than he should have, comforted in familiar territory, finding solace in what used to be commonplace for you, banter, barbs, teasing. The tense set of your shoulders should’ve warned him off it, should’ve told him you’d take it as well as a bullet in the back. But God help him, he’ll take whatever you give.

“Mm.” Your tone is casual but your answering nod is jerky, too fast, “Yeah, I developed a sense of humour when I realized our relationship had been a joke.” You slam the pot onto a burner, giving him your back. 

The air is suddenly devoid of mirth, utterly obliterated where it had been floating between you before. Now the living room and kitchen are a smoking crater, an oil rig on fire, a disaster site. 

He’s never been more grateful for his son’s propensity to nap like he’s dead.

Neither of you say anything. Simon is waiting for you to say something, to dress him down, but when you lower your head and sigh, heavy and deep with pain and exhaustion he planted within you, Simon withers. He slinks back to the living room and drops himself onto your couch. 

You wait, he’s not sure what for. He used to be so good at preempting your actions, your thoughts, your words, now he handles you like you’re a venomous reptile, looking for exposed, vulnerable flesh to strike, to bite.

You set down the glass you’d been drinking from hard. And he’s surprised you didn’t crack it.

“What do you want, Simon?” Question of the goddamn century, it is. And you’ve asked it of him plenty of times. But he never has an answer, can never really deduce just what the fuck he’s doing here, with you. With Tommy. Playing a game? Playing a role? Punishing you? Himself? All of it could be true, but none of it seems right. 

“I want to try.”

All he knows is that before this, four years seemed like a short time, nothing really. But now?

It’s an eternity. Reflected back to him in broken glass, in half full drawers, in his son’s eyes. 

In yours.

comments + tags + reblogs are so appreciated

oh simon...what do you want?

series masterlist here

[miniwheat77]

Baby Blue. (Simon Riley.)

!CW! NSFW, fluff, blood, injuries, near death, sorry if I missed any.

Baby Blue is the first color Simon Riley sees when he meets you for the first time. He had walked into Price’s office without knocking, accidentally walking into his first meeting with you, you were joining the base. He didn’t miss the baby blue scrunchy you had wrapped your hair up with.

Baby Blue is the color that stood out the most from the dark man. His icy eyes staring down at you, muttering out an apology about barging in, but a recruit had gotten a little rambunctious and hurt himself so he needed his Captain right that second. While Price went off to handle it, he introduced himself to you. The first thing he noticed about you is how pretty you were, and sweet too. You stuck your hand out for him to shake, and you had a firm grip. You knew you were in trouble from that very moment.

Baby Blue is the color he remembers most about you, when you stumbled into the hallway, running right into him. You rubbed your tired eyes, complaining about a nightmare. Your silk pajama set was baby blue, a stunning color that complimented the tone of your skin. He was in trouble. “Cmon, I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.” He sighs, leading you into your room. Keeping you company until your breaths evened out, but you had a tight grasp on his sweatshirt. He was stuck.

Baby Blue is the color that made him realize he had to keep you safe. His hands were soaked with blood, the baby blue undershirt you had under your long sleeve shirt and vest, turning a sick shade of red as your blood seeped into it, through the bullet hole in your side. He was trying not to panic but the thought of losing you ate him up inside. He had to keep you safe, away from all of this. He couldn’t do this. He had to tell you how he felt before something happened. Lifting you up off of the ground and running with you, dodging gunfire and getting you to safety. “Stay with me darling- please stay with me.” He pants, setting you down. Tearing his shirt into pieces and wrapping your wound with it.

Baby Blue is the color of that hospital gown you were covered with. When you’d woken up days later in the hospital and Simon was right there at your side, hadn’t missed a day. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked tired. You smiled at him. It was weak and lazy, but to Simon? You’d never looked more beautiful. He was quick to move to your side. Right then and there is where he confessed his feelings for you. Told you every ounce of pain you’d caused him by being unconscious, near death. You shared more things about each other, and you told Simon you liked him just as much. If not more. His hands shook, and you took them into your own. Holding onto him. “Here.” You smile. Tugging the blue scrunchy out of your knotted hair. You pushed it onto his wrist. “So you’ll always have a piece of me with you, but be careful. That’s my favorite.” You smiled.

Baby Blue was the color of his bow tie, and the ribbons sat in your hair. The entire task force and Laswell sat in the front row as you said ‘I do.’ Simon tilting you to kiss you. Being extra. He was so nervous that morning getting ready alongside Johnny, who stood next to him as his best man. He reassured him the entire time, and Simon messed with the scrunchy that sat on his wrist more than ever.

Baby Blue is the little hat and sock set that your Captain had gotten you as a gift that adorned your newborn son. Along with a set of mittens Laswell had thought of, nobody wanted the little guy to scratch himself. You had your baby in your arms, Simon played with the scrunchy nervously, he was a dad now. He had to be someone his son could look up to. And if theres one thing he wants his son to understand, is how much he loves his mum. And how much he adores that goddamned blue crunchy that started the mess in the first place.

[pascalispunkczechia]

Rules I Break For Him 1

Masterlist for this fic here

My plane just touched down smoothly on the runway in one of the most drug-ridden states in South America. Colombia.

Oh yeah, I have a past here, even though I’ve tried to forget it. But maybe more on that later.

Right now, I have a feeling I won’t be forgetting anytime soon, since I’ve been transferred here from California to the DEA.

Maybe you’ve heard of it, mostly because of the capture of Escobar. That was a few months ago. Now, though, a new cartel is running things.

The DEA made a huge mistake getting rid of one of the best agents - the man who helped bring down Escobar - and sending him back to Texas.

Sure, maybe he could have handled things a little differently, maybe stayed out of it a bit more, but fuck! He did more for them than anyone else.

When I found out I was being assigned here, I begged them to bring agent Peña back. I had a feeling we wouldn’t get anywhere without him.

Truth is, I don’t even know what he looks like or how old he is. I’m picturing some smooth-talking Texan with a cowboy hat and a loose flannel shirt.

God. I always do this… try to tear men down in my head so I can feel like I belong in their world and can do at least as much as they can.

While I was waiting for my suitcase, I ordered a cab, and now I’m making my way out of the building, just wanting to get to the office already.

It’s noon, the sun is fucking brutal, and I silently bless whoever invented cabs, because taking public transportation in Cali would have been a goddamn nightmare.

The ride goes by pretty fast. I check my makeup and hair in a small mirror. Not bad for after a multi-hour flight.

My hair flutters slightly in the breeze from the open window, and my eyes are starting to adjust to the local sunlight. It’s different here, sharper. It wasn’t like this in Sacramento.

I can’t really explain it, but I feel better here. Which is a hell of a paradox, considering I was happy in California. Maybe I’m still happy, in my own way. I feel like I can finally close that chapter and no man is ever going to fuck me up again.

Yeah, about that past I mentioned earlier - the one I’m trying to forget? His name was Diego. It lasted about two years before he cheated on me with the first whore he could find on the street.

Lovely past, right?

I ran back to the States and didn’t want to hear another word about Colombia. Luckily, I’m in a different city now, working at a different station. Because if I had to go back to Bogotá, to the station at the US embassy, I’d probably be the laughingstock of the whole damn place.

Here in Cali, I’m going to build my authority from scratch. And believe me - no agent is ever getting under my skin again.

Here we go. I’m standing in front of the DEA station, which from now on is my new base. I worked hard for this. I’m single and childless, but carrying a lot of work on my shoulders.

Most of the people at this station are men, and haha, it’s the early ’90s, so it’s nothing unusual. But things are slowly getting better.

I open the door and I’m immediately hit by the sound of male laughter and voices, all mixed with the smell of sweat and that typical stench of ‘I’m the master of the universe, bow down to me.’

I probably look like a sore thumb right now. Almost no one notices me, so I head straight toward the director’s office.

I call the elevator, no way I’m dragging my suitcase up to the fourth floor. I press the button, run a hand through my hair, and adjust my blouse, which might be a little see-through. Fuck, I should’ve worn the black one. I glance at myself in the mirror… tight jeans hugging my body, making me feel confident.

Yeah, feminists probably wouldn’t be giving me a gold star right now.

The elevator doors are almost closing when a hand suddenly pushes them open again. First thing I notice are the veins standing out on his arm, pulling me into a bit of a trance.

Geez, get it together.

Then I realize the hand (with no wedding ring) belongs to a tall, lean man, dark-haired, radiating charisma. I’d guess about fourty, a mustache, and surprisingly gentle brown eyes that contrast sharply with the sharp lines of his face.

“Which floor?” he asks, looking like he doesn’t actually give a shit about the answer. Still, I catch his eyes roaming over my body.

Well, at least we’re even - I might have stared at his ass in those tight gray jeans two seconds longer than would be considered polite.

“Hm?” he presses, looking at me with amusement, maybe a hint of impatience.

I flush, feeling the heat rush to my face.

What the hell is happening? Maybe I really should’ve had breakfast. Nothing else could explain this weakness.

“Uh, fourth,” I squeak and drop my eyes. “Director’s office,” I add, lifting my head again, remembering I need to project confidence here.

He gives me a strange look that I can’t quite read. At the same time, his scent hits me, nothing like the disgusting smells from the entrance. He smells like peppermint and freshly lit cigarettes. No sweat, no filthy socks. Nice. Apparently, some men here actually know how to smell decent.

The elevator stops with a loud clunk. “After you,” he says with a wink.

I grab the handle of my suitcase and stumble out of the elevator, feeling his eyes on my back.

Okay, that’s enough. Focus.

I walk down the hallway and knock on the oak door at the end on the left. The station director himself opens the door, welcoming me with a smile.

A man in his sixties, chubby cheeks, and a generally kind demeanor - at least, according to what they say. “Good to see you, Miss. Was the trip alright?”

“Yes, thank you for asking.”

“Good. I won’t burden you with long speeches… everything was already discussed before your arrival. The apartment we assigned you is ready; you know the address, right? Agent Peña should be arriving soon too, he’ll show you your office. Honestly, I’m not thrilled he’s back, but I trust you’ll keep him under control. His desk will be right outside your office… sometimes it’s better to keep subordinates where you can see them,” says Mr. Rodriguez.

I smile but say nothing. I don’t want to come off like a bitch. I’m sure Peña and I can figure out his desk ourselves. Besides, he’s supposedly out in the field most of the time anyway.

“And about that supervision, Miss,” Rodriguez continues, smiling at me, “I know it’s not exactly part of your job description, but you should go out into the field with Peña too. We don’t want him getting mixed up with some gangs again while trying to catch the new cartel.”

I give him a thoughtful look. Maybe he’s not as likable as he seemed at first. If this is how he thinks about his best agent, I can only imagine how he thinks about the others… or about me.

I don’t have time to think about it more, because there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” says Rodriguez.

The man from the elevator steps inside. What the hell is he doing here? I feel the heat rush to my cheeks again.

“Miss, allow me to introduce your new subordinate, agent Peña,” says Rodriguez, standing up and shaking Peña’s hand.

I stare at him, fascinated.

“Javier, this is your new boss,” Rodriguez adds.

“Peña,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes as he offers me his hand. “Nice to meet you… again.”

“Pleasure’s mine. If you don’t mind, can we be less formal?” I ask, shaking his hand. Maybe it’s unusual, considering the hierarchy, but I always try to keep a friendly atmosphere in my team.

Anyway, it’s clear now - my image of Peña as an old cowboy in a tacky flannel shirt was completely wrong. He’s the exact opposite of what I imagined. A jolt of electricity runs through me, and my breath catches.

“In that case, nice to meet you too,” he says, smiling warmly. “I’m Javier.” His lips curl into a smile, and I feel a rush of heat pooling low in my belly.

God help me. This can’t be happening. Why couldn’t he be sweaty and ugly? Why am I reacting like a damn teenager?

Rodriguez gets up and rather unceremoniously shoos us out of his office.

I’m still in a daze, barely registering what’s happening.

“Alright. I’ll show you your office,” Javier says, looking at me. “I have some work to finish after that, so… ready?”

I swallow hard. “Sure. Let’s go,” I say, grabbing my suitcase and following him.

I barely register how we got to the elevator and out again.

Next thing I know, we’re standing in my new office.

Javier’s desk really is just outside the door… only one door between us. For some reason, that thought unsettles me a little.

“Well, we’ll have time to talk everything through. And I know you’re the boss here, but I have to go, I need to check some phone records. It’ll probably take until evening. But there’s a bar a few blocks away… maybe we could talk more informally there? I’ll pick you up when I’m done?” he asks, looking at me expectantly.

“Yeah. That’s probably better than trying to go over everything here and now,” I manage, sitting down in my chair, pretending to be busy organizing my pens and coffee mug.

“Great,” Javier says with a smile and leaves my office.

I catch myself shamelessly staring at his ass.

Damn. That ass!

I think I’ll have to ban him from wearing tight pants to work. Or maybe I should just ban myself from staring at his mouth every time he talks.

I don’t understand what the hell is happening to me. I’ve known him for half an hour.

And I’m already wondering just how bad of an idea it would be to go for that drink.

I sigh and start trying to settle into my office.

NEXT CHAPTER HERE FOR MORE FICS -> MASTERLIST

[mammalsofaction]

So recently I got back into PnF and have been marathoning it (to catch up for the revival), and I finally rewatched at2d again. I have no idea if anyone else has talked about it, but how did Perry create the necklace key, the homing device inside it that led to his lair, as well as that replication machine that replicated all of Phin's and Ferb's inventions?

Like, if Perry really is monitored nearly at all times, how was this possible? How did he get the technology? When could he have even gotten it installed? Could it be possible that maybe he got insider help from someone in OWCA (Carl maybe?) or... Just maybe... Perry could have gotten help from Heinz? The amnesia-inator is a thing after all, so he could have mind wiped whoever helped him just to ensure that no one knew about all of this. (Because clearly if Monogram knew about it, he'd instantly have it all shut down and potentially relocate Perry immediately if not jail him like other rogue agents).

Anyway, I hope you don't mind me dropping this on you! I was just curious to see what others might think!

Nonnie, I do not mind at ALL, and i always love love love listening about AT2D and lore theories.

Dwampy is a fan of handwaving lore implications in the show.

HOWEVER. The replication machine WAS mentioned, i think, at the beginning of the movie. The analyser is in Perry's (and likely every other active field agent's) hats. Monogram says they use it to replicate and reverse engineer evil inventions, both for their own use (see the re-modded "Amnesia-Inator"), and also analyse if any of Doof's inventions get smarter ("jury's still out").

But consider; being able to FIT a 3D analyser that works with such terrifying efficiency in a collapsible fedora implies that invention is small, durable and practically unnoticeable. So theoretically? If Perry could get his hand on the analyser, he DOESN'T have to be in the backyard. At the end of every work day he STILL gets to see whatever it was the boys worked on, and keep those plans in a personal archive (probably the same archive he uses to store the edited BFF photos with Doof and the AT2D photos with the boys) for what if situations.

The replication machine is probably accessible to ANY agent with the right kind of security clearance. As we know, from "Where's Perry," and "OWCA files" Perry's security clearance is PRETTY GODDAMN HIGH, since his biometrics are the only ones registered as a backup to un-initiate Doomsday lockdown protocols. He's probably what we call a gold access card for Danville's OWCA division: what Perry wants in his lair, he gets.

He doesn't have to be at home to see what the boys get up to in the backyard. The Flynn-Fletcher house is DROWNING in OWCA cameras and speakers. A security measure both for family's safety, as well as a precautionary measure against Phineas and Ferb's evil potential. Like we KNOW the genius scares OWCA, low key. (See Carl Undercover). I know the movie wants you to think Perry's secretly there all the time for sentimental reason, but like. Yeah that doesnt make logistical sense.

So yeah, Perry can't logically be there all the time for every invention what with how they work him to the bone, but he DOES see every adventure, collect every invention, and he DOES have access to OWCA's replication machine.

The homing device as a spare key to the lair AND the secret data archive is exactly what Phineas says it is: a blatant show of trust. It is absolutely impossible to think of it as anything other than Perry having SPECIFICALLY anticipated an emergency scenario where he CAN'T be there for the boys, one way or another, because of OWCA or some other evil thing. At this point, Perry's been hunted, captured, relocated and almost KILLED both by OWCA and other villains. His worst nightmare is of his family taken hostage. After the events of Carl Undercover he knows he can't trust his employers, not completely. And while he loves and trusts Heinz to not endanger the boys so long as he is kept oblivious to some CRUCIAL information, that's still too high of a risk.

That key, and everything the boys see, was Perry saying, "I do. I trust you. I was there in spirit for every adventure you've ever been on, and no matter what, I have your back. I TRUST that you have mine. I TRUST that you know the right thing."

And to make that key the locket on his collar, with a picture of his boys? It's saying "I trust you because you mean as much to me as I do to you. I trust you because you are family."

Nonnie, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how absolutely HUGE that is. Perry has very valid abandonment and control issues, and he is NOT easily impressed. I choke up, watching that scene. I still do.

TLDR; there IS a rational explanation to the replication machine that is Perry-going-behind-OWCA's-back related, and sadly not Perryshmirtz related. Honestly using the amnesia machine is possible but probably not too well thought out, which would be uncharacteristic. Perry loves and trusts his boys a LOT, and also hes an overthinker. Valid. What's new?

[phantomphangphucker]

Phic Phight - Nasty Appreciation

For: @ecto-american

Being a cheap but popular fast food joint in the most haunted city in America is a bit of a nightmare, but hey, at least they have Valerie

Listen, okay, Harold knew it was strange for a fast food joint, of all places, to give out large bonuses. As in nearly unheard of. Unless you were the rich jack ass owner or one of said rich jackass owner’s friends. Regular workers don’t get bonuses. Heck! Regular workers don’t even get raises.

Dirt cheap rent was the only reason any adult here had a damn place to live. After all, it was kinda hard for ‘the most haunted city in America’ to charge a lot for rent, especially when roads and buildings were getting wrecked on the weekly.

But Valerie was not a regular employee. So much so that the even the big boss had approved her getting a legit bonus and not some shitty thirty cent bonus and a Christmas card or free shares in the company.

If someone ran out of the back on fire, she threw flour on them, not water Jake. If some rude asshole attempted to rob the place, she’d stab him in the hand with a plastic straw; fuck the environment, paper straws are stupid and having more flammables in this building would be goddamn stupid. If the bane of all customer service jobs ‘the customer’ showed up and pitched a hissy fit, she had a stone poker face that scared them enough to shut and fuck off… or at least take their damn food and sit down. Alex could do that too, but that was because Alex had horrible social anxiety and would just go silent at any kind of confrontation; and he was a six foot seven brick shit house. There was a reason he stayed by the fries. Anyway, finally, if a ghost showed up then good ol’ Valerie was liable to literally kick them in the face. Never once had he seen her run and hide or flee, no it’s fight on sight with that girl. Utterly terrifying. If she wound up on the news for actually beating someone to death he wouldn’t be shocked, but knowing her they would have deserved it; a white suit or red hat wearer probably.

He actually thought she was going to kill, or whatever, that robo ghost guy once. Got her hands on the axe and smashed him clean in the face with the blade, ripped out the tiny version and shoved him down the garbage disposal. She chased the mad scientist cringey techno one down the street with a baseball bat and a supped up taser; no one asked where the taser came from. No one ever asked where any weapon she suddenly had came from. No one asked that Fenton boy that either, but that’s because the answer there was obvious; his parents were weapons manufacturers for fucks sake.

Which kind of reminds him of another reason they wanted to keep Valerie around, she actually knew how to handle FentonWorks tech and clean up the messes FentonWorks tech left behind. That or she’d called the Fenton boy and he’d tell her what to do without fucking with her the way he would everyone else. Harold did not feel like being reminded that one corroded Fenton-goo-sorption battery, a package of lettuce, and Saran wrap equaled a giant cold fire ball. If the Fenton boy did that to Valerie, she’d go and kick his ass, and he’d let her.

Though if that Fenton kid wasn’t an ecto and Fenton hazard Nasty Burger would hire him in a heartbeat and a half.

But they can’t. Meaning they especially have to keep Valerie around. Even if that meant tossing her a three grand end of year Christmas bonus. Zone he hopes that’s enough, because this place sucked ass.

Someone tried to order their burger rare last week, rare! who eats a fucking rare burger from a cheap ass fast food joint! At least it wasn’t like that lady who tried to order shrimp, why would they serve shrimp! The skinless lettuce request had to be a joke though, no one’s that stupid. It’s close though. Like the people who ask for hot iced coffee or for ice not to float; this town sees freak blizzards enough that you’d think everyone knows how the fuck ice works now. Jesus. Or the multiple people who’ve asked if the wings were chicken or pork.

Emily was also her own brand of stupid that he doesn’t know how the zone Valerie puts up with enough to even be friendly to her. The trainer had to teach her how to use a towel instead of just grabbing hot metal with her bare hands. She filled the sink up with a hose because the tap wouldn’t turn on when she turned the faucet side to side, didn’t even think that the handles were maybe how that worked. She tried to literally bleach the raw fries one time, with actual bleach.

The was a bit of a scare with Valerie though, when that one new older higher called her ‘baby bird’ and then followed that up with calling himself ‘daddy bird’. She yanked the fry basket out of the hot fryer oil and smacked him with it. Harold has never heard someone scream like that before and never wants to again. He’s pretty sure that guy needed a skin graft after actually. Shudder. Oh yeah, she also kicked him one in the nads; oof. He’s pretty sure the only reason she didn’t get not only fired but also arrested was because literally everyone lied and said he did that to himself during some kind of dementia induced psychotic fit.

He could appreciate the team work, especially if it kept the team working haha. Everyone got a round of employee appreciation pizzas a day or two later… though that Foley friend or boyfriend or whatever of the Fenton boy apparently could smell the meat lovers from the street, crawled through the drive thru window, stole half a box, and had to get chased off… chased off by Valerie of course.

So yeah, hopefully three grand sweetened this job up enough, fuck all nothing else would. Because people who say money doesn’t buy happiness have never met drugs. Or houses. Or food. Or cars. Or existing in general. Anyway, he’s gonna give her her bonus, grab a blunt, and then get so fried that he’s sunny side up and tryin’ to find a cyber truck to egg with baked beans. Heh, that sounded like a plan, since he could so do with taking a trip outta Amity for a bit, since no one here was stupid enough to own one of those things.

“I’ll have the Cujo Chicken Chowder, no cheese because I’m vegan-”.

That doesn’t make any sense.

“GHOST BEEEEEEEEEESSSSS!”.

Oh god, fuck this place. Standing up, “Valerie!”.

“Got it! Ya’ll are going in the sink with a plugged in toaster!”.

Ah. Great. Guesses he’ll have to add ‘toaster’ to the list of weekly casualties.

End.

Prompts: The Nasty Burger would do anything to keep Valerie employed. She’s the only one willing to deal with both shitty customers and the ghosts.

[halfetirosie]

🎠 Important info from the [Sleepless Fun Fair] PV! 🎠 (Reaction post)

1) 🚨🚨🚨 ALERT: KUYORB HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT!!!! 🚨🚨🚨

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Lemme tell you---when I first saw Kuyorb in the bag during the design reveal, I just----😭🙏

You know how I mentioned in Greenwood Miracle, when I saw Quincy's stubble, I could just FEEL the collective fandom losing their ever-loving minds?

THAT. That was how it felt to see the Kuyorb. ♡

And now the lil' freak has been freed! Say your prayers!!!

2) NOT THE COUPLES TEACUPS!!!!!! (∩˃o˂∩)♡

IT'S TOO CUTE, I WON'T SURVIVE!!!!

---and how Eiden's cup has (I assume) hot cocoa while Peepaw's has green tea, for his sensitive old-man taste buds...! (≧∇≦)

I have to wonder, though; in whatever room this is supposed to be, did Eiden provide the personalized cups, or did Kuya?? It's cute to think about either way, but I think it's cuter to think of Kuya magicking-up these cups with the catty excuse of, "so the young master doesn't foolishly mix up our drinks and steal my drink by mistake"---when really he just wanted to do cute couple things with Eiden. 😈

3) Not Olivine's background being my default home-decor style---

That Symbolism™ of the tiny Leopard-Eiden on the big Cat-Olivine is so goddamn CUTTEEEEE!!!!! FUCK!

4) Fucking hell, man---

OKAY, so of course, I love the adorable lil' fluff balls cuddled together on the present, in the Darling-snowman, and in the bag---

----WAIT. HOW AM I ONLY NOTICING NOW THAT BLADE'S BAG IS ONE OF THOSE SPECIAL POPCORN BUCKETS THAT THEY'VE BEEN MAKING FOR MOVIES RECENTLY?!?!?! 🤯🤯🤯

5) Fans: We want to see Kitsune-Kuya!

Devs: We have Kitsune-Kuya at home.

Kitsune-Kuya at home:

---I'm just kidding; I know they left out the real fox traits in this one probably just to have more variety in Kuya's cards. Can't be too samey-samey. I ain't mad.

This gesture of teasingly holding up the fox headband is sexy as hell.... (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝)

6) SAVE ME, MODERN-AU WINTER KUYA. MODERN-AU WINTER KUYA, SAVE ME. 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Kuya be lookin' fine as fuck in this more modern design, and I'm obsessed. Like, he always looks like the kind of man that will absolutely ruin your life (on-brand for him), but I think this design hits a bit different for me because the clothes are a little more "real."

Now it's like he's Mr. Ruin Your Life FOR REALSIES After Your Fateful Meeting At The Coffee Shop.

❤️❤️❤️❤️ _(´ཀ`」 ∠)

7) The lap-pillow, head-cradling, Eiden wearing Kuya's headband....

Lemme tell you, after the nightmare of Kuya's last R5, I am extremely pleased that we're getting a 💜Soft Kuya 💜 for this intimacy scene.

I hope that Kuya will be chill and 0% toxic for the entirety of this event, please and thank you. Gotta give me time to chill from all of the recent evil-writing!

8) HIS BIG OL' WAVE!!!!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

It's giving such puppy energy, I'm having heart palpitations!!!!!!! ﮩـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

9) Blade is determined to rot my teeth with all of his sugary sweetness, dammit!!!!

This is, hands-down, my top favorite Blade outfit. Our mans got the pastel palette, stylish hat, peek-a-boo torn jeans and crop top, and accessorized to hell and back!!!!

Our Sweet Diet-Decora Prince!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

10) HAND-HOLDING HAND-HOLD HAND-HOLDING HAND-HOLDING HAND---

11) Honestly, it is so refreshing seeing Olivine purely just enjoying himself; letting himself indulge in this he was never allowed to growing up (shoutout to Olivine's shitty parents, I hate you guys). ( ´ ˘ ` )

ALSO, THE PROPHECY IS TRUE!!!! I PREDICTED MUSTACHE-OLIVINE!!!! 🤣🤣🤣

(JK obviously, but now this got me wondering about mustache-olivine even more....)

12) *Immediately gives his belly raspberries*

(Is it just me, or does anyone else think Olivine's hair looks nicer than usual in this SSR? Did he start using a new shampoo or something?)

13) YASSS, QUEEN!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉👏👏👏

WEAR THAT SEXY LINGERIE!!!! 🔥🔥🔥

It's so nice seeing Olivine out here, living his best life, going out of his way to wear some winter-themed lingerie---I think it's partly to rile up Eiden, but mostly as a kind of self-care. We love to see it!!! ◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜

🎠 End of report! 🎠

[fruitcoops]

Best Beloved

Day Thirteen: our final day of Fic O'Ween 2024, brought to you by the most special girl in the world. She was spared a spooky movie, as she did not partake in the midight margaritas for obvious reasons. Characters (except our leading lady) belong to @lumosinlove, and MASSIVE massive thanks to @noots-fic-fests for organizing another wonderful year <3

Day 12 movie: Beetlejuice (1988)

Movie theme of the fest itself: Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), with a sprinkling of Freaky Friday (2003) for our dream-hopping, out-of-body experiences. I hope you enjoyed reading and following along as much as I enjoyed writing these!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

“How is it?”

“…working, but don’t tell him.”

Lily took a pointed sip of her hangover cure (courtesy of James) and rested her elbows on the kitchen island. Remus joined her a moment later, laying his whole head on his folded arms and abandoning his own concoction to the side. The ‘Whale of a Time!’ novelty mug from their Alaskan summer trip bore a cheerful orca waving its fin, directly at odds with his general aura of headache melancholy.

“I wonder what she dreams of,” he mused, muffled by the thick sleeves of his hoodie.

Below them, Hattie’s paws gave a twitch.

“Seems important,” Lily agreed. She braved another sip. It was disappointing how well the awful thing worked.

Remus hummed, and tilted his head slightly to the side. His eyes remained on Hattie’s side, rising and falling in an even pattern ever-so-rarely interrupted by a huff. Her nose wiggled; he smiled. “Nah. She’s got nothing to worry about.”

“Evil squirrels,” Lily pointed out.

“They steer clear.”

“Rival gangs?”

Remus’ next breath was a laugh. “She has never met an enemy.”

Lily frowned. “Delayed dinner?”

Remus paused, blinking slowly. “Maybe. Aw, look, she’s chasing something.”

Fuzzy black paws picked up the pace. Quick flicks, back-and-forth, scraping just her smallest nail along the floor in tiny, inch-long crescents. Hattie’s nose wiggled again, searching for whatever eluded her in the land of beautiful dreams inhabited by the best-loved creatures. Even her eyelids fluttered.

“Hattie,” Remus called softly. “What are you doing, Hat Trick?”

Hattie’s tail gave a thump. She settled with a last hard puff that flexed her nostrils. Her paws fell quiet, save for one last stretch.

--

Hattie was having the most fabulous dream.

Her people, all her people, wandering about—then home, after discovering several dropped crackers when people started leaving. A car ride and bedtime and scritches and treats snuck under the table to her and every last one of her people petting her all night long, even through the thick Dad Shirt she had been put in before they arrived.

(That part was confusing. They had so many Dad Shirts in the house boxes, in all sizes. They got thrown into the weird bags with interesting smells and went out with her dads every day, but they always came home smelling like unfamiliar laundry and not the sweaty strangeness of their playing-with-friends clothes. Also, Hattie wasn’t usually dressed in Dad Shirts. Everyone else found it very funny.)

And now! Now she had a butterfly, big and yellow and bouncing just ahead of her snout. She had jumped at it first, then pranced after it, and now she was allowed to run-run-run across soft, flat grass.

It was wonderful.

--

“She was so goddamn cute in Pads’ jersey last night—”

“Oh my god, I know, I died when he brought her down in it.”

Lily buried her laughter in the rim of her cup. “It’s uncanny.”

Remus grimaced briefly around the dregs of the Emergen-C-Gatorade-Tums-Pedialyte smoothie, but his fond smile returned without issue. “It’s so…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “From day one, I swear. The eyes?”

“The hair!”

“It’s dead-on.”

“Sorry for leaving lipstick on her forehead.”

Remus shrugged one shoulder. “It blends in. She’s fine.”

“Animal testing,” Lily joked.

“The glitter, maybe.”

“The margs took over. I’m not liable for my actions.”

Their mutual wince made Remus pinch the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Jesus, yeah, and they were so good.”

“It makes me so mad,” Lily mumbled into the cuff of her hoodie. “Like, come on, at least make it taste like danger.”

“That salt rim.”

“The fucking salt rim! French sea salt? Are you joking right now?”

“And the sugar sprinkled on the top.” Remus shook his head with a noise of faux disgust. They sat quietly for a few minutes. Outside, garage door hummed. Remus leaned over and knocked their shoulders together. “Thanks for coming over this morning.”

“Your husband actually begged mine to heal him.”

“And he did. You should keep him.”

Lily gave him a disbelieving look. “He’s not going anywhere.”

--

The butterfly led Hattie over bubbling streams and gentle slopes just meant to be sprinted down. The wind ruffled her fur and carried the bird songs right into her ears, no effort necessary. She was out of breath. It didn’t matter. The butterfly was right there—she almost had it.

--

“Hi, boys,” Lily rasped as the door to the kitchen opened.

James barely glanced up from kicking off his tennis shoes with a bag in one hand and coffee in the other. “Boo. Trick or treat?”

“Treat.”

“Everything bagel with scallion cream cheese.”

Lily buried her moan in the countertop and reached a blind, grasping hand out across cool marble. Wax paper crinkled; a soft greeting followed, then a kiss to the back of her head. She squinted in the low light of late morning as James paired it neatly with a second to her forehead. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“Dearly. Endlessly. Forever.”

His cheeks pinked. “Back at you.”

“Mhm.”

Remus was halfway through his own bagel when she looked over. Her stomach rumbled in pure jealousy.

“Oh,” Sirius said happily, pointing past them. “She’s dreaming.”

--

Triumph. Hattie rolled onto her back and stretched her legs out as far as they would go, each toe flexed and every joint extended. It would be better with belly rubs, but a wiggle of her shoulders in the moss was more than enough to satisfy.

The butterfly hopped between her back paws, then up to the front. It tickled the pads and the fur between them. She tipped her head to the side for a better look at the fluffy bits of its wings, but a flop of her paw startled it into the air.

The butterfly set off again, this time toward a rich green forest. Hattie leapt up with a bark and a bound, and didn’t look back.

[witchexia]

Ironic Process Theory ⛤

(a short paradox story i wrote !)

I blink as I opened my eyes, after what seemed like a while of having them shut. I could of sworn I was in my office a while ago though, specifically, sitting at my desk after a particularly rough day.  Not in the middle of the Foundation's hallways. I take a look at my surroundings, and notice how dreamlike and hazy everything seems. Is this a dream? While I'm looking around, I feel something light in my hands. I look down, and see a very familiar dark-brown striped newsboy's cap. I know this cap, it's SCP-268. The Serpent's Hand requested for me to retrieve this hat for them . But wait. This scenario seems familiar. Too familiar.

This is that nightmare scenario that has been haunting me ever since it has happened. The breach of SCP-268 and my 'termination.' Even though I'm still alive, that incident has scarred me for life. 

Suddenly, I start moving forwards. All I can do is just spectate this dream, since I do not have any control of myself right now. Strange, I always have control of myself in my dreams. I pass countless doors in the SCP Foundation, mindlessly swiping clearance cards to let me through some restricted doors. I start to get a strange gut feeling that I am either being watched or followed, so I start to walk faster, grasping onto the anomalous cap. The feeling of anxiety starts to reach me inside the dream, something telling me to hurry the hell up. But, I realise something. Oh god. Are the cameras on? I take a look at the camera in the current hallway I'm in, and notice that the usual red blinking light is not there. I let out an exhale of relief and continue to rush through the dreamlike Foundation hallways. 

But then, I hear it. Heavy footsteps. Those heavy footsteps belong to the guards working at the Foundation. When I was still the Head of Psychology, I heard those heavy footsteps daily. Suddenly, a wave of terror crashes over me as the footsteps start to sound like they're walking towards me. Shaking, I try to back off, but my back hits the wall behind me. I frantically search for my keycard, but my pockets are empty besides the candy wrappers and the little bits of paper I mindlessly shoved into my pockets. Did I drop that goddamn keycard somewhere?! This can't be! As I'm looking at the ground, expecting my bright orange keycard to be on the ground, I hear the heavy metal doors infront of me open.. 

And there, standing at the doorstep, is one of the guards. Covered in tactical armor, from toe to head, holding a heavy FN P90. The guard looks at me with a dangerous gaze, as I start to panic. I drop the anomalous cap onto the ground, hands too shaky to even be holding it steadily. Tears start to well in my eyes, as the guard's grip on his FN P90 tightens. When this happened, Simon was with me. Why is Simon not in this dream? Not in this nightmare? I try to back off more, trying to get away from the guard's gaze, but my back hits the wall again. I knew that anyone caught assisting in a breach of an anomaly would instantly get terminated. Oh god. I look around frantically again. Surely, the keycard must be somewhere on the ground, right? In the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the guard aiming his FN P90 at me, specifically, my head. Is this really it? Amidst the horrifying scenario, I try to take deep breaths to calm down. Maybe, just maybe, if I try to convince the guard to not kill me yet, it would work. I know that effort would be in vain, though. I know I'm dead in this nightmare. Before I even open my mouth to attempt to persuade the guard to not shoot me, I feel a strange pressure in my head, and everything goes dark.

Heavily breathing, I wake up, clutching at my head. I'm safe and sound, still sitting at my desk. I'm still extremely shaken up from that nightmare, so I attempt to calm myself down. I look around my room, looking for five things I can see and name. The little duck plushie that Simon gave to me when we were still kids, my cold coffee I made before I abruptly  fell asleep, my warm brown sweater, the new jasmine incense I have bought and the graceful white snowflakes falling onto the land, creating a beautiful snowy blanket. It seemed to calm me down a little bit, but fresh memories of the nightmare still linger. No matter how much I try to suppress that incident, I just keep getting flashbacks and nightmares to it. I know this as the Ironic Process theory, one of the many paradoxes. 

But, I still can't help but start to tear up at the nightmare that just occured. Why can't the flashbacks and nightmares stop? Why do I have to suffer with this alone? Tears start to stream down my cheeks as I look out the window, watching the snowflakes fall from the sky.

[tyrantisterror]

At Sea Without a Map pt. 25

For a very brief moment, you consider how out of all the crazy bullshit that's been thrown at you, this - a fucking pirate tiger - is the thing that's breaking your brain. Sea monsters and living nightmares are one thing, but how do you even begin to comprehend something this goddamn silly being real?

Well, apparently you just roll with it, because that's what you end up doing. "Alright, Calibani, translate for me please," you say, "I've got some questions for..." You stop and squint at the tiger pirate, and it regards you back with the terrifying stare of an apex predator. "For Captain Peter."

The tiger sits at attention, waiting for your queries. With a nod from Calibani, you begin to interrogate the big cat. "Alright, so..." You try to think of which questions would be most important to ask, but one keeps superseding them in your mind. "I'm sorry, but why are you a tiger? Like, were you transformed into a tiger or something?"

Calibani poses the question for you in a mix of growls and roars, and Captain Peter simply shakes his shaggy head in response. "He says he's always been a tiger."

"Then how did he get here?" you ask. "Tigers aren't exactly aquatic wildlife!"

After a translation by Calibani, Captain Peter begins growling and roaring back a very long answer, which takes your fishy companion a while to parse. "I think I have the jist..." Calibani says.

"Captain Peter was put in a cage by a nasty man. The nasty man took him on a big boat across the ocean, and Captain Peter was very sad and scared. A great storm came and shook the ship, breaking the cage and letting Peter free! He chased the nasty man off the big boat and onto a small boat, then ate the nasty man and was very happy! But he had nowhere to go, and was stuck on the boat for a long time. Eventually he saw a huge fish, and it tried to eat him, but he ate it instead. Eating the fish made him and his boat stronger, so he kept doing that, and now he and his boat are very strong!"

As the story is relayed to you, you place your palm upon your face and slowly draw it down as you process what you're hearing. "Alright, alright, fine, that makes enough sense," you tell yourself. "But where'd he get the coat, and the hat, and the eyepatch, and the goddamn hand-hook on his tail?"

After relaying the question, Calibani translates the tiger's brief answer, "From adventure." Frowning, she growls a followup question to the tiger, and gets another brief response. "I'm sorry, he's not giving me more detail than that."

Sighing, you ask, "Is he the only crew of this ship? I mean, it's huge, don't ships like this need a big crew?" You look at the tiger again and add, "Also, like, human hands to manipulate it?"

After some back and forth roaring, Calibani translates, "He is the only crew of this boat. It listens to him well, and has grown big and strong."

"What the fuck does that mean?" you ask. "Boats don't grow!"

"They don't?" Calibani asks. "I thought all living things do that."

"Boats aren't alive!" you say, only to remember some odd quirks of your own vehicle. "At least they're not supposed to be..."

"Huh. You learn something new everyday, I suppose," Calibani says.

A thought occurs to you. "Ask him how long he's been here."

Calibani relays the question then gives you the response. "Many days and many nights. He says that he has lived longer than any tiger has lived before out here, and plans to live longer still. As long as he draws breath, he will claw and bite and thrive out here on the sea."

It's not a specific answer, which should be expected from a creature that was not taught how to record and measure time (and hell, it's not like you've been doing a good job of it yourself), but it tells you what you need to know. If you are stuck here, that doesn't mean you're doomed. After all, a tiger's got some significant disadvantages you don't have to deal with, and if he made it this long, maybe you can too.

Still, that doesn't mean you want to stay here. "Ask Captain Peter what he knows about Dr. Neptune, whoever that is. If those notes are to be trusted, that guy might be my ticket home."

A good deal of roaring fills the air as you wait for an answer. "He says Dr. Neptune is... um... a bucket? With meat in it? A meat bucket?" Calibani shrugs. "I'm not quite sure what he's describing, but apparently this Neptune fella is pretty smart, but also strange? He lives in a... what?" She growls and roars back and forth with the tiger again. "He lives in a mountain shaped like a wrinkly butt."

"...a wrinkly butt," you say flatly.

"Yeah, like a monkey's butt, but covered in wrinkles," Calibani says. "Peter says Dr. Neptune does not like it when he calls it a butt, but that's what it looks like, and Dr. Neptune can complain all he wants but he chose to live in a butt mountain so what does he know."

"Does he know how to send me home?" you ask insistently. "I don't care if he lives in an actual asshole, I just want to go home!"

The tiger thinks for a while when this question is translated for him, before finally growling out a reply for Calibani to relay. "If anyone Peter's met would know, it'd be Dr. Neptune." More growling, more translation. "But Peter asks why you want to go back? There are nasty men at home. The sea doesn't put you in a cage."

That question stuns you so bad you feel dizzy, because you're not sure what the answer to it is. As you try to think of it, you feel your compass grow heavy in your pocket, and instinctively reach down, grab it, and reposition it so it weighs a bit less on you. "Tell me where I can find Dr. Neptune," you say, putting the tiger's question out of mind for now.

Captain Peter turns around and looks to the horizon, gesturing at it with his tail-mounted hook. "He says we should travel that way. It should be no more than a day's journey till we find Dr. Neptune's island. If we hit the island with jagged spines, we've gone too far."

"Spines?"

"He doesn't have the largest vocabulary," Calibani says. "I think he means rocks, or maybe mountains? He describes most things in animal terms."

"Alright," you sigh. "Those are directions are easy enough to follow, anyway." You think about any other questions you might have. "Does he have any weapons he can spare - a cannon, maybe? I just lost my harpoon, after all."

Calibani relays the message, and the tiger's eye lights up. He gives a growl before stalking up the plank back to his ship, then returns shortly afterward with a bundle of harpoons held in his jaws. "Oh, that's kind of him," Calibani says. "We have five to spare now!"

You think about how you would have preferred a cannon, but decide not to verbalize it. "Thank him for me," you ask Calibani, and she nods and growls to the tiger.

Captain Peter nods and releases several roars in quick succession. "He says to think nothing of it, and to remember the kindness of Captain Peter. He adds that he wishes us well on our journey, and that we kill and eat many a monster, so we too may grow strong." She gives the tiger a nod as he trots back to his ship. "Pretty pleasant fellow, huh?"

"...yeah," you say quietly as you watch the tiger climb up onto his pirate ship and sail away. Once more you're safe, and while you have more of an idea what to do now, you're still left with a lot of burning questions. Confused as to what you should focus on, you consult your compass.

[callmearcturus]

ITP my job finds a new even more horrific way to lowkey torture employees (and that's not an exaggerated usage of "torture" funnily enough)

"hey arc what's up, you been quiet"

funny story

so the casually cruel fuckheads at my job sent IT around to every desk to do something with the phones.

they set every ringer to maximum volume and disabled the ability to lower the volume or mute the ringer. so every desk phone, regardless of department, is connected to the main queue and whether you are meant to be answering calls or not, your phone rings at 90 to 100 dB.

I have very well-controlled anxiety. i've been to therapy, I take medication, I know recovery techniques. I've been living with this my entire life. but: my primary anxiety trigger is sudden loud sounds, to the point that I always make sure to take my lunch when they are testing the fire alarms and I once turned down a nice secretarial gig bc it was for a construction company.

so for the past few days, I've been subjected to constant, inconsistent loud noises.

I've already burst into tears twice and had to take 4 emergency breaks in the stairwell to get control of my breathing to avert a panic attack.

I talked to my boss (my direct boss, who is a wonderful man who has my eternal loyalty, not the vicious thoughtless fuckhead who runs the company) and he literally directed me to "put your earbuds in and turn on the sound canceling. if anyone notices, I'll cover for you." like, it's that fucking bad.

(and i'm not alone! there's a guy in another department who is a former army guy or former cop, and he's shaken bc it's just loud sudden noises surrounding him, it's horrible.)

so, i flat out took today off bc I needed a mental health day and to talk to my doctor. my doctor, who I think might literally want to fistfight the CEO of my company at this point bc this is cruelty for no fucking reason, is writing me a strongly worded accomodation request and getting me some extra drugs to help me not freak out

but its a fucking nightmare and it's affecting everything. i got all the classic warning signs of depression: i don't want to do my normal hobbies, i don't want to talk to friends (i'm forcing myself to do it, I'm old hat at this), I don't want to eat, and i want to lay down int he dark a lot.

SO. IT'S BAD. But we're working on it.

My boss and I have a pact, that I'm sticking around until he throws in the towel and leaves, but I had to tell him "this needs to stop or I need to look for another job, no matter how much I love this stupid goddamn job, i can't physically do this"

so that's what's up.