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bitterrfruit · 24 days ago

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houndtooth [epilogue]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.9k words cw: none.

you try to move on.

Eight months later

Time is a river.

That’s what your sponsor Brian had told you, when you went up to receive your six-month chip. A navy plastic coin, unremarkable, special in its own way.

Y’just gotta let the current take you.

Poetic old Irishman that he is. Seen worse things than you. You’re not sure why you always find it helpful, grounding, to hear him talk about his experiences during the Gulf War. Plane shot out of the sky. Parachuted directly into enemy-controlled territory. A prisoner of war for three weeks, only liberated once the war had already been won. Wears the scars of it; a missing eye, doughy skin graft on his cheek, a pillowy stub where his hand should be.

Told you he got into heroin pretty quickly after coming back home. Said he couldn’t look at anyone the same. Couldn’t stay in touch with his brothers-in-arms. Couldn’t stand the dark. Didn’t take him long to replace food, water, air, with a needle in his arm. Felt a lot better back then, he said.

But using is like holding stones underwater, he told you. Keeps you stuck to the riverbed till y’drown.

He’s been sober for twenty years. Almost twenty-one. Said he offered to sponsor you because he said he saw himself in you.

You couldn’t tell him anything about your own experiences when you spoke to him at your Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Tongue legally tied by what was essentially an NDA and persistent government surveillance. Forbidden to utter a word of what had been a special operations mission of the utmost confidentiality. A failed mission, at that.

He saw it in you, though. That blackness in the back of your eyes. Understood without you needing to share it.

You wouldn’t have wanted to share it, anyway.

That was Mia’s life.

Now, you’re Amelia.

Amelia Frances Day. Printed on your new birth certificate, on your driver’s license, on your shiny new passport. A photo of you with your new haircut in the corner. Born in Leeds, it says, only child to Harry and Phillipa Day. Both tragically dead, of course, according to your manufactured origin story. Died in a car accident when you were a teenager, so you’re spared putting on the show of mourning imaginary people.

Captain Jonathan had decided your vaguely northern accent was weak enough to say you had been raised in Newcastle. Told you that London got hit the worst, and half the city is cordoned off by plastic tents and caution tape. Better to plant you somewhere reasonably intact.

He had asked you what you wanted your degree to be, when he had you in a boxy little office with him at Brize Norton, a week after you stepped off the helicopter.

It was surreal, you remember, sitting in that room with him. The Captain. In a cushioned chair, across the table from him; unrestrained by zip cuffs, with the door unlocked, and a window cracked open to let in the cold air of late winter. He was stiff as a board, then, only spoke with a bone-straight back and through gritting teeth. Nothing like the unctuous suave he put on when you first met him, or when he held that revolver to your head. He sat upright in his chair, laptop and a notepad open on the table, manila folders and documents scattered across it.

Psychology, you had suggested. Bachelor of Arts. The kind of unremarkable graduate degree that can slot in anywhere. That people don’t ask about. Helped that you sat through two years of lectures before you had dropped out — lends a bit of believability to your story.

“Does Amelia have any hobbies?” He had asked you, impassively, but you could hear the solemnity in his throat.

You had to think about it for a while before you could answer him. There was something forlorn in his expression that gave you the impression he was self-flagellating by asking it. Wanted to know how human you were as punishment for how he had treated you as less than.

“She likes to draw,” you had told him, mumbled it, staring vacantly at the six-day-old bruises on your legs. “She likes to read, too. Um… I can’t remember what else she likes.”

So he got you a library card. New health records. Clean criminal record, of course. Amelia hasn’t committed any crimes. Doesn’t even have a speeding ticket.

You remember how his face dropped when you told him your real name. You weren’t sure what compelled you to share it, that Mia Zakhaev was as manufactured and artificial as Amelia Day. Perhaps you wanted him to shoulder the guilt that came with being forced to acknowledge that you were never the enemy. Some part of you found it satisfying, watching him fidget in your company, avoiding eye contact or speaking more than three words at a time — evidence, you thought, that he understood how he had wronged you.

He had wrapped up the meeting, then. Scooped up all his papers and folders, shut his laptop with a thunk.

You asked about Simon before he left the room.

He only let out a terse breath and looked at his boots, before telling you that you’d get all your documents when you were cleared to leave the airbase. Left the subject at that, before he slipped out of the door and left it ajar behind him.

Simon died that day, you’re certain.

You haven’t heard anything otherwise in the eight months since. Not even from Kyle, your assigned custodian, despite how frequently you asked him in your first few months of confidential protection.

Let’s talk about you, he’d say, to change the subject. Or he’d robotically tell you, I’m really sorry, you know I can’t talk about that.

He’d come over every fortnight or so, at first, when you had been holed up in your safehouse in the city centre, a stone’s throw from the cathedral. Your new ‘apartment’, so they called it, repurposed to look like a young woman had been living there. He always told you he was visiting just to check on you, make sure you were settling in okay. You believed it for a while, when he’d come over for some takeaways, or to watch a movie, just to keep you company.

He was surveilling you, though. You could read it in the glimmer of shame in his doe-like eyes. Forced to ensure you continued to act in the Nation’s best interest.

You aren’t allowed to leave the country, of course. Aren’t allowed to travel too far without informing them. Aren’t allowed to disappear or to talk to anybody untoward.

Standard practice, they had informed you, to keep an eye on foreign informants. That’s what they had designated you as — an informant. Explained that it was for your safety and theirs; you might retain your foreign connections, after all. Might share secrets with the Russians you had been unwillingly allied with.

They gave you a compensatory pension, at least. Hearty payments of a few thousand a month, and a decent one-off payout as ‘reimbursement’ for the damage they had done. For the scars they left. Hush money, obviously, but you took it willingly.

You sold your wedding ring, too. The one Mia’s husband had proposed with. A pillow-cut pink diamond, four carats, encircled by twelve Burmese pigeon-blood rubies. Prong-set, white gold band. You traded it with a jewellery dealer for two-hundred grand. The only good thing Victor ever did for you, even if it was pocket change compared to the size of his wallet.

There’s not much you can do with that money, though. Not yet. They gave you an amorphous timeline, all but telling you that someday you’ll be allowed totally free movement, if and when they deem you trustworthy enough. There’s no spending it on travelling, on a house, on an apartment in the meantime.

The one benefit, though, is that it means you are spared the need to find a job. One day you’ll need one, you’re sure, but you’re not ready yet. Not ready for interviews, for background checks, for probing questions about the gap in your employment history.

You’ve picked up volunteering, instead.

Took you a while to gather the strength to leave the house, of course. A month or two before your agoraphobia abated and you were able to venture out onto the street. Even longer before you could go anywhere crawling with people — not to say anywhere was busy anymore. People kept indoors even still, just in case.

But after a couple of months of NA meetings and military-funded counselling, you were handed a UNICEF pamphlet. Information about volunteering at make-shift ‘childcare centres’. A gentler word for the last-minute orphanages set up to house swathes of children left parentless after the attacks on Eleven-One.

Black Thursday, they call it.

Makes your teeth saw together every time you hear it. And it’s everywhere.

It’s on the news, on the radio, on your phone. Plastered on street posters. Billboards. Trauma support services advertised on the sides of the arsenal of buses they eventually sent out to replace the underground Metro, now that the entire subway system is a red zone, still contaminated by the sticky nerve agent that had coated every surface and still lingers in the air down there.

Two bombs went off in Newcastle. Twenty-one in London. Three-hundred odd had been triggered all over Europe. Casualties in the tens of thousands, and counting. Never a specific number, always, tens of thousands.

Kyle had told you, against instruction, that there had been thousands of bombs, planted even further afield than Europe. Waiting for the ping that would set them off at the right time of day to maximise the number of casualties.

Simon had prevented that. He inputted the code that terminated the sequence, while knowing that doing so would kill him.

There was no heroic send-off for him. His name wasn’t in the press, wasn’t even whispered at the military bases you were tossed between for two weeks after you were sent home. No medals or commendation or praise for an act that prevented the deaths of hundreds of thousands of others.

At first the guilt was blinding.

All-consuming. Pumped like lead through your blood, gritty and black, leaving little sores in the ventricles of your heart. For a while you thought you mightn’t be able to live with it — bearing the knowledge that every casualty whose name was carved into the public memorial had died because of a button that you pressed.

Seemed that part wasn’t common knowledge, though. Somebody had kept that secret for you. As far as the world was aware, some Soviet extremist was the one to have set off the sequence of explosives. The simple explanation. A terrorist enacting terrorism.

Your counsellor believed your guilt to rest on the fact that you had married the man to orchestrate it. That you played a part in some non-literal, ignorant-but-obliging way. It made it even harder to overcome, because her method of comforting you was to tell you ad nauseum that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.

Her advice was still beneficial, at least. Could be extended to your less forgivable circumstances.

She told you to help people. To make a tangible difference. That doing so would alleviate even a portion of the guilt that weighed on you.

You’re approaching your fifth month of volunteering at CRSC Newcastle. Children’s Refuge and Support Centres, they call them — a whole network of them, fifteen-odd foster centres across the UK, all set up in under-used community centres or schools. Your fake bachelor’s degree certainly aided in getting you a role there, but it helped that they were and continue to be desperate for any support they can get.

You work the later shifts. Wednesday through Sunday, one p.m. to nine p.m. Mainly with the younger kids, too. Three to five. A relief, because any older and they’d have questions. They’d have the vocabulary to ask why their parents are dead. To talk about how sad they are, how much they miss them, how much they hate the people responsible for killing them.

You’re not a licensed educator or a counsellor, nor do you get paid, so they call you a supporter. You’ve got a name badge for it, too.

Amelia. CRSC Supporter.

You clip it to your cerulean UNICEF t-shirt as the last step of getting ready for your shift.

Hair in a claw clip, no earrings, nails unpainted. Legs unshaven. Jeans. Adidas sneakers. A spritz of perfume you bought on special at TK Maxx.

You felt stupid for missing it while you were stuck in your mansions, but you did. Normalcy. No need to perform, to consistently be stripped and scrubbed and ready for eyes and hands at any given moment. No need to cover yourself in ostentatious displays of wealth just to avoid ire from the moguls around you.

Amelia has the same sense of style as Bridget Jones. She doesn’t need to try too hard, because she’s not a billionaire’s tormented wife, she’s just Amelia. Amelia from Leeds.

Seems the weather is finally turning after a week straight of sunshine, as fat raindrops begin to patter on the window to your bedroom. For the best, you have a crisping-up sunburn on your nose and cheeks from when you took the kids to Ouseburn Farm on Wednesday. Still warm, though, a little under twenty celsius, so you only pull on your burgundy Primark rainjacket, and you bring your brolly with you as you head out the door.

The refuge is a fifteen minute walk from your military-issued apartment, and it’s a pleasant one, for the most part. Once you get off the busiest roads, anyway, and the streets go from being littered with shops to being lined with suburban terraces and big old trees. Leaves all on the cusp of yellow as autumn looms in the coming few weeks.

Saoirse, one of the licensed counsellors, is out the front of the old brick community centre when you arrive. Arm around one of the older kids as they sit on the steps together. She gives you a quick smile as you walk past with a little wave, occupied, but you can catch up with her after bedtime.

It’s Friday, so the kids are still in preschool by the time you arrive, and there’s nobody at reception. You pour yourself a tea in the break room behind the front desk in the meantime.

Even after eight months, you still think of him at the first sip.

I drink tea. You remember how his grumbly old voice sounded when he said it. Mourn that you never got to know what kind of tea he preferred. Whether he took it with sugar. He seemed like an Earl Grey type, you thought.

Stupid to reminisce on such a thing, and you shake off the thought like a wet dog when you do. It’s a vice, you’ve found, reflecting on your brief and harrowing time with him through such rosy lenses.

“Oh — Meals,” comes a woman’s voice, and you turn to spot Josie, one of the early childhood teachers who tends to stick around long after her classes. Gave you that nickname within a week, because apparently she has a cousin called Amelia who goes by Meals. “Quick warning — Daniel’s got an upset tummy. So… might be some clean up later.”

“Lovely,” you reply through a smirk. “What’d they have for lunch?”

“Ham sandwiches,” Josie says.

“He probably ate some dirt again, then,” you remark, and she giggles.

“Wouldn’t put it past him. Filthy little animals, the lot of them,” she snorts. “It was all maths and spelling today — you should let them have a play around in the art room for a while.”

“Good idea,” you nod.

Art time is your favourite after-school activity to monitor. Something soul-healing, you think, watching children express themselves creatively, unbounded by instruction or time limits. There’s so much stuff in there, too — acrylic paints, crayons, coloured pencils, glitter glue. Big sheets of brightly coloured paper and a bucket of toddler-safe scissors. Stickers, pipe cleaners, googly-eyes. All of the supplies funded by community donations, a fact heartwarming in itself.

So once the preschool kids finish their classes and eat their cheese and crackers, you turn them loose like piglets in a pen.

Your only job is to keep them company. Guide them when they ask for help, praise them for their drawings, take them to the toilet when they need it.

It was extremely distressing, at first, when the kids would show you crayon drawings of their late parents, or when they smeared red and orange paint on a piece of paper and told you it was a painting of the Metro bomb. You’d have to leave the room quite often, then, and Saoirse was a huge help to you.

She doesn’t know anything, of course, she only thought your grief stemmed from overwhelming sympathy. Still, she was a shoulder. Told you that it would only take time, and soon the children would return to their happiest little selves, and you’d get to hold their hands through it.

She was right. Now you most often get drawings of rainbows with a blue stripe as the sky above and a green stripe as the ground below. You get given little creatures made of pompoms and glue and googly eyes and are told you have to feed them glitter or they’ll get hungry. You get to tell Lila she looks beautiful when she asks you if you like her makeup and shows you all the stickers she put on her face.

They get about two hours of free time before you get their attention with the five-clap call and tell them it’s time for dinner. A few whinges later and they file into the cafeteria, where the donation-funded catering company feeds them roast chicken with peas and mashed potatoes.

Your shift aligns with Kate’s around dinnertime, because she looks after the kids older than nine — your favourite person to talk to, because she talks so much that you don’t have to think.

“Yeah, and you won’t believe the kind of shit he said,” she prattles on, under breath, so the kids don’t hear the content of her conversation. “He was all like — wow, babe, you’ve got such a cute arsehole. Like, what does that even mean? Cute arsehole? I mean I’ll take the compliment, but then I was thinking — how many arseholes must he be looking at to be able to distinguish a cute one?”

You can’t help but snort loudly at that, quickly covering your mouth when one of the children turns over his shoulder to squint at you. Taxes, Kate tells him, when he asks what’s so funny.

After all the kids have their pudding and their bathtime, they get to pick their Friday night movie. Cars 2 is the most popular choice, because they watched the first one last week. You sit with Kate at the very back of the telly room, behind where the pack of children sit cross-legged on the carpet. She continues to whisper details about her dating life in your ear, and you are spared from thinking about yourself or your situation or your failings for even a second.

Until she says; “What about you? Surely you’re seeing someone.”

Your chest tightens up when she asks it, and you suddenly get stage fright as you scramble for what to tell her. Amelia doesn’t have baggage, after all — not the kind of baggage Mia did, anyway.

“No, I’m — I’m taking a break from men for a while,” you settle for, vague enough to avoid probing but close enough to the truth that she won’t offer to take you on a double date or something equally as horrific.

“Ah,” she hums, with a nod. “Understandable. Getting over someone?”

You inadvertently let out a sigh. “Guess so.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Who—”

Miraculously interrupted by a four-year-old who waddles over to where you sit. “Miss Goodwin, um, I need to use the toilet.”

Kate all but groans at that. “You just went, Charlie!” She chides in a whisper, before immediately relenting and holding the wee girl’s hand. “Alright, c’mon.”

They slip out of the room and you’re spared the rest of the conversation.

Seven o’clock is bed time, but most of them wind up actually in bed closer to half past, after all their fussing and requests for more pudding and but I’m not tired-ing. There’s no falling asleep until eight, because what was once a temporary shelter has now become permanent, yet still only has the capacity for ten-bed bunking rooms. You shush some giggling and tuck in some blankets, and finally, by ten-past-eight, the kids are down for the night.

There’s a window of time before the end of every shift where you can chat with the other staff all at once, settled down in the break room for some post-sunset tea once the night-time custodians take over the childcare.

You tune in and out of the conversation like you’re fiddling with the dial of a radio, either staring vacantly into the table as you sip your tea or making eye-contact and nodding attentively.

“Wait, you’re still going on that date?” Josie asks Kate incredulously, head cocked back in shock. “I thought you said he was a freak?”

Kate gives her an impish smile. “I did.”

“You’re foul,” Saoirse snickers. “Far less salaciously, I’ve got my sister’s baby shower tomorrow.”

“Oh my god!” Josie gawks. “That’s so sweet — I forgot. She must be well along now, does she know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“No,” Saoirse murmurs with an eye-roll. “They want it to be a surprise. I keep telling her, I’m the aunt, at least I should get to know!”

Kate tuts. ��That’s gonna be a big argument when it pops,” she says. “Who wants to be fighting about a name when you’re bleeding everywhere and pissing yourself? Not me.”

“Good thing you aren’t having babies any time soon then, Kate,” Josie teases, chuckling.

“Ever,” Kate adds facetiously, signing a cross over her chest. “These ones are plenty.”

“Ugh, you guys have interesting things going on. I’m so boring,” Josie moans, taking a sip of her tea. “You doing anything tonight, Meals?”

Your eyes flick up from where you fiddled with the label of your teabag. “Oh, um,” you think aloud, because you hadn’t even considered it yet. “Nah. I’m boring too. Might stick around and tidy up the art room, though, it’s a sty in there.”

“Gonna have to start hiding the paint,” Saoirse comments amusedly, “It’s all down the hallway. I even found some on a toilet seat. How do they even spread the mess that far?”

You giggle. “I had to stop Will from drinking it today. He got as far as taking the pump out. Got bright pink all over his shirt.”

“That solves it,” Saoirse laughs. “The paint in the toilet was pink.”

“Such goblins,” Kate smiles.

Kate leaves the moment she finishes her tea, hurrying off to get ready for her date, so she calls it — which gives you an excuse to slip out of the break room. Allow your social battery a chance to recharge before you implode.

Your prescribed counsellor reminds you frequently of the need for socialising. Tells you that solitude is the recipe for spiraling. That a return to regularity is a cure-all. She hasn’t yet been proven completely wrong, but your ability to feign contentment isn’t as honed as it used to be.

Strange, you’re aware, perhaps unjustified, given the starkly different circumstances you now find yourself in. But a mask is hard to hold up, regardless of who you are showing it to.

You just hold onto the hope that someday, years, decades from now, expressing joy won’t feel like a performance. Such a dream was lost to Mia, but maybe Amelia will be the one to find it.

It’s not uncommon for you to stick around at the refuge for much longer than your shift requires. Maybe out of some degree of obligation, indebtedness, making up for your wrongs. Maybe to avoid going home alone to your safehouse.

In truth, though, you enjoy being alone.

No mask needed, then. No performance. No need to worry about who might be watching. In solitude you can unfurl, because there’s nobody else alive you can be yourself around. Nobody whose company doesn’t feel like a collar.

You spend the next quarter hour alone in the art room, tacking new drawings to the pinboard. You can never bring yourself to take the old ones down, so you just find spaces in between them, or layer the new ones carefully so that the old ones still peek through. Flowers and sunshine atop missing parents and rain. No good pretending the old ones don’t exist, you think to yourself.

You hear some fuzzy conversation down the hallway as you’re washing paint off the palettes in the sink, getting a decent smearing of myriad colours on your skin and clothes in so doing. Perhaps one of the kids snuck out of bed.

You shut off the running water to listen, though, and you stand in the silence, broken up by water dripping from the faucet.

“Sorry, who?” You recognise that voice as Saoirse, that twinge of grouch she puts on when displeased.

“She’s a volunteer.”

A man’s voice.

Deep. Rumbles through the walls like an idle engine.

“Oh — you mean Amelia?” Saoirse asks, knife-sharp edge in her voice. “She’s, she’s in the art room, but she’s busy. I’ll let her know you came by?”

“Where’s the art room.”

There’s no give in his tone. No room for debate, no tempered frustration. It’s raw and bare in every word he utters.

“I’m sorry, you can’t just — excuse me,” she belts, edge escalating to a point.

You shuffle uneasily away from the sink, closer to the door, but you get caught in the centre of the room when you hear heavy but inconsistent footsteps landing on the hardwood.

“Hey!” Saoirse snaps, closer, angrier. “You can’t just barge in here, this is a childcare centre.”

No response from the man she must be pursuing, in your direction, as the footsteps grow nearer.

“Mia?”

A hoarse call through the walls.

Your eyes glass over. Ears fill with radio static. Feet glued to the floor as a figure suddenly fills the doorframe; towering, imperious, hidden by the shadow. Eyes catch a glint of the light within.

He lumbers slowly into the room. A noticeable limp. Umber bomber jacket, worn leather, black hoodie beneath it. Loose jeans. Black boots.

Wheaten blond in disordered spikes, unkempt. Stubble grown-out except where the side of his jaw is shiny and knurled with scars left by fire. Eyes that glow like amber.

Time stops flowing.

Your jaw is wired shut. Throat full of talc. Tongue palsied.

“Y-you… you’re—”

You choke on your words like they’re made of cotton, and you cannot muster a full sentence; you stumble hastily in his direction and land in his chest like falling a distance into water. Release a breath you had kept pent for the eight months since you last saw him breathing.

His arms constrict around you, warm and heavy; wide hand settles at the back of your neck, fingers weave into your hair at the nape, and soon your feet feel light on the floor.

You distantly hear Saoirse stumble into the room, likely armed with a taser and ready to call the police, but she falls quiet. Empathetic woman that she is. She must slither away quickly, because you don’t hear her leave.

Sobs shatter you despite a feeble effort to contain them. Earnest cries that catch in the fibers of his sweatshirt and the skin of his neck. Tears that you can taste in your mouth.

“I thought—” you falter, tongue weak, teeth soft. “I t-thought you were dead.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

His voice quakes through you from where he speaks it into your shoulder, fluttering along your nerves like a hot shiver. Clutches you tightly as if you’re dripping wet and liable to slip through his fingers all over again.

You breathe him in like oxygen. He smells the same, like skin and leather and gunpowder. Feels the same, warm and rough, soft in the middle. Familiar as you could have become with his touch and taste in your extremely transient crossing of paths.

“They d-didn’t tell me,” you sob. “They didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t know what h-happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, bites out the words like it’s hard to let them loose. Firm hand smoothes down the back of your hair, the other coiled around you tightly enough to keep you off the floor, and you feel his heart beating against your sternum.

Your hands form claws that lodge in the folds of his jacket as though digging for flesh you can hook into — not yet convinced he’s real, let alone that he won’t disappear the moment you can’t feel him there. So you cleave to him, soaking in him, and you unfurl completely.

“God, I — I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you lament, in a whimper. “I c-can’t believe you came back.”

He presses his lips into your temple, soft and yet cracked, as if he might speak directly to the worried subconscious hiding in the cavern of your skull.

“I promised.”

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bella-writes

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aurumalatus · 9 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝟒]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.4k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection, cursing, mentions of abuse/alcoholism, mentions of broken bones

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

author's note. i've been SO busy this week, but i hope this chapter still meets everyone's expectations ;-;. unedited for now, but please enjoy and pls pls lmk what you think! reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

�� 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚'𝗦 𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗣𝗔𝗖𝗘

Kinich breaks his arm when he’s eleven.

It had, admittedly, been stupid of him. He’s always been partial to extreme sports, as many members of his tribe are, but he’d gone a bit too far that day with his grappling, and it all came crashing down in an unceremonious heap. He more than anyone knows how unforgiving the ground can be, so it’d been a foolish endeavor in the first place.

Dizzy, he tries to push himself to his knees before crying out in pain—it’s his right arm. He can’t put any pressure on it all, at least unless he gets used to the shooting pain that overwhelms his senses. He leans on it again, testingly, before wincing.

No, there’s no getting used to a pain like that.

Surveying the land nearby, he notes the sharp, menacing rocks that dot the riverbed—he’d been lucky to land where he did. He decides he won’t fill you in on that detail. After all, you’ll be mad enough as it is.

As far as he knows, you’re still at home at this time, but you’ll be out delivering medicines later as a courier—the village apothecary trusts you with the work, and there are few others willing to do it. Plus, you learn a few things along the way. Kinich notices that you’re becoming quite skilled in certain remedies.

In general, the work the two of you participate in is rarely safe—safe work doesn’t make Mora, and it’s hard to feed two mouths without coin. Kinich himself usually takes jobs that see more combat, involving Saurians or any other odd tasks. So it’s not uncommon that he comes home with injuries, but it’s never been this bad. Something like this spells out a lack of work for at least several weeks, maybe more.

He sighs, briefly considering whether or not he should hide it.

But you seem to have a sixth sense for these things, and he’s truly lousy at lying when it comes to you, so he decides against it. Instead, he rises to his feet, groaning at the feeling of his pants sticking to his skin, still soaked.

The journey home feels three times as long.

He hadn’t risked grappling again with one arm, so he had walked, the hot sun beating down on his skin. When he thinks about it, he can’t really remember how he had put up with having to walk everywhere—grappling truly saves him so much time out of his day. The small building at the foot of the mountain enters his sight after what feels like an eternity, an even smaller form standing just outside of it.

“Kinich!”

As he grows closer, a certain affection seeps into his chest at the sight of your grin, toothy and bright. You’re carrying a wicker basket on your hip, filled to the brim with fruits and vegetables—dinner for tonight, most likely.

He never quite gets used to your excitement whenever he returns to the small house you share. It’s as if every day is your first day seeing him, or like he’s just returned home from a year-long journey. At most, he’d been gone a few hours.

“Hey,” he says, smiling faintly. For a moment, he almost forgets he has something to tell you, simply satisfied with your presence. It’s only when you scamper to his side that he becomes hyper-aware of his arm.

“Wait!” he hisses, just as you reach for him. You stop in your tracks, lips barely parted in an ‘o’ shape. He takes a cursory step away from you, blood freezing in his veins when your face drops at the distance.

“I broke my arm,” he quickly admits. Your brows knit together as you give him a once-over.

“What?!” you half-yell, nearly dropping the goods in your hands—Kinich has to catch the basket with his good hand, wincing at the volume.

“I was grappling, and I messed up, and I…I landed in the river.”

The whole thing sounds ridiculous as soon as it leaves his lips. You seem to think so too, based on the way you blankly look between him and his arm. You’re thinking, hard.

“And you’re sure it’s broken?” He nods, sighing. “I’m sure.”

Truly, he’s never experienced pain like that in his life—at least not the physical kind. His father’s beatings usually ended in bruises, but he was always able to escape out the door before they got to this point. But the way his arm hangs uselessly at his side is certainly unfamiliar.

Fingers pressed thoughtfully to your chin, you look toward the house.

“Well, I have the materials to make a splint, but that means you won’t be able to use that arm for a while.”

Kinich frowns. A while could be a long time, and time he isn’t working is time that Mora isn’t being made. The two of you could survive decently on your farming and hunting alone, but it would be hard labor for you. He’s unsure how much help he can be with only one usable arm.

“But—”

“—and I already know,” you interrupt smoothly, “that you’re not going to argue about that. Because that would make me really annoyed, right? Because your arm is clearly broken, right?”

Kinich presses his lips together tightly. It’s probably not the best idea to fight you on this. So he merely sighs, walking toward the front door.

“Fine.”

“Good!” you cheer, hoisting the basket to your side again, following closely in his wake. “Then I’ll make dinner for us, and you try not to make trouble for me!”

He rolls his eyes; he never makes trouble for you the way you do for him.

If there’s one thing that truly bothers Kinich, it’s being unproductive.

He’s not unreasonable about it, per say; after all, breaks can be productive too if they improve your work. But it’s to the point that there’s rarely moments where he truly isn’t doing anything. He’d grown up that way, always on the move, always doing something for the sake of survival.

That apparently includes moments when his arm is broken, set firmly at his side in a splint.

You’re preparing vegetables for dinner when Kinich plops into the chair at your side, quietly asking what he can help with.

You send him an incredulous look, still cautious about your fingers under the shadow of the knife.

“Your arm is broken, Kin.”

And you’re right, but the notion irritates him a bit—the idea of doing absolutely nothing while you prepare all the food. He folds his arms on the table, resting his chin atop with a scowl. His golden eyes passively watch each cut of the potato, the neat chunks gathering on one side of the cutting board.

“So? I can still help.”

A heated exchange occurs—you stare at him questioningly, and he stares right back, determined. Within the past few years, the two of you have reached the point of nonverbal communication. Sometimes, he truly feels like you can read his mind.

“Fine,” you relent, gently placing your knife down. You slide the basket of vegetables to him, gesturing towards it with your chin. “Pick out the good ones and give them to me.”

Kinich looks unamused, unsatisfied with the difficulty of his task, and his mouth opens like he’s about to say more when you shake your head.

“Please?”

And he really can’t take that look you give him, when your eyes widen and your lip juts out, so he merely sighs, pulling the basket closer to himself.

“Alright, alright.”

The room grows comfortably quiet, save for the even thuds of your knife against the cutting board. Kinich listens to your sonorous hum as you smile and sway to the sound of your own music. He takes his job seriously, too—he squeezes at each potato, feeling for the right ripeness.

“Is that a good one?” you ask, nodding toward the vegetable in his hand.

He frowns. “It’s okay.”

Kinich tends to be a bit strict about his vegetables—he gets it from his mother. Rarely is he ever truly satisfied with a harvest. Based on your impatient stare, you’re probably realizing this isn’t the best job for him after all.

“It’s probably good enough,” you say. Kinich looks at the potato thoughtfully for a moment before setting it down before you.

He still has trouble accepting the idea of being good enough.

You engage in a bit of small chatter, discussing your plans for the next few days and funny things that have occurred recently. Kinich enjoys these moments the most, the feeling of belonging, of caring—the way your eyes sparkle genuinely as he recounts his day, or the way you giggle hearing about the gossip overhead in the village.

“I’m gonna head to the market tomorrow, so let me know if you need anything.”

Your lip curls in disapproval, gaze drifting to his arm.

“I can go this time,” you say, concern written over your face. Then, you add teasingly, “since I know you hate having to get along with all those people in town.”

Kinich glares at you, sour.

“I know how to get along with people.”

You smile, and Kinich remembers when you told him that you like when he acts a bit childish, a bit more like you. It reminds you that you are the same age after all. It’s a bit difficult to realize in your daily life, when he’s always nagging and protecting and working.

“Is that why all the others run away at the sight of you? Ever since we went to school, they’ve been avoiding you.”

And Kinich can admit that he isn’t the easiest person to get along with, but the kids at the village school aren’t the kind of people he wants to get along with anyway—the one day he spent in class made that much clear. They don’t understand the realities of living the way he does, the way you do.

Really, he considers it a success that they seem to steer clear of him now.

“What about you?” he counters. “You’re not exactly a social butterfly, living out here in the woods. The most social interaction you get is in the market, just like me.”

It’s your turn to be offended, a pout crossing your lips.

“I’ll have you know they like me in the market.”

Kinich quirks a brow, handing you another potato.

“They like you because you take whatever price they offer,” he replies flatly. “I really need to teach you to barter.”

Everyone knows how notorious Kinich is in the market—he’s a menace with Mora in hand, even at your age. It’s one of the reasons that he’s so insistent that he be the one to do your shopping, besides the fact that he doesn’t like you traveling alone.

“I can barter,” you defend, pouting. “I just feel bad. What if they need that extra Mora?”

“You know we also need that Mora, right?”

Kinich flicks at your forehead with his good hand, faintly smirking when you sulk in response. Brushing off your hands, you lift the cutting board toward the pot on the stove. He lets his gaze follow you, curious.

“Enough about me,” you declare, glaring playfully. “If you want to eat, help me start cooking these.”

When Kinich eats that night, a simple meal of curry and rice, he thinks it might just be the most delicious food he’s ever had.

A few weeks later, Kinich finds himself lying side by side with you in your bed, staring at the ceiling.

You’d been telling him about something amusing you saw on one of your deliveries, and he makes a point to listen to all your stories, no matter how small they are. The moon is peeking over the horizon by the time that you finish, and Kinich glances over at his own bed across the room.

He’s not really sleepy yet, he reasons. You don’t seem to be either, based on the way you stare at his side profile.

“Your hair is getting long,” you murmur, taking a lock between your index and thumb. It’s a bit rough to touch—Kinich doesn’t tend to be gentle when he washes up. Neither of you really are, not when the river water is as chilly as it is.

He sighs, blowing his bangs out of his face. It’s a perpetual messiness that you think suits him, in a way.

“I know, it got in my eyes when I was grappling and I couldn’t see. That’s how I fell.” He glances at you, deadpan. “Should I just shave it off?”

The idea leaves you giggling—the image of it is certainly vivid.

“I don’t think you should go that far, but I do think we have to do something. Otherwise, you might snap all your bones at this rate.”

He huffs, immediately defensive. “I would not—”

“I’m joking,” you soothe, chuckling. You card your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, humming—Kinich has to keep himself from melting into your touch. The room grows a tad warmer by the time your voice echoes again, barely a squeak from your throat.

“Can I try something?”

Kinich snorts. “You’ll have to be more specific, because last time you said that, it didn’t end well.”

Sitting up, you scoff. “I mean with your hair. Just to see if we can get a bit of it out of your face.”

You pat at the space in front of you, urging him up—he moves begrudgingly, already comfortable in his spot. Clambering to your knees, you peek at him over the top of his head.

“Which part gives you trouble? This long part?”

Kinich hums thoughtfully, thumbing at some of the strands framing his face.

“Yeah, I guess. Some of the longer strands behind my bangs get annoying because they won’t stay.”

You nod. “Okay, let me try this then. Just sit still.”

Kinich follows along, hands neatly gathered in his lap. It’s a bit puppy-like, and you smile at the notion.

You don’t speak as you plait his hair, gently easing each strand between your fingers. It’s a certain kind of calm that tends toward the unfamiliar. Kinich feels a bit conflicted over the heat that spreads through the rest of his form at the contact.

He’s still trying to get used to a lot of things about you, despite how long he’s spent at your side—even now, the gentleness and kindness with which you treat him leaves him speechless sometimes.

“Your hair is pretty,” you state softly, looping a tie over the end of the braid. “So unique.”

He thinks that you’re the first person to have told him as much. There had been times when he caught his mother staring at the blond streaks of his hair, frowning—they likely reminded her too much of his father. A part of him is glad that he at least inherited the majority of his genes from her.

“Thanks,” is all he breathes, staring down at his hands.

Your fingers brush over his ear, and a blush crawls over his cheeks.

“You’re welcome,” you yawn, stretching, “I’ll try to figure out something else to keep your bangs out of your eyes.”

That night, listening to your soft snores, Kinich watches the moon just outside the window.

His hair doesn’t bother him anymore, he realizes.

A resounding crash rouses you from sleep.

When your eyelids split open, body pulsing with shock, the sun hits you first. Harsh rays slip through the curtains, pools of gold falling between your bedsheets. You’re quick to throw the blankets off, sitting up quickly.

In the opposite corner of the room, Kinich’s bed lies empty, cooling with the morning dew. But he shouldn’t be gone, at least not yet—with his arm out of commission, he’s been taking time off work.

Your heart drops.

In a panic, you cover the space from your bed to the door in a mere two steps, and then you’re throwing it open, chest heaving.

The sight that greets you leaves you frozen where you stand.

Kinich stands in the kitchen, equally as flabbergasted as you are, surrounded by a shower of crystalline shards. His good hand is still raised, evidence of his own shock.

“Sorry,” he utters, hasty. He looks more disturbed by the situation than you do.

You take a cursory step toward him. “W—what happened?”

He looks at the floor, then back at you.

“I was trying to wash the dishes,” he explains, sheepish. You peer over at the sink, bursting with soapy water. It would’ve been hard to do with one arm.

He’s still standing among the slivers of ceramic, sharp edges too close for comfort. You suck in a breath.

“Just…don’t move, okay?”

You snatch the broom from the closet—when you glance over your shoulder, Kinich is standing obediently still, a statue in your kitchen. Carefully, you sweep the shards away from his feet, before neatly depositing them in the trash.

Kinich lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He’d wanted to wake up early and clean up a bit so you could relax, but even that had ended in disaster.

He glares down at his arm.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It takes a bit of arguing to get him to take a seat away from the sink—Kinich finds something ugly curling around his heart at the idea. He’s heard enough arguing in this kitchen, and the memories aren’t friendly. So he takes a seat at the table despite his hesitation, unwilling to meet your stare as you check the floor for stray fragments.

You don’t seem to be angry about the broken dish—in fact, you seem to be angrier that he woke up early to do any of this at all. He doesn’t really get it. Though he’s becoming familiar with your habits, he finds that he sometimes falls short in terms of truly understanding you.

The cupboard falls shut—Kinich flinches at the sound, and then you’re padding over to him with a cup of water.

“Drink.”

The order barely leaves your tongue by the time you’re back at the sink, starting to clean at the rest of the dishes. You’d been upset moments ago, but you’re already back to being concerned about his hydration.

He stares at the drink, too long. If you notice his unrest, you don’t comment on it.

A few minutes pass that way.

“Sorry that I broke my arm,” he finally mumbles, tracing the rim of his cup. A drop of condensation glides down the side, slow. He watches it pool on the table, seeping into the wood.

“Why are you sorry?” you wonder aloud, scrubbing at a plate. “Did you hit the ground on purpose?”

He eyes your back. You’re so happy in everything you do, Kinich notes. Even something as simple as washing dishes, you do with your best effort—it’s admirable. You glance back at him when he doesn’t answer, and your gazes meet momentarily. He’s first to break the contact.

“You’ve had to work way harder for weeks,” he replies, regret pouring from his words. “Because I fell from that stupid tree.”

A seed of fear plants itself in his heart. Despite your cheery disposition, he’s always wondered what you truly think of him. Typically, he’s satisfied with just being useful to you, being able to provide for the home that you share. But when he’s like this, he wonders if that standard will change.

Like this, he’s just a burden to you.

To his surprise, you merely shrug. “I had to work way harder than this when I was alone. And now, I get to work hard with someone by my side. I think that’s a better deal, isn’t it?”

Your words permeate the air, and Kinich sucks them in greedily—they fill his lungs, slow. He wonders if this house has ever seen such warmth before. Then, he wonders if you know the way your comment fills his heart, pulsing.

You crane your neck to look at him, another smile gracing your lips. Light pulls through the gauzy curtains over the kitchen window, a halo.

“Don’t you think that kind of relationship is priceless?”

At that moment, the blazing sun rises in Kinich’s chest.

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #kinich x reader #genshin impact #kinich #genshin impact imagines #kinich x you #adeptus ink

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katzkinder · 5 months ago

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sorry thinking about how at the end of the series tsuna refers to reborn as an angel without wings and how it’s implied that Reborn described tsuna as someone who fights like he’s praying and the first opening drawing days having a lyric about an angel without wings who tells the speaker they can’t go back to the place they know and reborn who we later learn has not just lost his original home, but been betrayed so horrifically about it it’s just one long drawn out death sentence and the opening animation focuses on a shot of tsuna and reborn together on the riverbed with a sunset orange sky behind them and when Tsuna shows reborn his resolve to save him it LITERALLY brings Reborn to his knees and aaaaaAAAAAAAA

I’m eating dry wall I’m eating drywall I’m eating drywall

#khr #katekyo hitman reborn #sawada tsunayoshi #khr reborn #r27

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uhzuku · 2 years ago

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╰─▸ ❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑! ❞ ──── 𝐟𝐭. 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: “i’m boyfriend material!” he cries indignantly, offended despite the fact that he’d never kept a relationship for more than a few months out of sheer boredom, and you pause before looking him up and down. / “…mhmm.”

𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: jujutsu kaisen | 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: satoru gojo/f!reader, mild sukuna/reader | 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: nsfw ; minors dni | 𝐰/𝐜: 6.25k.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: college au, fem reader, fuckboy satoru, protected sex ( wrap it up cumsluts ), jealousy, attempted hand-holding, brief nanami cameo, satoru gets hard attached and then is O.O when reader is like ‘nah imma dip now’, slight angst, unrequited love, previously established relationship ( just not w gojo 💀💀 ), cheating ( by reader ), bf sukuna.

𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐬: hmmm gojo’s not suffered enough, let’s do THIS 👹👹

— 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 !!

Gojo Satoru was not nervous.

All he had to do was ask a simple girl in his Philosophy course out so he could take her home and sleep with her. He’d never asked any of the girls in his Philosophy course out, though, so he was a little hesitant. As odd as it would seem, he enjoyed this class, and he didn’t want anything awkward to happen — which was why Suguru had directed him your way.

‘“She won’t make it weird,”’ he’d said, though how he’d known when Satoru knew every person that his best friend had ever slept with ( and you had not been one of them ) was beyond him.

Remember, he thinks to himself, glancing over at you a few times in a way he thinks isn’t noticeable, She’s gonna fall all over you, just like all the others, as soon as you ask her out. Easy lay.

And he wasn’t nervous.

Class ends, and he waits for everyone to make their way out. From experience over the last semester and a half, you were one of the last people to leave, taking your time considering you didn’t have any more courses after this one ended at noon on Tuesdays until 5pm. Once only a few stragglers are left, he grabs his books and saunters over, plastering on one of his most breathtaking grins ( if he did say so himself ), then leaning against your desk. You don’t look at him, blatant disinterest emanating off of you, but he forges forward.

“So… I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner tonight?” he asks, preening over how quick all the past yeses came. Men and women fell all over him like water rolls over stone in riverbeds,

“No.”

“Great, I was thinking maybe that new Italian joint—,” Satoru pauses. Blinks. Registers your words. “…What?”

“No. Is a two letter word so difficult for you to understand?” Satoru is… shocked, for lack of a better word. He’d never actually been told no before.

“But… why?” His question is whinier than he’d intended, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. You narrow your eyes up at him.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you — but if you must know, I go on dates with the man I intend to be in a relationship with,” you say honestly, and Satoru fights back a snort. “I don’t date someone who’s only good for a quick fucking session.”

“I’m boyfriend material!” he cries indignantly, offended despite the fact that he’d never kept a relationship for more than a few months out of sheer boredom, and you pause before looking him up and down.

“…Mhmm,” is your only reply, and he pouts. You go back to finishing up, and he thinks for a moment, drumming his fingers against the surface of your desk before shrugging.

“Interested in hooking up, then?” he asks, and you glance up at him questioningly. “We don’t have to date, we could just have sex.” Not that you’d want to keep him as ‘just a fuckbuddy’ for too long, Satoru thinks.

You hum softly, seeming to think it over, then give a slight nod. “Sure, we can fuck,” you say with a lazy shrug, then sigh. “But no feelings. I’m not interested, especially not with someone who has a reputation like yours.”

“You say that now, but you’re gonna be beggin’ for me to be your boyfriend,” Satoru chuckles, and you roll your eyes.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply, sounding amused as you cross your arms, and without missing a beat he waggles his eyebrows at you, and you raise one of your own. “What?”

“Wanna get started on this friends-with-benefits thing now? My car’s in the parking lot,” he grins, and you look completely unimpressed.

You resume picking up your notebooks and textbook, shoving them in your backpack and steadfastly refusing to look at his goofy expression. “I’m not fucking in your dirty-ass backseat,” you reply grumpily. “I might catch something.”

“I’ll have you know my car is amazing and clean and perfect,” Satoru retorts, acting as if his feelings are hurt, and you scoff.

“Not with you as a driver. Didn’t you hit a sorority mailbox last month?”

He’s silent for a moment. “We’re in philosophy class, you know. Most philosophers say that it’s ‘unwise to root yourself in the past’.”

You just blink at him, then roll your eyes again and slide your laptop into your bag. “That alone tells me everything I need to know.”

“Y’know, you’re really mean,” he pouts, and you have to fight off the urge to smile. Sometimes he was amusing, even though you didn’t want to admit it.

“I know. It’s one of my best traits,” you reply, swinging your bag over your shoulder. “See you in class.”

One week later, Gojo finally picks you up — that is, your shared Philosophy course ends and you both head to his car. You’ve both tossed your bags in the back and are sitting in the drive-through of a fast food place waiting on your coffees with you tapping away at your phone while he hands his card through the window so he can pay for the drinks you’d gotten along with his own.

He pulls forward after getting his card back, then brightens a little as he remembered the question he’d wanted to ask before he’d forgotten after asking if you wanted a drink.

“Do you want to type your address into my GPS so we can—“ Satoru starts, and his eyes widen when you interrupt him almost immediately.

“Not at my place. Never at my place, Gojo,” you snap, and he nods almost dumbly. He’d not expected you to be so stern about it, nor for you to deny him heading to your apartment or house or whatever ( especially considering his hookups typically didn’t care as long as they ended up with him in their bed. In the back of his mind an alarm bell rings, but he dumbly chose to ignore it.

“That’s — That’s fine, no problem, we can go to my place,” he replies, pushing a fake grin on his face. He watches you visibly relax back into the passenger seat, and relaxes himself before pulling up to the second window and taking your drinks. He hands you your drink then pulls away while sipping at his own Diet Coke, glancing at you every now and then as he drives back to his apartment rather than wherever you lived.

Part of him was nervous; he never really ever brought hookups back to his apartment — hell, he’d only brought like two of his prior girlfriends there, so this was a big break from his normal meet-up for sex. Still, he’d talked so much shit to Suguru when he’d said he’d manage to fuck you, so he couldn’t back out now.

He’d taken out the trash yesterday, right?

He pulls into the parking lot of his apartment, easing into his spot and putting the car in park before taking a breath and leaning back. You aren’t paying him any attention, still in your phone apparently texting someone from what he could see from the corner of his eye, and once you’re done you lock your phone before turning your body to face him in his seat.

You ask quietly, “Gojo… are you sure you want to do this?” and he pauses as he starts unclipping his seatbelt.

“Yeah, of course! Why would I, uh — Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, nodding with a smile. You raise an eyebrow.

“You’re acting nervous.” You deadpan, and he laughs.

“Nervous? I’m not nervous! Let’s fuck, babe,” he says brightly, opening his car door and hopping out as you shrug and unclip your own belt.

“…Don’t call me babe, but whatever. If you’re sure,” you say lazily, then add, “By the way, three of my friends know I came home with you, and I just dropped a location pin in a group chat, so… it’d be easier if you weren’t some creepo murderer.”

Satoru laughs again, this time actually amused. “That’s great, they’ll know the location of the best dick in Japan! Second floor.”

You scoff, but follow him up the stairs, stopping only as he fishes his keys out of his pocket and works on getting them in the lock. Eventually it pops into place, and you follow him inside, toeing off your shoes and following him quietly, eyeing him as he takes his loose coat off and tosses it on the back of his couch before following his lead to the bedroom. He lets you come in before turning to close the door, and is surprised when he turns and your shirt is already on the floor and you’re working on wiggling out of your tight skirt.

“I — oh! Like to do the work yourself, huh?” He jokes, and you scoff through a playful smile.

“Please. If we fuck and you just lay there, the entire campus will hear about it before midnight, I promise,” You reply. Satoru just grins.

“Who says we’ll be done by midnight?” He asks cheekily, and you laugh again.

“Gojo Satoru, it is two in the afternoon,” you say, and he laughs and starts unbuckling his belt.

“And?” he purrs, tossing it aside and kicking his pants away after they pool around his ankles, leaving his boxers on as you kick off your own skirt, leaving you in a mismatched bra and underwear set. He’s discovered he much prefers you this way — almost naked and ready to joke around with him — rather than the way you were cold and quiet in class. You actually seemed human here, and he was starting to understand why Suguru had said you were easy to be around; Satoru had thought he was lying just to fuck with him, but apparently you were typically this way in the bedroom and at parties after a few drinks. It was an interesting thing about you to learn in all honesty.

He presses his front to yours, wasting no time and dipping his head down to kiss you, mashing your lips together hard and his hands snake behind your back and unclip your bra at the same time that you slip the condom you’d taken out of your bra between your teeth and hook your thumbs in the waistband of his own underwear and push them down. He steps out of them as you stumble backwards towards his bed, leading him along before falling back with him on top of you, both of you still kissing.

You start to unwrap the condom. “You’re a good kisser,” you mumble into his mouth, reaching one hand down to shimmy out of your panties while the other tangles itself in his hair, tugging lightly. Once they’re over the edge of the bed they fall to your ankles and you just step out of them, reaching between your bodies and slipping the condom down his shaft with an experienced sort of ease that faintly amused him.

“Why the tone of surprise?” Satoru laughs, nipping at your bottom lip before starting to kiss a line down your throat, savoring the area over your pulse point as you let out soft, happy sighs.

“Mmm, kinda thought you’d have loser dick — but like, a real loser, not the sexy kind,” you reply honestly, and Satoru would have been offended if he wasn’t so fucking horny. He just laughs against your hot skin and keeps kissing, about to kneel when you tug him back up. “Don’t need your mouth on my cunt, need your cock in me,” you grunt, and Satoru barely chokes back the whimper that threatens to escape him.

“G-Gotta — Gotta prep you,” he argues as you reach between your bodies and grip his dick in an almost too-perfect grip.

“Prepped myself before class, and I’m plenty soaked,” you reply, pressing his head in. He doesn’t bother trying to hide the low groan that tumbles from his lips at the thought of you fingering open the hot cunt he was so close to, then sitting in class with him only a few seats away, ready and waiting for him to fill you. “Plus I enjoy the stretch. Don’t pussy out now, Gojo.”

“Stop calling me Gojo when I’m about to be balls deep in you,” Satoru growls, and you just laugh with a defiant glint in your eye.

“You gotta earn me saying your first name, loser boy,” you taunt, and he narrows his eyes before bottoming out in one go, watching in satisfaction as your eyes widen and your pupils blow further all at once… then the feeling hits.

“God, you’re fucking tight,” he groans, letting his head fall. “Fuckin’ hot too.”

“Don’t tell me slippin’ it in is gonna do it for you,” you whisper, and Satoru forces himself to pull out, his eyes squeezing shut at the perfect friction in the glide of his cock slipping out of you, before thrusting back in.

He starts a steady pumping of his hips, taking you over the edge of the bed like a beast on its bitch at a breeding bench. He can feel your nails digging into his back and scalp and it makes him make a tight fist in the sheets, soft moans falling from his mouth as he fucks into you desperately.

“F-Fuck — Oh god, Satoru, you fucking bastard-!” you moan, holding tight as he ruts into you, and he laughs breathlessly through a moan of his own.

“E-Earned it already?” he asks playfully, and you laugh through a moan yourself.

“Again, thought you were a real loser. Now shut up and keep fucking me,” your words come out in a low purr as you toss one arm around his neck, amd he busies himself with doing as told, not bothered by taking a command to fuck your willing body like this.

Soft groans of your name and his coupled with cursing and cries for God fill the room as the two of you fuck, your sweat and precum smearing across both of your bodies as you both get closer and closer to orgasm. “C’mon, just like that — gonna cum, gonna cum!” you whisper, and Satoru presses closer and keeps his pace and position the same, listening to the way your voice pitches. He’s been on the verge of cumming himself for the past fifteen minutes, but he’d be damned if he came before you the first time the two of you fucked — not when you still somehow thought he was a loser.

“Cum for me, babe, cum for me—“ he half-begs lowly, and you huff through a moan.

“What did I — did I say about calling me babe?” you ask, and he shakes his head.

“Sorry, sweetheart — God, please, just fucking cum already!”

You laugh a little, a laugh that breaks apart like brittle ice at the end as your pussy starts clenching tightly around his cock and you dig your nails into his skin hard enough to leave marks. “Fuck — fuck, fuck — fuckfuckfuck, cumming-!”

Satoru’s eyes roll back in his head at the feeling of you clenching so tightly around him, and the sounds of your cries as you cum around have his own falling from his lips as he fills the condom wrapped around his cock and you slowly relax completely into the bed, unmoving aside from a couple stray twitches and a lazy hand against his chest to get him off of you. He falls bonelessly onto the bed next to you, tugging the condom off and tossing it into the trash can by his bed before returning to letting his legs dangle off of the side of bed with his feet flat against the floor like yours.

He waits a moment, enjoying the silence between you both before asking, “Well?”

You make a confused noise and turn to look at him. “Well what?” you ask, amd he chuckles.

“Am I a loser?” he asks cheekily, and you laugh brightly.

“Oh, definitely. Big loser energy from you, Satoru,” you reply.

“What?!” he exclaims, turning onto his side to look at you head on, and you laugh again and nod as you sit up and stretch with your arms over your head.

“Yep. But hey — you’re a loser with good dick,” you offer, standing on slightly wobbly legs, and start to get dressed.

“What a comfort,” he mutters, acting annoyed, and you see through it just as he knew you would.

“It should be,” you reply, zipping up your skirt then putting on the shirt you’d thrown over your forearm. “See you later, loser. My ride’s outside.”

Satoru’s quiet for a second, unused to girls just leaving, much less having already called cars to wait for them outside while he fucks them, “…Yeah, later…” And you’re out the door in less than five minutes with nothing but a wave and a yawn.

After a moment he stands and makes his way into the kitchen, peeping out the window to see you climb into the passenger side of a car driven by someone with short pink hair. He sighs.

The sex was good — but today did not go like he’d expected.

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦: 𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐒. 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 — 𝟎𝟗.𝟐𝟏𝐏𝐌

𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐒. 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 dropped a pin!

meet me at starbucks

i’m getting a coffee

then we can fuck or wtv

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦: 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲 ! — 𝟎𝟗.𝟐𝟏𝐏𝐌

why r u getting coffee at 9pm

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐒. 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 — 𝟎𝟗.𝟐𝟐𝐏𝐌

don’t ask questions your tiny brain can’t understand the answers to

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦: 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲 ! — 𝟎𝟗.𝟐𝟐𝐏𝐌

i literally only asked why ur getting coffee so late :(

ur so mean :((

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐒. 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 — 𝟎𝟗.𝟐𝟐𝐏𝐌

and yet u still like to fuck me?? lmfao loser

Satoru throws his phone down on the passenger’s side seat, pouting with a huff and drumming his fingers against the top of the steering wheel as he slowly follows the line of traffic towards the Starbucks you’d pin dropped, and he sees you before you see him. You’re texting someone, a large coffee in hand, and you look… happy. Satoru didn’t think he’d ever actually seen you smile a real smile before, not in class when you’d ignored him for months before he’d proposed being fuckbuddies and not even during the last couple months that the two of you had been hooking up. Every now and then in between fucking each other he’d catch you gazing down at your phone with a fond look in your eyes, but he didn’t really ask about it anymore; you always dodged his questions, and it always led to you being in a foul mood and leaving him. He learned quickly to just… not say anything and let you do your own thing so he could empty his balls and you stay happy and with him.

Stay with him? God, what was the matter with him? He sounded like a clingy high-schooler, desperate to keep their first relationship. No, he was supposed to sleep with you once, get off, then go laugh about it with Suguru — not… whatever he was doing. It had been six months, why was he still here — fuck, who was he kidding? Satoru knew exactly why he was still here: he liked you. A lot.

He’s in too deep, and now he can’t back out.

You open the passenger side door, disrupting him from his thoughts. “Hmm, on time as usual. Desperate, huh?” you ask, sipping at your coffee, and it takes everything in Satoru to scoff at your words and start up the car as you clip on your seatbelt, because the answer was yes. He is desperate. He wants you, wants to hold your hand and take photos with you and brag about how beautiful you are to Suguru and his other friends, and wants for the world to know that you were each other’s partner. He wants to kiss you, not in the sloppy way that left your lipstick smeared across your face as he fucked into you, but softly and slowly so you can tell with each tiny shift how much he loves you. Yeah, you’re mean to him, you make fun of him all the damn time — but god, does he fucking like it.

It’s a slow, careful motion when he reaches a hand over to first grasp at your thigh before moving over ever so slightly to hold your hand as he drives, and a pang bounces through his chest as you immediately tug your hand away and turn away from him.

He doesn’t try to touch you again for the rest of the car ride, and before he knows it he’s once again back at his apartment, the motions of making his way to the bedroom with you at his back all a blur. You’re on him before he can remind himself to breathe as the sight of you bare and vulnerable before him takes his breath away as it always does — but you aren’t vulnerable, are you? You’re closed off, all sharp corners and twisted smiles, but maybe — just maybe — he’s blunting them a bit.

“O-Oh God — oh, fuck-!” Satoru whimpers softly, his thick eyelashes fluttering as he fists his hands in the sheets beneath him while you bounce on his cock, tiny gasps falling from your lips as you swallow up all of his thick length. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as drowns in the sensations of your sopping cunt taking him entirely, his fat tip slamming against your cervix with each rough drop down.

“Fuck yes, Satoru!” You hiss sharply, clenching around him and digging your nails into his shoulders. “Y’fill me up so fuckin’ good, ‘Toru-!”

“Yes, yes — fuckfuckfuck, c’mon!” Satoru whines, bucking his hips up to meet yours as they drop down harshly. “You’re so fucking hot, sweetheart, so fuckin’ wet!”

Lewd wet noises and the slapping of bare flesh along with the crude banging of his headboard against the walk fill the bedroom, mixing with the sounds falling from your lips, as well as his. Satoru sits up, wrapping and arm around your middle as yours instinctively loop around his shoulders, your lips catching his in a searing kiss that sends a fond warmth from his mouth all the way down to his toes.

“God, yes,” you moan into his mouth, “So fuckin’ good, Satoru — don’t stop, don’t stop-!”

“Won’t, can’t, won’t stop!” Satoru promises through a moan of his own, a deep groan following it triggered by the feeling of your tongue running along his. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise as you tear your mouth away from his in order to latch onto his neck and bite down, nipping and kissing and sucking as his head falls back in time with the feeling of the soft heat kindling in his belly start growing hotter and hotter. “F-Fuck — damn it, m’gonna cum!”

“Cum for me, Satoru,” you whine sharply, and he whimpers a little.

“B-But you-?” he starts, his words devolving into a garbled moan as you pick up the pace.

“I’m close too — c’mon, ‘Toru, cum with me!” You plead softly, and Satoru needs no further prodding. He clings to you tightly as he starts cumming, his own fingernails digging into your skin as his hips buck up messily into your welcoming hips with each new burst of cum. Your voice pitches in the way he knows it does during your own orgasm, and he forces the haze away just enough so that he can look at you and watch you fall apart on his lap.

God, you’re beautiful.

The two of you bask in the moment for about ten minutes before you finally end it, pulling away and staggering into the bathroom in the hallway to piss. Satoru sighs and tosses the condom in the trash can after tying it off, falling back against his bed with an arm thrown over his eyes. He can hear you come back into the bedroom, can hear you moving around, assumingly so you can no doubt be ready to leave again — which is why he’s surprised at the feeling of the blankets beneath him being thrown back and the mattress dipping beneath your weight.

He stares at you in surprise as you begin making yourself comfortable, fluffing your pillow and finding the spot on the side of the bed you’d chosen before you finally catch him staring. “Go to sleep, Gojo,” you mutter, shimmying around beneath the blankets as you try to get comfortable in a technically strange bed.

His eyes widen in half-wanting shock. “You’re staying the night?” Satoru asks hopefully, and you sigh.

“I’m tired,” you reply simply. “Now go to sleep.”

Sayoru nods wildly, his heart pounding. You were staying the night — you were staying. With him. “Yeah… yeah! Okay. Sleep. I can do that!”

You nod tiredly. “Good,” you say, amd you click off the lamp on the nightstand next to you as Satoru does the same. An odd silence fills the room as Satoru follows your previous motions of getting ready to rest before finally getting comfortable under the blankets.

He rolls over to rest on his side, staring at the way you lay with your back to him. “…Goodnight,” Satoru murmurs quietly, lacing his fingers through yours. It doesn’t sting as harshly as before when you move your hand away, considering you do allow him to drap his arm over your waist while pressing his chest to your back. You’re silent for a moment, but you do eventually respond as his warmth begins to seep into you.

“…Goodnight, Satoru,” you say, and he hums drowsily.

You’re both asleep within fifteen minutes. Neither of you comment on how well the two of your bodies slot together outside of sex.

It’s 1am when Satoru wakes up, his vision blurry and the red numbers on his bedside clock more aggressive than he remembered.

Blearily he pats the mattress behind himself, wondering why he’d turned away from you in his sleep, and finds nothing but cool sheets, which leads him to rolling over. He’s startled, almost certain he’ll find the bathroom light on in the hallway, but no — it’s darker than he’d like, even at twenty-three, and you’re not here. Snatching up his cellphone, a quick scan of it tells him all he needs to know.

You left him.

Again.

Three days later, Satoru finds himself parked in front of the dining hall on campus, waiting for you to come out, likely followed by one or two of your friends. After waiting about ten minutes, you do just that — only you’re walking closer to an older man in a suit than he for some reason felt comfortable with, and he moves around in his seat a little to get comfortable while watching your interactions with the man with narrowed eyes. He grits his teeth for a moment when the man touches your arm in a too-casual way, then crosses his own when he sees you smile at him. The two of you stop on the sidewalk several paces from his car, then finally split off.

“So… Who was that old guy?” he asks as you slip into the passenger seat, and you pause as you put your bag in the backseat. He doesn’t want to just foolishly believe that you’re genuinely confused, but he also doesn’t want to think ill of you without reason, so he ‘decides’ to withhold judgment for now.

“What?” you ask, confused, and he sighs in blatant annoyance.

“The old guy. The one you were literally just talking to,” he grouses. “The one who was getting so touchy.”

“‘Old guy’ — wait, the blond?” You ask, almost in a shocked way, and he nods. You snort; Satoru doesn’t know what’s so funny. “That was professor Kento — my History professor,” you reply, and Satoru can feel his cheeks heat up a little, but he refuses to look at you as you start laughing.

“Oh my god! You were fucking jealous of Professor Kento?!” you giggle, and while he’s embarrassed he can’t deny that he enjoys the sound, even if it was at his own expense. What the hell was wrong with him? “That’s so fucking wild — like c’mon man, we aren’t even dating. If I wanted to fuck Professor Kento, it wouldn’t even fucking matter.” A lump settles in Satoru’s throat at your words.

Yes, it would.

“But… you aren’t, right?” Satoru asks carefully as he pulls the car out of park, and you sigh.

“No, Satoru. I’m not going to fuck my History professor.” you say softly, blatantly amused, but it’s too late now — Satoru’s upset, and he can’t stop the words from coming out.

“Because I just — I don’t want anyone else with you like me, y’know?” he asks, almost paranoid. He fails to notice the way you stiffen next to him and forges on, his heartbeat quickening as his panic picks up. “It’s just — really like you. Like a lot. And it scares me. But it doesn’t scare me enough to not want you to myself, you know? I just want you and want to be with you and—“

“Take me home.”

Satoru pauses. “W-What?” he asks, uncertain of the icy tone you’d taken on when interrupting him.

“My address is in your GPS,” you say quietly, then repeat yourself. “Take me home.”

“But-“ Satoru whispers, but you shake your head almost violently.

“Now. Or I’ll walk,” you threaten lowly, and that’s all it takes for him to listen. The rest of the car ride is spent in silence until he reaches your apartment. You’re out of the car before he can say your name, and he’s following you before he can even ask himself why.

He’s right behind you as you go into your kitchen, watching in surprise as you pull out a large bottle of wine from the fridge while simultaneously throwing open a cabinet next to the refrigerator in order to pull out a wine glass. You pull the cork out, fill the glass, and empty it in one go before refilling it again.

Tentatively, Satoru says, “Please, I just — I think I’m in love with you. Can’t we talk about this?” and you laugh borderline hysterically.

“And say what?! What do you expect of me, Gojo?” you ask, your tone harsh enough to make him flinch, but he answers you anyway.

“I… I want you to be my girlfriend,” he says softly, feeling smaller than he ever had before.

You laugh again, this time less hysterically and more in disbelief. “No,” You say, and Satoru blinks in shock.

“What? N-No?” He asks, voice shaky.

“No!” you snap icily, turning back to your wine. You empty your glass again as Satoru begins to reflect on the situation at hand; it’s bitterly ironic, the deja vū he’s feeling. This conversation is brutally close to the first time he’d asked you out all those months ago with the sole goal in mind being getting in your pants and ditching you, whether that meant hurting you in the process or not. How poetically cruel ( and simultaneously deserved ) that he’s the one hurt in the end.

“Can I ask why?” he finally asks, and you turn around tk face him again, your eyes wild and cold.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” you growl, and he lifts his hands in surrender while nodding in agreement.

“I know that, I just—“ Satoru swallows hard. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Do something wrong? God, Gojo, yes! You asked me to be your fucking girlfriend — I literally said before we ever fucked that you couldn’t catch feelings, what is wrong with you?!

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers, his chest filled with a stabbing pain he’d nkt ever expected to experience while in your company.

“What does that matter now?! This thing we’ve been doing is over,” you mutter, taking a long drink of your wine. Satoru’s eyes widen exponentially, and the panic begins to set in anew.

“Over?!” he exclaims, shaking his head a little, and you scoff.

“Of course it’s over!” You snap angrily, pointing at him accusingly. “You ruined it! Feelings were never supposed to be involved!”

Satoru wilts completely.

“I’m sorry,” he says, just as quietly as before, and you sigh audibly as you lean against the counter.

“An apology won’t fix this,” you say bitterly. Satoru wants to argue, wants to assure you that he can be good and do better, that the two of you don’t have to stop seeing each other, but he’s instead startled when the door to the entry hall opens without warning, and he spins to glance at the doorway like whoever came in is intruding as you groan and cross your arms after putting down your wine, covering your eyes with one hand at the same time.

“C’mon Yuuji, kick your shoes off under the coat rack,” a deep voice rumbles, and a man with pink hair strolls in like he owns the place. Satoru would be extremely alarmed if you’d seemed so yourself, but you made no move to react, apparently used to the man being in your apartment. “I’m gonna grab a beer from the kitchen and see if she’s home yet.” His eyebrows raise with ill-concealed interest when he finally lays them on Satoru. “And who are you?”

“Who are you?” Satoru parrots quietly, a sickening feeling twisting his stomach as his mind thinks up just what scenario could lead to a random man in your apartment — but was he random?

Roommates. Please, please just be roommates, Satoru finds himself begging in his kind, though no one could hear him.

“I’m one of the two people on the lease of this apartment, and the boyfriend of the woman behind you,” the man says, narrowing his eyes; a jolt of nausea stabs through Satoru’s stomach. “I’ll ask again: who are you?”

“He’s no one, Sukuna,” you mutter, sounding annoyed. Yet another sharp pain shocks through Satoru’s chest, and he turns back to look at you in disbelief as you walk past him and wrap your arms around Sukuna’s waist, hugging him. Your voice is muffled by his chest when you say, “Welcome home, baby,” and he kisses the crown of your head and you let go, drifting over to the younger looking ( also very confused and clearly a little uncomfortable ) boy who resembles ‘Sukuna’. “C’mon Yuuji, help me set up the new console Sukuna and I got last Friday.”

The teenager follows without hesitation, the awkwardness on his face from the odd altercation fading as he starts talking to you excitedly about some boy in his Biology II class he thinks is cute, and suddenly Satoru is left alone with Sukuna. The other man is staring at him, and it's making him uncomfortable.

“Y’slept with her?” he asks finally, and again Satoru is startled. He just slowly nods, and Sukuna shrugs and moves past him to the fridge, fishing out a beer and popping the top off before taking a large swig. “No big deal. You’re not the first she’s run around with.”

Satoru’s startled all over again. “You… don’t care?”

“Oh, I absolutely care! I’ll have you know I’m a damn jealous man — but I know I’ve got nothing to worry about,” Sukuna chuckles, looking completely unbothered as he shrugs again. “She’s my woman after all — has been since junior high.” He laughs, takes another drink, and continues while making his way over to the bottle of wine and the half empty glass she’d left on the counter. “Hell, she even officially adopted my kid brother with me when our grandfather died last year — Pretty sure she and I are set.”

Satoru feels sick, and he wants to go home. He understands now, he realizes that he never had a claim to your heart at all. God, he was an idiot.

Sukuna hums slightly in thought, tipping his head to the side ever so slightly. “Her sleeping around every now and then makes the sex better though. Every now and then we’ll agree we wanna spice things up, and she’ll pick some poor idiot to fuck. It makes me angry, gets me all jealous and possessive, and since we both love it when I fuck her like I hate her — even if that couldn’t be farther from the truth — it’s a double win.”

“So you just — you cheat on each other just to boost your sex?” Satory asks, completely in disbelief. Sukuna just scoffs and shakes his head, knocking back the rest of his beer before chasing it with the remnants of what you had left in your wine glass before crossing his arms.

“Nah, she’s it for me — never been interested in anyone else. Besides, I know she’ll always come back to me. She’s proven that today, hasn’t she?”

That stung — but he wasn’t wrong. You had proven yourself to your boyfriend again, and Satoru looked like nothing but a fool.

“Go home, Gojo,” Sukuna finally says, finally sounding annoyed. It seems his patience with Satoru being in his home has run as thin as possible. “She’s never going to love you, so leave. There’s nothing for you here.”

Absently Satoru wonders how Sukuna could possibly know his name when he’d never given it, until he registers that Sukuna must have known the entire time who he was because you’d told him about him, and didn’t that just make it worse? He’d been an idiot, had been so damn sure that you’d love him back.

Fuck. Just like before, Gojo Satoru was not nervous.

He was heartbroken instead.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © { 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 } 𝐛𝐲 𝟒𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐒. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭.

#satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you

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two-white-butterflies · 11 months ago

Text

the city of love | carlos sainz

Description: You accidentally drop your wedding ring in the middle of the Seine river while waving your country's flag.

Pairing: figure-skater!reader/carlos sainz

A/N: inspired by gianmarco tamberi.

yourname: i'm so excited for this year's olympics!! thank you so much papa @CarlosSainz55 for bringing lil julius. TE AMO!

liked by CarlosSainz55, Charles_Leclerc and 81,392 others

>comments

CarlosSainz55: Te amo tanto ❤️

Charles_Leclerc: Best of wishes!

formulaonefans: BRING HOME THE GOLD MY QUEEN

CarlosSainz55: Animando por tu victoria. Keep doing what you're doing, and always remember that I am proud of you. @yourname

liked by Charles_Leclerc and 1,283,129 others

>comments

yourname: Take care of Augustus. 😭 - CarlosSainz55: He is in safe 🙌🏻

carlandouniverse: SHE'S SO BEAUTIFUL MY FAV WAG

WAGCLOSET: Make us proud 🥺

yourname: There was too much water. I lost too much weight these past few months, and on top of that the uncontrollable enthusiasm over what I was doing that I lost control. I saw her fly, I followed her with a glance until I saw her bouncing inside of our boat.

I had a glimmer of hope, but unfortunately the bounce was in the wrong direction and floating more than a thousand times in the air. She dove into the water, like it was the only place she wanted to be.

A few moments, that to me, felt like an eternity.

But if it was meant to happen. If I am really going to lose this faith, I couldn't imagine a better place. It will stay forever in the riverbed of the city that we love, flown away while I tried to carry the flag of my country as high as possible during the opening ceremony of the most important sporting event in the world.

I'm sorry, my love. I'm so sorry.

Please forgive me. If you want to, we can throw your wedding ring into the river too, so they'll be together forever, and we'll have one more excuse to (like you've always asked) renew our wedding vows and get married anew.

I love you, my love. @CarlosSainz55.

liked by CarlosSainz55 and 1,298,293 others

>comments

HolaMiami: LORD WHEN WILL YOU GIVE ME A Y/N SAINZ

CarlosSainz55: May it be auspicious to come home with an even bigger gold 😘 te amo tanto, amor.

shewolfinthecloset: "Fuck fuck fuck fuck." What she actually said in those moments 😭

allthosenights: The art of apologizing by Mrs. Sainz 😭

CarlosSainz55: Congratulations @yourname. My wife!!

liked by 1,238,932 others

comments

yourname: Thank you 😍

Charles_Leclerc: Congratulations!!

puppylove: OMG OMG OMG CONGRATS

CarlosSainz55: Now, about renewing those vows.

liked by 2,128,392 others

>comments

yourname: 😍

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bluehatted · 7 months ago

Text

Olllld sketches of costumes worn for an annual performance of "The Skinning of Lupine". Which takes place on the new moon closest to the anniversary of when the lupmish first came to Riverbed (and is very much colored by that context). Lupine is the pseudo-historical first Lupmish (werewolf). "The Skinning" is a dramatization of how they (and by extension all lupmish) came to be. It's just the first --and most intense-- of many more stories involving them.

Historically, Auntie plays the part of Lupine, but she's getting ready to retire the role.

Summary of the story is below the cut:

Thousands of years ago, a baby was born with the fur and face of a wolf, and out of shame it was left in the wilderness to die. The midwife tasked with sending the baby to its death took pity on the poor thing and prayed for its safety*. The moon goddess took notice and raised the kid as its own. It taught it to live and hunt like a beast and named it Lupine. They lived happily this way for many years. Eventually, the village that kicked them out began to encroach on their hunting grounds, leaving them with nothing to eat for winter. Lupine goes into the village out of desperation to beg for scraps, but is met with empty streets. Suddenly, they're surrounded by hunters. With a single strike from the lead hunter's axe, they are skinned alive. Lupine screams**. Lupine, bloody, runs away with pelt in hand and cries to the moon goddess about what happened. The moon is enraged at what the hunters have done to their child. It comforts them, sews their pelt back on, and promises that when the moon's face is full, Lupine can be a beast again. The moon then breaks its sewing needle in half and gives the pieces to Lupine to be their fangs, ordering them to seek revenge. Lupine runs off to do just that***. And that's how the lupmish came to be! *The midwife was entirely omitted in earlier versions of the modern dramatization of the story, though the character predates it significantly. Since their reintroduction it's been traditional for them to be played by a child in adorable old person makeup, much to the joy of all. **As previously mentioned, Auntie is usually the one playing Lupine. She's such a laid-back and jovial person normally it's always disturbing for the audience to hear such an anguished, blood-curdling scream come out of her. ***It varies year-to-year but usually the performance ends right here, and wraps up with a speech by the player of the moon that usually touches on the morals of the story like "don't be greedy" and "don't fuck with the gods" and hammering home the cultural importance and responsibility of being lupmish.

#2022 #home is riverbed #werewolves #auntie #hazel obrubarb #also i should note that paired with the term 'lupmish' (changing/shifting person) is 'da'mish' (still/same person) and mish (person)#which is basically anybody who is not lupmish or is not claimed by other lupmish as lupmish (ie only has one shape)#so i am da'mish and you are da'mish #some folks with shapeshifting curses in this setting are considered honorary lupmish #but some lupmish argue semantics since other shapeshifters can't turn da'mish into lupmish #i hope literally any of that makes sense

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tsuyalovebot · 4 months ago

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cw. sfw. knight caleb x princess reader, royalty au — short drabble based on upcoming piece. :]

Once upon a time, you and Caleb swore to never let yourself be divided. Honeysuckle sweet on your tongue, some flowers strewn into your hair after rolling around in the grass, the younger version of him had plucked the petals out from the tangled strands. It was when the naïvety of childhood consumed your thoughts, and nothing else mattered but the center of your framed universe.

"I'll never let us be separated," he had whispered, as if afraid of letting anyone else hear, even though it'd only been you.

The words of a child were fickle, but so was the mind at the age of ten. With a grin adorned by empty spaces of some of your teeth, you tackled him — laughter echoing in the yard as you rolled down the hill together.

As you lay side by side in a bed of grassy weeds near the riverbed, your pinky finger is extended toward his. Purple eyes met yours, fond.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Your pinkies locked, and you maneuvered your hands to hold his.

And like a man of honor, a title he's brushed off countless times, he keeps his word. Even after you're swept away into a palace and a life so far beyond your child self, sobbing at the unfamiliarity, his temporary absence from your life.

You're soon to be sixteen when you're sitting by the vanity, Grandma in the doorway as you're preparing yourself for the morning. It's a lush bedroom, unlike the humble attic you and Caleb often slept in. Times of the countryside still flood your memory every time you subconsciously compare the opulence of palatial vessels to your quaint home.

And, like clockwork, there's three knocks from the balcony door.

Grandma lifts a brow in suspicion when you do not spare a glance toward the noise. She's dressed in lavish robes, yet looks no less graceful as the day she took you in.

"I beg of you, tell me that isn't Caleb."

Your lips lift into a smile. "I regret to inform you, it most likely is."

And when the doors click open, fresh air rushing into your bedchambers, the sound of metal rattling comes with the rhythm of his footfall.

You turn. He's already got that signature boyish grin, a hand on his hip as his brows lift in acknowledgment. Fresh from his morning routine, it would seem, the gleam of his exposed triceps from his training attire.

"My Lady."

To attempt to hide your glee would be a blatant mistruth. So you allow your joy to show in your face as he crosses the space eagerly, heart skipping a beat in time with his steps.

"My knight."

He kneels at your side, seeking your hand to grace it with a teasingly soft kiss, before intertwining your fingers with his gloved ones. That's new. You must look ready to inquire on the new gesture incorporated in your daily greeting, because he simply sends you a disarming smile. Perhaps, it shall come at another time.

"This morning, you are as luminous as the moon was last night," Caleb declares, squeezing your palm.

You squeeze back before you could think much of it, forgoing etiquette. It takes a moment, but you glare at him.

"There was no moon last night, idiot—"

Before you could raise your other hand to unleash a flurry of attacks on his person, Grandma's exasperation radiates from the doorway in waves. "Caleb, doors exist for good reason. Can't you simply knock?"

He spares her a glance. Mischief flits in and out of his eyes. "I did knock. Thrice, might I add."

"It is improper of you to enter through the balcony of an unmarried woman."

You scooch over on your cushioned seat, letting him sit beside you. It's natural to lean your weight onto him once he does; this time, he does not try and dissuade you with the poor excuse of him being dirty.

You give your grandmother a gentle smile, laughing at her scowl. "I've permitted him to enter through the balcony. And he is my knight. It shouldn't be an issue, no?"

You could feel Caleb press his nose to your hair, approval thick in his manner. As you swat at his head, your grandmother sighs deeply before striding over to the two of you. Caleb's arm, which was slung around your shoulder, is promptly pushed off. He groans from your side, and you pout.

"You are to be of age soon. It is important that you two must behave appropriately by then."

"I know, I know. I always do my best," Caleb says halfheartedly. You stare at him, incredulous because since when did he ever? He gives you an amused look, pinches your nose after. "Don't look at me like that, you. The only reason we ever end up like this is from your insistence."

You huff, "so, you don't appreciate my company?"

He deadpans. "Now, you know for a fact that that is not true."

Grandma sighs yet again, prying you off of your lounging position against his firmer body. Her hands direct your posture, straightening your back and shoulders despite your open groans and complaints. Caleb laughs from beside you, pokes at your sides while you powder your face just to annoy you, surely. She's still trying to redirect your behavior, lecturing the two of you — not like you nor Caleb were listening.

It takes a while for you to notice, but he's still holding your hand. You don't let go. Neither does he.

You are turning sixteen when Caleb holds your hand for the first time in half a decade.

You are eighteen when he lets go of you.

#babylon.#𐙚 ; bǎo bèi.#mimi.writes #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #lads caleb x reader #lads #lnds caleb #lnds #lnds caleb x reader #caleb x reader

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dxrlingluv · 16 days ago

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Uh, you did NOT have to break my heart with Telemachus x reader "Not Me, But Her". 😭 Also, just discovered you, and I love your writing! Im just here to beg for a part 2 for "Not Me, But Her". Of course, this doesnt mean that you HAVE to.

If you're out of ideas for it, I have a suggestion(NOT an order, if you dont want to write this, you dont HAVE to. You might already have something in mind...) Anyhow, maybe the reader decides to give up(for now) on Telemachus. So they grow colder towards him, and find a new person(a suitor or another servant) and treat them as they did Telemachus in the past. Now, Telemachus starts to miss their warm personality towards him. Lyra doesnt even have to try and steal Telemachus. She might help and support Tele, which, of course, the reader misunderstands as them being together. So Tele tries to win back over the reader.

Sorry its a bit long. Anyhow, you wrote that you were sad, so I hope you're doing better now! Even if you dont write this, Ill still love your writing!

Our Future

A/N : I was planning on being evil and make this an angst with no comfort haha, but then I saw the support and the comforting words I’ve been receiving, so I thought, “why not make them happy?”. Telemachus art is from Duvetbox!

WARNING : Part 2 of “Not me, but Her”. Slight angst, happy ending, Fem!Reader.

Word Count: 3.6k

The grief that shattered you in the torchlit corridor did not break you. Instead, when the tears finally dried, leaving salty tracks on your skin like riverbeds after a drought, something new and hard settled in their place. It was resolve, cold and clear as winter ice. You had spent years pouring your warmth, your hope, your very essence into a vessel that would not hold it, and you were left empty. No more.

The decision was not made in anger, but in a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. It was a matter of survival. The next morning, you rose and began the deliberate, painful process of building a wall around your heart. When you saw Telemachus across the courtyard, his brow furrowed with the familiar weight of his burdens, the old impulse to rush to his side, to offer a kind word or a cup of water, rose in your throat like a phantom ache. You swallowed it down, turning on your heel and focusing on the stone flags beneath your feet, one step at a time, until the urge subsided. You learned to make your face a placid mask, your voice a neutral current, and your eyes—your eyes never truly met his again. You were a ghost in his halls, impeccable in your duties, but utterly devoid of the spirit he had never truly noticed until it was gone.

That spirit, the innate warmth and care that was so much a part of you, needed a place to rest. It found a quiet harbor in Arion. He was the junior assistant to the palace scribe, a young man from a lesser family that had lost its lands and fortunes two generations prior. He possessed a quiet intelligence and a gentle demeanor, but in the boisterous, political viper's nest of the palace, his quietness made him invisible. You understood that kind of invisibility. He was perpetually overworked, his tunic often bearing the smudge of spilled ink, his dark hair falling into eyes that held a permanent, thoughtful sadness.

Your friendship began with a bruised apple. It was an offering made on a whim, a simple act of redirecting a kindness that no longer had a home. But Arion's reaction was unlike any you had ever received. His face, when he took the apple, was a study in stunned gratitude.

The next day, he sought you out. He found you tending to the potted herbs near the kitchens, and he held out a small, smooth piece of papyrus. "It is not much," he said, his voice soft and hesitant. "But my master discards the ends of the scrolls. I thought... I thought you might like it. For lists, or... or for drawing, if you are so inclined."

You took the small, precious gift, your fingers brushing his. For the first time in a long time, you felt a warmth that was not your own, but one that was being offered to you. "Thank you, Arion," you said, and a small, genuine smile touched your lips without you even willing it to. "No one has ever given me a gift like this before."

A bond formed, quiet and steady. It was a friendship woven from small, shared moments. You would save him a heel of bread; he would read you a line of poetry from a scroll he was copying. You would help him re-roll a particularly cumbersome map; he would tell you stories of the old gods he was researching. You found solace in his calm presence, and he seemed to find light in your gentle attention. In a world of loud, demanding men, his quiet respect was a balm. Your relationship wasn't one of fiery passion or aching romance; it was something perhaps more profound—a mutual recognition of each other's worth, a quiet haven of kindness in a harsh world.

Telemachus, meanwhile, was drowning. The great sea of his anxieties had not lessened, but the small, personal buoy he'd never realized he had was gone. He'd finish a grueling session with his sword master, muscles screaming, throat parched, and would instinctively scan the courtyard for your familiar form. But you were never there. The cool waterskin no longer appeared as if by magic at his elbow. The silence in his study was no longer just quiet; it was empty. He felt your absence as a draft in a warm room, a persistent chill he couldn't locate.

He began to watch you, trying to understand the shift. He saw you work, your efficiency more pronounced now that it was unsoftened by any personal warmth. He saw the cool, dismissive nod you gave him, the same you gave any other servant. It pricked at his pride, then, more alarmingly, at something deeper. He felt... ignored. And he was stunned to realize how much it bothered him.

The vague sense of loss sharpened into a blade of pure jealousy the first time he saw you with Arion. They were sharing a bench in the shade of an olive tree, eating a simple meal of bread and cheese. You said something, and Arion let out a soft, breathy laugh. In response, you smiled at him—a gentle, luminous smile that crinkled the corners of your eyes. It was a smile of pure, unguarded contentment. A smile he had never, not once, earned for himself. He felt a hot, possessive anger rise in his chest, so potent it startled him. Why were you smiling like that for a lowly scribe's assistant?

The sightings became a form of exquisite torture. A week later, he saw you both in the tapestry room. Arion was helping you mend a tear in a heavy drape, your heads bent close together, your fingers working in tandem. As you finished, you noticed an ink smudge on Arion's cheek. With a familiar ease that bespoke countless similar moments, you reached up and gently wiped it away with your thumb. The casual intimacy of the gesture, so simple and so profoundly domestic, sent a jolt through Telemachus. It was a touch without artifice or agenda, a touch born of genuine affection. He had commanded you for years, but he had never known that tenderness.

The final, crushing blow came during a cool evening. He was seeking solitude on a secluded balcony, his mind churning with plans to deal with Antinous, the cruelest of the suitors. Below, in the small, walled garden reserved for the queen, he saw two figures. It was you and Arion, walking slowly along the path. You were speaking, your hands gesturing as you told a story, your face animated in the moonlight. Arion listened with an attentiveness that was almost reverent. Telemachus couldn't hear your words, but he didn't need to. He was witnessing you give the most precious part of yourself—your thoughts, your spirit, your unguarded presence—to someone else. He remembered all the times he had cut you off, dismissed your words, or simply turned away. He had treated your voice like background noise, and here was someone else treating it like music.

Just then, Lyra appeared at his side, holding a woolen cloak. "My lord, you will catch a chill," she said, her voice full of sincere concern. He barely heard her. His eyes were locked on the scene below. You glanced up then, not at him, but in the general direction of the palace, and saw him standing there with Lyra draping the cloak over his shoulders. He saw your expression falter for only a second before settling back into a calm neutrality. He watched you turn back to Arion, say something soft, and continue your walk, leaving Telemachus standing on the balcony, feeling more alone than ever. He knew what you must have thought, and the bitter irony was that Lyra's kindness felt like ashes compared to the warmth he now understood he had lost from you.

He could not bear it another day. He sought you out, finding you as you were leaving the main hall. He stepped into your path, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

"Y/N," he said, his voice strained.

You stopped, your arms empty, but you held them as if guarding your chest. "My lord," you said, your voice a placid stream flowing over cold stones. Your eyes were on his chin, not his face.

"I have been a fool," he began, the words rushing out of him, raw and unpracticed. "A blind, arrogant fool. The kindness you showed me... the care... I took it for granted. I treated it as my due, not the gift that it was. I see that now. I see it when I see you with... him."

You were silent for a long moment, simply absorbing his words. He saw a flicker of the old pain in your eyes, a deep, ancient sorrow. But it was distant, like a storm long past.

"And what is it you want, my lord?" you asked, your question devoid of accusation. It was a simple, honest inquiry.

"I want...," he faltered, the enormity of his request finally dawning on him. "I miss you, Y/N. I miss the person you were."

Your gaze finally lifted to meet his, and for the first time in months, you let him see. But what he saw was not the adoring, hopeful servant he remembered. He saw a woman, calm and whole, whose peace was no longer tied to his notice.

"My lord," you said, and your voice was softer now, tinged not with coldness, but with a sad wisdom. "The person you miss... I had to let her go. She would not have survived. Her heart was not meant for a world that saw her kindness as a convenience." You took a small, steadying breath. "The warmth you are looking for is not something I can give you anymore. I have learned to build my own fire, and to share it with those who value its light."

You offered him a small, final nod, one that held not dismissal, but a strange kind of pity. "I wish you well in your search, Telemachus."

You used his name, without his title, for the first and for what you hope will be the last time. Then you walked away, your steps unhurried, leaving him standing alone in the grand, empty hall. He did not call after you. The finality in your voice was absolute. He was left with nothing but the crushing, monumental weight of his own regret. He had been given a treasure, and in his blindness, he had let it slip through his fingers, only to watch, helpless, as another man recognized its worth and gently picked it up. The pain of it was a lesson, sharp and brutal, and he knew with a certainty that would haunt him for the rest of his days that this was the beginning of his wisdom.

In the wake of your final, quiet conversation, a strange peace settled between you and Telemachus. The tension did not vanish, but it transformed from a brittle, painful thing into a long, somber silence, filled with unspoken understanding. Telemachus, for his part, accepted the boundary you had drawn with a maturity that surprised you. He ceased his attempts to breach your walls, and instead, took to watching you from a distance.

From his vantage point, he began to truly see you for the first time. He watched your friendship with Arion, and though a bitter pang of regret twisted in his gut with every shared smile he witnessed, he forced himself to look past his own pain. He saw the easy camaraderie, the mutual respect, the way you both seemed to draw strength from each other's quiet presence. He saw Arion listen to you with rapt attention and saw you comfort Arion with a gentle hand on his arm. Telemachus began to admire the resilience you had found, the peace you had carved out for yourself without him. The admiration was a painful, humbling lesson, and he poured that bitter education into his duties, facing the suitors with a new, steelier resolve born of profound personal regret.

You, in turn, could not help but notice the change in him. The frantic, boyish energy was gone, replaced by a deep, pensive gravity. You saw him treat the other servants with a consideration that had never been there before, asking their names, thanking them for their service. He no longer carried himself with the thoughtless privilege of a prince, but with the weary weight of a man learning the cost of his own actions. One evening, you saw him staring into the fire, his expression so full of lonely remorse that a forgotten warmth stirred in your chest—not the old, aching devotion, but a new, more complicated empathy. The ice around your heart had not vanished, but it was beginning to show cracks.

Your friendship with Arion, meanwhile, deepened into a sanctuary. One afternoon, while you were helping him sort a stack of sun-bleached papyrus scrolls, the sound of a lyre, accompanied by a clear, confident voice, drifted in from the courtyard. It was Ctesippus, one of the more flamboyant suitors, known more for his poetry and preening than his outright brutality. Arion froze, his hands stilling over a scroll, his gaze lost in the distance. A soft, mournful sigh escaped his lips.

"His voice is as clear as the streams on Mount Neriton," Arion murmured, almost to himself.

You looked from the suitor back to your friend's wistful face, and understanding bloomed. "Arion," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "Your heart is far away."

He looked at you, his gentle eyes clouded with a hopeless affection. "Is it so obvious?" he whispered, a sad smile touching his lips. "He is beautiful, is he not? Like a verse from Homer brought to life. And I am... a scribe's boy with ink on his fingers. His world is so far from mine, Y/N." He confessed his quiet, impossible crush, a secret he had held close in the lonely chambers of his heart.

You squeezed his arm, your own past heartaches giving you the perfect words of comfort. "Your heart is good and true, Arion. That is worth more than all the lyres in Ithaca. I am glad you trust me with its keeping." In that moment, your bond was cemented not as lovers, but as something arguably deeper: two souls weathering the same storm, offering each other the simple, profound gift of being understood.

Weeks later, Penelope tasked you and Telemachus with a discreet and urgent project. A shipment of rare Phoenician cloth, part of her dowry she wished to protect from the suitors' greedy eyes, needed to be moved from a lower storeroom to a hidden chamber behind her own suite. It was a task that required both strength and subtlety, forcing the two of you into close collaboration.

The first hour was a study in awkward silence. You worked with a detached efficiency, while Telemachus seemed afraid to even breathe too loudly in your presence. But the sheer physicality of the work slowly eroded the formality. As he passed you a heavy, cedar-lined box, his hand brushed yours, and a jolt of startled awareness passed between you. He pulled his hand back as if burned, murmuring a quick apology.

"It is heavy," you said simply, your voice even. "I will take that side."

Slowly, a new rhythm emerged. He began to defer to you. "Do you think this chest will fit through the west passage, Y/N? You know the architecture better than I." He no longer gave orders; he asked for your counsel. He treated you not as a servant, but as a trusted partner. As you worked, a shared memory surfaced—a time in childhood when you had both hidden in this very same secret passage during a game.

A small, hesitant smile touched his lips. "I remember you knew this hiding spot even then. You never told anyone where I was."

"It was a good hiding spot," you replied, and a genuine, answering smile bloomed on your face before you could stop it. It was a small moment, a fleeting truce, but it felt as significant as a sunrise after a long night. The air between you lightened, warmed by the ember of a shared past.

The breaking point for Telemachus came a few days later. He saw you in the garden with Arion. Your friend was clearly distraught, his shoulders slumped in defeat—Ctesippus had likely mocked him or treated him with casual cruelty. You were speaking to him in low, soothing tones, your expression one of fierce, protective loyalty. As you spoke, you reached out and cupped his cheek, tilting his face towards yours, a gesture of profound comfort and solidarity.

From Telemachus's vantage point, it was a devastating tableau. It looked like a lover comforting their heartbroken partner. He saw in that single touch a depth of intimacy he was now certain he could never hope to achieve. He believed, in that moment, that he had lost you completely and irrevocably. The pain was sharp, but it clarified his purpose. He could not keep pining for what was not his. For your sake, and for his own sanity, he had to let you go. Properly.

He found you that evening by the olive tree in the main courtyard, the place that had been the backdrop for so much of your shared history. He approached you not with the desperation of before, but with a somber, settled resolve.

You saw him coming and your heart gave a nervous flutter, but you stood your ground.

"Telemachus," you greeted him quietly.

He stopped a respectful distance away. "I will not keep you," he said, his voice low and steady. "I only... I needed to say something. I have spent these past weeks learning a difficult lesson, one you tried to teach me long ago. I see now what true companionship looks like. The respect. The kindness."

He swallowed, his gaze earnest and filled with a deep, painful sincerity. "I see the happiness you have found with Arion. He is a good and gentle man. He sees you, Y/N, in a way I was too blind to. You deserve that." He took a breath, the words costing him more than you could know. "My chance to be that man has passed. And I accept that. I only wished to say that I hope you will accept my sincerest wish for your future together. May it be long and happy."

You stared at him. The silence stretched, filled only by the chirping of crickets. His speech was so noble, so full of heartfelt, tragic renunciation that it would have been beautiful, were it not so utterly, completely, ridiculously wrong. A strangled sound escaped your throat, a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

"My future?" you repeated, your voice incredulous. "With Arion?"

He looked confused by your reaction. "Yes? I have seen... you are very close."

You looked at his handsome, earnest, completely bewildered face, and the dam of your composure finally broke. You laughed. It wasn't a small chuckle, but a full, rolling laugh of pure, unadulterated disbelief. You pressed a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it was no use.

"Telemachus," you finally managed, wiping a tear of mirth from your eye. "Arion is my dearest friend in this world. My brother. And the last person whose heart I would have any claim on." Seeing his utter confusion, you took pity on him. "His affections, my lord, lie with a certain suitor known for his skill with a lyre and his unfortunate choice in company."

The wave of emotions that crashed over Telemachus's face was a sight to behold. Shock. Disbelief. Stunned, dawning comprehension. And then, a wild, electrifying surge of hope so powerful it made him dizzy. All this time, he had been mourning a romance that had never existed.

"So you... you are not...?" he stammered, his princely composure gone.

"No," you said softly, your laughter subsiding into a warm, gentle smile. "We are not."

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, with all the walls between you shattered by the absurdity of it all. He saw the warmth in your eyes, the smile on your lips, and he saw his second chance, shimmering and improbable and more precious than any kingdom.

"Then, Y/N," he said, his voice thick with emotion, stepping closer until he could have reached out and touched you. "If your heart is not taken, and your future is not written..." He paused, his gaze locking with yours. "Would you allow me the honor of trying to earn it? Not as a prince who was a fool, but as a man who would spend a lifetime proving he has learned his lesson. Allow me to court you. Properly. With walks in the garden, and conversations that I will never again cut short. With the respect you have always deserved."

You looked at the man before you—humbled, sincere, and stripped of all his old arrogance. You saw the regret that had carved new lines of character into his face and the hope that now made his eyes shine. The last of the ice melted away, not in a flood, but in a gentle, sun-warmed thaw.

"Yes, Telemachus," you said, and your voice was full of a light he had never heard before. "Yes. I would like that very much."

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archangeldyke-all · 5 months ago

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hii idk if you’re still writing the cowboy sevika fics but i’m actually obsessed with them you have no idea!! anyway i was thinking a fluffy little fic about sevika being depressed after shimmers death and reader, vi, and jinx do their best to cheer her up/support her!! do whatever you want i’ll literally take anything i just love your characters so much🙏🙏

YEEHAWWWW i miss cowboy sevika

men and minors dni

it's been a month since you and your girls buried shimmer by your garden. not a night has passed where sevika hasn't cried herself to sleep in your arms. it's breaking your heart.

watching shimmer die was hard enough. you were never much of a horse person before meeting sevika's trusty mare, but shimmer converted you. before sevika settled down with you; one of your greatest comforts when she was out wandering the desert was that she had shimmer there with her. the horse was so in tune with sevika, and they'd been riding together for so long, that they practically moved as one. you worried less about sevika losing her mind when she had shimmer to listen to her rambling. you worried less about her losing her life when she had shimmer to run her back home to you if she ever got too beat up.

and as sweet as sevika is when she claims you're her best friend-- you know that title really belongs to shimmer.

"we should do somethin' for sev." vi mumbles one night. jinx is fast asleep between the pair of you, after insisting she wasn't tired for an hour straight.

"like what?" you ask.

vi shrugs. "cait and her dad go hunting sometimes."

you giggle. "you're crazy if you think we're giving jinx a gun."

vi laughs. "no, no, we wouldn't hunt. we could just, y'know, go camping or something. there are some cold springs thirty miles west of here."

"and how would we get there without a horse?"

"we could borrow one of grayson's." vi suggests.

you smile and turn to face her. "you've been planning this?" you ask. she smiles guiltily.

"sevika's just been so sad. i wanna cheer her up."

your heart bursts with love and you dart forward, squeezing jinx between your body and vi's as you attempt to hug her. vi giggles. jinx wakes up with an annoyed groan.

so, a week later, you, your wife, and your girls set out with a horse drawn wagon and one of grayson's newest additions: a young colt named 'teddy.' grayson was happy to lend you the horse, muttering something about him being a pain in the ass to train. "if there's anyone i know who can get through to a stubborn horse like teddy, it's sevika." she sighed.

the ride out to the springs is rocky and bumpy, sevika getting used to riding a horse that isn't shimmer-- teddy being an ass just for the hell of it. at least the girls find it fun. their giggles and squeals are the soundtrack for your entire ride to the springs. even with all the curses she's spewing at teddy, sevika looks more relaxed than she has in weeks back on top of a horse.

"what're we even gonna do once we get there?" jinx asks. you snort and ruffle her bangs.

"well, i'm going swimming. you losers can do whatever you want." you say. the girls giggle.

"do you think there are cliffs we can jump off of?" vi asks. you shrug.

"i'm sure we can find some. we've got a whole river to explore."

"none of you are doing any exploring until we set up camp and get a fire going." sevika huffs from on top of teddy's back.

"boo! boring." jinx whines.

'setting up camp' ends up being sevika building the tent and jinx feeding teddy while you and vi attempt to make a fire the old fashioned way.

"how did the cavemen ever do this?" vi huffs as she rubs two sticks together. you snort.

"i'm sure they had tools. blubber to make it catch better, or something."

vi rolls her eyes. "i don't understand why she won't just give us her lighter."

you laugh and look up at sevika as she wipes her sweaty brow. "she doesn't trust us not to burn down the whole riverbed."

"or she's just bossy." vi mutters. you cackle.

"i think you're right, kid."

you don't make it into the river on your first night, but you don't mind much. when the sun sets, the heat of summer fades and the cool dark forces you all to squish together on a log in front of the fire while sevika cooks up beans and weenies on the fire.

"is that a planet or a star?" vi asks. jinx looks up and hums.

"i think it's venus."

"yeah?"

"i think so. sev?" jinx asks.

sevika glances up at the sky, smiling proudly and ruffling jinx's bangs. "you nailed it, kiddo."

"what constellations are out tonight, sev?" jinx asks, tucking herself under your wife's arm. sevika hums, leaning back to study the sky.

you don't bother to look at the sky. pretty as the stars are, they're nothing compared to the sight of your three girls, cuddled together and illuminated in the firelight.

"follow my finger. you see those three stars close together?" sevika whispers, her voice melding with the crackle of the fire and the roar of the river.

"yeah." vi whispers. jinx nods against sevika's shoulder.

sevika drags her finger across the sky. "see how they lead into a cross? there?"

"is that the northern cross?" jinx asks. sevika nods, her smile growing.

"you know it. anyways, the cross is in the center of cygnus the swan. backbone of the milky way." sevika's eyes flick down and catch yours, and she smiles shyly. you grin. there are more stars in her eyes than in the whole night sky.

you spend the next day in the river with the girls, laughing and splashing and squealing when fish nibble your ankles. vi and sevika ride upriver to try to find cliffs to jump off of, and you teach jinx how to doggy paddle. when the girls return, they're soaking wet and cackling.

that evening, with the girls fast asleep in the tent, you and sevika smoke a joint and go skinny dipping.

"did you have fun with vi?" you ask, your arms and legs wrapped around your wife. sevika giggles against you.

"i shouldn't tell you." she says. you giggle.

"'s that supposed to mean?"

"means she almost jumped onto some rocks several fucking times. gave me a heart attack."

you groan, shaking your head. "no, you shouldn't've told me." you agree. sevika giggles.

"but, we both lived, didn't we?" she asks. you laugh.

"y'know we're gonna have to adopt teddy from grayson?" you ask. sevika snorts.

"what makes you say that?"

"jinx is obsessed with him. braided and un-braided his mane like six times today. calls him 'teddy bear.' plus..." you trail off.

sevika darts forward to kiss you. you hum against her lips. "plus?" she asks, her lips brushing yours.

"plus, you need a new horse. you look good in the saddle."

sevika hums and kisses you again. "you take such good care of me. how am i supposed to keep up my bandit appearance when i got a wife that talks me into adoptin' horses and takes me out on vacation?"

you laugh. "you haven't been a bandit in half a decade. and the vacation was violet's idea. she was worried about you."

sevika sighs and leans forward to rest her forehead against your shoulder. "you still take good care of me." she says. you kiss her scalp.

"well... y'know. you're my dingus the duck."

"your what?!" sevika asks with a cackle. you groan and shrug.

"i dunno, those stars you were talking about last night!" you whine.

"cygnus the swan!?" she asks. you nod.

"that's the one."

"what the fuck are you talking about?" she asks though her laughs. you snort.

"y'know. you're the backbone of my galaxy, or whatever."

sevika's teasing expression melts, stars sparkling in her eyes. "that's awfully corny, darling." she whispers, her voice shaky with emotion. you smile.

"what the-- what are you two doing?!" vi squawks from the riverbank. you and sevika giggle guiltily, caught by your kids canoodling in the cold springs.

"go back to the tent!" you shout.

"awe, gross, are you guys naked!?" jinx whines.

sevika snorts. "we all bathed together three hours ago!"

"yeah, but you guys weren't all up on each other-- vi, let's go before we overhear something nasty." jinx groans, tugging on her sister's arm.

violet laughs and stumbles behind jinx. "don't drown!" she calls.

taglist!

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@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

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taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @sevikasllver @runawaybaby3

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika imagine #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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justsomerandomfanfic · 7 months ago

Text

A Question Of Courtship - Kili Durin X Female (Human) Reader

Title: A Question Of Courtship

Kili Durin X Female (Human) Reader

Additional Characters: Bilbo, Lobelia (Mentioned), Gandalf (Mentioned), Thorin, Dwalin (Mentioned), Balin (Mentioned), Fili, and the rest of the Company (Mentioned)

Requested By: @kpopgirlbtssvt

WC: 3,695

Warnings: Mentions of adoption, Reader is adopted by Bilbo, very brief and slight prejudice, brief mentions of injuries and wounds, italics, nightmares, confession, teasing, banter, counting, Ones, mini angst, and fluff

Twenty-two years ago, on a beautiful sunny morning, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, had found you on his doorstep. That morning was like any other morning for the Hobbit. He would wake up, get dressed, eat breakfast, and then smoke his pipe out in his little garden as the sun rose before readying second breakfast.

But, on one fateful day, Bilbo had finished his breakfast - a smile on his face and his stomach full - as he made his way to the round front door. Upon opening the door, his pleasant grin faded into one of confusion. Right on his little bench, where he always sat at the beginning of the day to watch the sunrise, now held a basket.

A gift perhaps?

Walking over, he stashed his pipe back within his cotton vest, staring down at the brown woven basket, a light blue blanket covering the top; hiding what was underneath. Bilbo was a bit apprehensive, not fully knowing what was inside the basket, but with the thought that it was perhaps food or any baked goods, he reached over to take the blanket off the top.

Instead of any food, he found you. A wee little baby, wrapped in a second blanket - a small seemingly-homemade quilt. You were sleeping, peacefully, and only after tearing his bewildered gaze from you, did he see the note on the top of your quilt. Taking the note, he opened it, and read it;

'Please, whoever reads this, take care of my baby.'

That was it. And as Bilbo looked up from the short letter, he wondered what he was going to do with you. There wasn't even a name of your mother, nor one for you... Bilbo wasn't prepared to take care of a child - a baby - something that needed a lot of attention, food, and love. He was not ready to take care of a child. His mind quickly filled with late nights and ear-piercing crying... His beloved routine would be in shambles. But, when your eyes opened, peering up at him, a little smile appeared on your face... All the thoughts of finding someone more fit to raise you left his mind completely.

Before Bilbo knew it, he decided to name you 'Y/N.' He was now a father.

A father to a Human.

Bilbo found out that you were a Human when you grew and surpassed him in height. This was difficult, yes, his home was small, compared to you, but thankfully the ceilings were high enough that if you ducked slightly, you'd be fine. Though, because of your height, you needed specific things for your life to be more comfortable. Such as a bigger bed, which was handmade by one of Bilbo's lovely neighbors, as well as chairs and whatnot. And clothes. Do not get him started on the clothes. Bilbo even expanded his garden, enough to now fully feed both him and you.

And in the beginning, when you were still such a small, little thing, Bilbo was worried about the possible prejudice that would arise. He was worried that some of those in Hobbiton would find you odd. A Human in Hobbiton... But, news of Bilbo's Human daughter was quickly spread, and as quickly as it was spread, it became accepted. People began to forget that you weren't exactly like them - and, in many ways, you weren't. You were kind and gentle, and oh-so very loving; that made everyone around you want to be just as kind and gentle too.

This brought happiness to Bilbo. You seemed happy. He was happy too. And life was calm and peaceful in the Shire once more.

But, skipping to the present day, that all seemed to change.

A gentle breeze swept past you as you sat on the edge of the riverbed. You sat upon a large stone, dipping your bare feet into the water. It was warm and soothing and you smiled as you watched fish swim past, occasionally coming up for a moment and nipping lightly at your toes. Your hair was tied back, but little strays were persistent and broke free; framing your face nicely. The setting sun shone brightly on your head but didn’t bother you much. You had grown used to the sunlight and weather and took no offense to it at all. It was warm enough today - despite the breeze - that you wore a thin jacket; which you loved immensely, along with a simple dress, and some leather boots. Being a Human, unlike Hobbits, you were unable to walk around on your bare feet for more than an hour or two at a time without growing uncomfortable; you couldn't count how many times you came home with little sores on the bottoms of your feet.

Your afternoons usually persisted in reading in the small forest near the entrance path to Hobbiton before you traveled around the town, greeting your friends and neighbors before finding yourself sitting down by the river. Hobbiton, though being the only place you've ever been, was a beautiful and peaceful place. You loved it, but you longed for adventure. You often imagined going on adventures to far-off places, seeing large castles, and riding horses. Like the storybooks had told you, but, though you were old enough, Bilbo would always become so uneasy at the mere mention of you leaving Hobbiton. You knew that you could leave if you so wished, but you hated the thought of him being alone. Alone to face the wrath of Lobelia.

You knew that you were different. And no, not in the way that you were a Human and your friends and family - and father - were not. You were different. Special. When you were twelve, you had been running around with some of the other children, and in the cloud of fun, you had tripped and fallen. Finding your knee all scraped up, you felt tears sting the backs of your eyes. You had carefully brushed the dirt and whatever else away from the somewhat bloody scrap; a tear leaving your eye. It fell, landing on your knee, and within mere seconds, your cut had healed itself. You remembered the feeling of awe and confusion as you stared down at your now perfectly healed knee. You told your father - Bilbo - and with a bit of research, you had learned that your tears could heal injuries.

Well, when you got older, this fascination with your powers and healing in general, you trained to become a healer. You learned all that you needed to know; certain tonics, plants to use, and ones to stay away from. It was helpful, very helpful in fact, that you became one of the best healers of Hobbiton. Though, there wasn't a lot of healing you had to do. Hobbiton was - as said before - calm and peaceful. There were no wars, no battles, no fights that caused any wounds or anything that needed healing. At most, you had a papercut or a gardening scratch that needed tending to. So, you were free to do anything you pleased, most of the time, most of the day.

But, as the sun began to fall past the horizon, you quickly got up from the stone. Walking home, the grass gradually dried your feet as you made your way home; continuing to hum a song as you got closer and closer. Entering the home, you could smell supper cooking, and you smiled. After a long day, you were excited to eat. Stashing your shoes away, you found your father plating supper, and you joined him, helping him.

The supper looked delicious, but before either you or your father could even begin to eat or take your first bites, there was a knock on the door. You both looked up at each other, confused. Who would be visiting this late into the night?

"Did you invite someone?" You asked your father, who shook his head.

"No," He looked towards where the door was located, "Did you, my child?"

You shook your own head, "No."

You both then stood, and Bilbo opened the door. There stood a Dwarf. He stared at the both of you - possibly somewhat surprised by you - then the intimidating Dwarf gave your father his heavy furs and weapons. Before you knew it, there were a handful of Dwarves in the Hobbit hole, along with Gandalf. You stood beside your father, hearing the story of Erebor, the dragon, and the Dwarves wanting to reclaim it. It was a thrilling story, and you found yourself wishing and longing that you could come along and help.

Well, your wish would soon be fulfilled.

~~~

You had been walking, you didn't know how long, but you didn't care. You were happy, a bright smile on your face as you looked at all the tall trees, and colorful plants; just admiring the world around you. You followed after some of the other Dwarves, your father beside you. It had been a good couple of days since the beginning of the journey to Erebor. Gandalf had convinced the Dwarves - mostly Thorin - that they would need a burglar. A burglar and a healer.

Your father did not want you to go. He was insistent that you stay home, and watch over the Shire, and his garden, but Gandalf said that you would be a key member of the Company if you came along. You remembered looking up at Gandalf, and with that knowing look in his eyes, you knew that he knew about your powers. You had then spoken, telling him, and Thorin, that you would be honored to come along. Bilbo grumbled and protested against you signing the contract but with a smidge of convincing by you that next morning, both you and your father were running through Hobbiton to catch up with the Company.

You had been collecting flowers, some white ones, pink ones, and even some yellow ones. It had been a good couple of months since the beginning of the journey. Throughout the journey, aside from running away from goblins and trolls, you and the Company had gotten closer. All of the Dwarves, even Thorin, and Dwalin - though they never said anything to you, being so broody and stoic - all the Dwarves had grown to love you. Your kindness and spirit were contagious. They'd all come out of their shells a little - especially Balin, who had taken quite an interest in you and had even begun to teach you Dwarvish.

And Kili... Well, you had unintentionally caught the young Prince's attention since the very beginning.

Kili watched as you picked flower after flower, taking in everything; your energy, your joy. Everything that made you, you. He found your voice breathtaking, and your words always filled him with such warmth and comfort. He enjoyed the moments he did have with you. The conversations you both shared. The more the journey went on, the more both you and Kili grew closer. You talked about your interests and the things you liked doing. He loved watching you laugh and smile, and hearing the stories that you told. He could listen to your sweet voice for hours on end. Seeing the sun reflect off your hair, the light dusting of freckles across your nose and cheeks, your smile... His heart pounded faster than usual and he felt himself blush. You had no idea what he saw. No clue. No clue as to what you had done to him. His eyes sparkled as he looked at you, and Fili noticed this.

"You should speak to her," Fili spoke, slightly startling Kili out of his thoughts.

He blinked, snapping out of his thoughts, before he turned to Fili with a questioning glance, "What?"

Fili sighed quietly, glancing from you to his brother once more. "You should tell her how you feel," He explained gently, watching the way Kili looked at you. "Tell her how you feel about her."

Becoming somewhat started, Kili nudged Fili's side, "Must you be so loud?" He whispered, glaring at his older brother who pursed his lips.

"Yes, I must," He whispered back, looking back at you briefly, "Because you are oblivious."

"I'm not oblivious," Kili defended, "Just... Cautious," He admitted, fiddling with a leather strap on his shoulder. "I believe that she is my One, Fee." He spoke softly, his voice nearly drowned in the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves of the trees.

Fili's frown turned around at his words, "Then you must speak to her. You know how important Ones are, Kee."

"I do," He replied calmly, "But..." He trailed off, shrugging helplessly. "I don't think I can. Not yet," He mumbled quietly, almost inaudible, but still audible to Fili. Looking back over at you, Kili sighed... 'Soon,' he thought. Soon, he'd tell you. He just didn't know when. It was hard to have any privacy - or alone time for that matter - when the rest of the Company was present.

~~~

That night, you shot up from your bedroll. Your breathing was uneven and frantic, and you were covered in cold sweat. Glancing around you, seeing that everything was alright, you shook your head. You rubbed your cheeks, hoping that you didn't wake anyone. The nightmare was dark, and gorey. You weren't scared of the goblins or trolls when you had first encountered them, no, but the nightmare changed something inside of you. It frightened you, to the point that you couldn't breathe properly, let alone sleep. You didn't understand why such a thing happened to you, or why such things would plague your dreams.

"Are you alright?" A voice asked, and it slightly startled you, making you turn your head to see Kili. He sat at the base of a tree; it must have been his night for night watch.

"Oh, um-" You paused, trying to collect your thoughts and emotions. "My apologies, I am fine." You murmured softly, smiling reassuringly at him. "Just a dream."

Kili merely nodded. After a few moments of silence, Kili finally spoke up. "Do you want to talk about it?"

You pursed your lips, turning your gaze to look at the fire; contemplating before standing. Kili watched as you grabbed your fur blanket, walked over to him, and sat down beside him. "It's nothing to worry about, really," You insisted, "Just about the trolls."

Kili hummed before nodding, "I would understand having such dreams. Trolls are incredibly ugly creatures."

His words made you laugh, and you quickly covered your mouth with a hand to quiet yourself. Thankfully, none of the Dwarves, nor your father, had awoken. His words helped you, making you smile, and a small feeling of happiness spread through you. "Thank you, Kili," You said, leaning towards him slightly. "Your words have indeed helped me. As always."

"Always," He repeated quietly, his smile only growing as you reached out to place your hand on top of his.

~~~

The next morning, Kili awoke first. He was just peeking out from above the horizon, and with a small groan, he tried to stretch; but with the weight that was pressed against his shoulder and side, he stopped. Looking beside him, he found you, fast asleep, your head on his shoulder; blanket covering you, the sunlight shining right onto your face, making you appear like an ethereal being. He felt himself freeze, the warmth radiating off your body and into his. He stared at you for a moment, before glancing down, your hand still covered his. He smiled sadly as his thumb brushed lightly against your skin.

At your soft sigh, he paused, his chest tightening as you slowly woke, blinking at the sunlight. "Good morning," Your voice was barely a whisper, and Kili chuckled slightly.

"Good morning." He returned quietly, shifting slightly, careful not to disturb you. "Sleep well? No nightmares?"

"Mhm," You hummed, "No nightmares about ugly trolls." You laughed lightly, causing Kili to smile.

There was another pause between the two of you, neither daring to say anything as the minutes ticked on. Kili watched you as you gazed upon the sunrise, the rays catching every detail of your features, until his mind wandered away. What would you say? What would you say about the fact that his heart raced whenever he gazed upon you, whenever you spoke? Every word that left your lips, it seemed, touched a part of him, deep within the depths of his soul. If he listened, he could hear the echo of your sweet voice, your laughter... If he closed his eyes, he could envision your smile, the light dancing in your eyes. But what if... what if he told you? Would you feel the same? You were his One... He must tell you.

But as the day went on - breakfast being served, traveling closer and closer to the mountain - Kili began to doubt himself. Perhaps, perhaps he wouldn't be able to bring himself to. Would he dare to say it out loud? He wasn't sure. And the longer it lasted, the less confident he became. Finally, after everyone had eaten their fill, the group came to a stop.

"This will be our camp for the night," Thorin announced. "We shall take turns staying up with the watch. Fili and Kili, you can grab sticks for the fire."

Fili quickly spoke, "I can go find food, Kili and Y/N can find wood for the fire."

With that, Thorin raised an eyebrow but allowed it.

Fili gave Kili an encouraging grin, and Kili let out a deep sigh. Doubt tickled the edges of his mind, but once his eyes met yours - seeing your smile - that doubt fluttered away.

Side by side, you and Kili walked around the woods. The evening sun was slowly falling below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and yellow, creating a beautiful sight. Finally, since the nightmare, you and Kili were together alone. Without the other company or the Company, it was easier for you two to talk without interruption. But now, surrounded by the sounds of crickets chirping, of leaves rustling - all alone - Kili felt nervous again.

"Y/N," His voice brought you attention away from the wildflowers and towards him, a smile on your face, "Can I ask something?"

You frowned slightly, tilting your head to the side, "Of course." And Kili felt a lump swell up in his throat.

You looked ethereal. The setting sun cast a golden halo around your hair, causing the strands to sparkle in a way that almost blinded him. Your eyes were bright, shimmering, and filled with curiosity. He swallowed hard. He wanted to ask you the question - but he hesitated. How would you respond? Would you even answer? But, he couldn't speak, he was just so mesmerized by you. So lost in your beauty. Lost in your eyes. Lost in your smile. He didn't want to lose you.

"You are so beautiful..." He muttered out, still so lost in the depths of your stare.

A flush painted your cheeks, and you glanced away shyly. "Oh… Th-Thank you, Kili."

His eyes widened as he snapped out of his head, "I- I did not mean to say that out loud." He spoke alarmed, his expression one of horror as he realized what he had said. He bit his lip.

You blinked owlishly before letting out a short chuckle. "It is alright," You murmured softly, staring at him with a warm, gentle expression. "Nevertheless, I thank you for the compliment."

He breathed out heavily, unable to stop a smile - albeit a nervous one - from appearing on his face. "I did not mess this up, did I?"

You let out another little laugh, shaking your head, "No, I don't think so."

A sweet, silent understanding swept over the both of you, and as his hands brushed against yours during your little walk through the woods, you both completely forgot to grab any kindle for the fire.

~~~

The next morning - walking towards Erebor - with an encouraging smile from you, Kili jogged up towards your father. Again, the nerves were immense, but he steeled himself, clearing his throat to gain your father's attention. Bilbo looked over at the young Prince, an eyebrow raising.

Around them, it felt like the world had gone silent. Like all attention was on him. Kili let out one more sigh, before speaking, "I would like to ask for your permission to braid Y/N’s hair." Now, everyone's eyes were on him, but Kili stood his ground, looking directly at your father. There was no backing down. He wanted to prove himself.

"Braid?" Bilbo muttered, clearly this was the first he was hearing this, "You want to braid my daughter’s hair?"

Kili nodded, glancing at Thorin, he merely grumbled and continued walking, before Kili realized by Bilbo’s expression that he was confused. “Oh, uh, I mean courting. I would like to court your daughter. She- She is the light of my life. She is my One. I know I do not deserve her, but-" Kili let out a sigh, running a hand through his curls. "Will you allow me to court her?"

Bilbo stared at him with wide eyes, clearly shocked and speechless. His gaze darted back towards you, who stood a couple of meters behind, watching intently, but at the sight of your smile, Bilbo quickly composed himself and let out a deep sigh, nodding. "Alright," Bilbo stated. It was obvious how much both you and Kili smiled at each other, and just from the looks in your eyes. "You may court my daughter." He added, giving him a stern look, "But, if you do anything, I will have my cousin's throw potatoes at you."

Kili's smile grew as he nodded, and he could hear some of the other Dwarves cheering for him. "Thank you, Mister Boggins."

Bilbo let out a deep, dramatic sigh as Kili ran back towards you, taking your awaiting hand. Running a hand down his face, he turned around to see both you and Kili smiling, and he knew then - seeing you both interact with each other - he knew. You were happy together. And he could never be angry. If you were happy, then he was happy too.

~~~

Main Masterlist - The Hobbit/Lord Of The Rings Masterlist

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n1ght0f-nyx · 21 days ago

Note

Hi night! I know this isn’t in ur list of fandoms but curious if u would write a NSFW fic for Ave Sapien from Hellboy I don’t think he gets enough love 🥺

i actually love doug jones and guillermo de toro so i loved writing this!! also got me revisiting one of my fav dad movies (besides predator) Tags/Warnings: explicit sexual content, monster lover, interspecies sex, soft dom Abe, aftercare, water sex, size kink, overstimulation, praise kink, marking, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, fingering, semi-public setting word count: 2257 words

The halls of the B.P.R.D. were hushed and dim, soaked in the kind of stillness that only crept in after midnight. The sterile fluorescence overhead had long been dimmed to a gentle amber glow, casting shadows along the floor as you padded barefoot down the corridor. Your skin was still damp from a post-mission shower, and you wore one of Abe’s linen shirts, the hem brushing your thighs, sleeves swallowing your hands. It smelled like him—salt and copper, old books, lake moss. Warm and grounding, like standing on the shore of something ancient and unshakable.

You should have gone to bed.

But the adrenaline refused to leave your body, curling behind your ribs like a second pulse. Your thighs throbbed from the mission—a throb that wasn’t sharp but deep, layered into bone. Bruises bloomed quietly beneath your skin, your muscles remembering every dive, every sprint, every near-miss. It wasn’t fear that kept you up, though. It was absence. You hadn’t seen Abe beyond a briefing that morning, both of you scattered across different deployment teams. You felt… unmoored.

You needed him.

The door to his private tank slid open with a soft hiss. Steam curled outward, licking over your skin in a wave of warmth that smelled faintly of chlorine and something greener. Humid, loamy, like rain on a riverbed. The light inside the tank was low, blue-green, filtered through the water, casting rippling reflections that danced like firelight over the walls.

Abe was in the tank.

His silhouette glided beneath the surface, long and sinuous, like something from a dream—or a myth. He turned mid-lap, powerful legs kicking slow and deliberate, the motion elegant. Controlled. You watched him for a moment, heart tight in your chest. He always looked more at home in the water than anywhere else. Like this was the only place his body ever truly relaxed.

He surfaced with a quiet ripple, dark hair slicked back, the muscles in his arms gleaming as he brushed a hand over his face. When he turned toward you, the light caught in the liquid sheen of his eyes, and you saw the subtle shift in his expression—relief.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, voice still rough from hours of silence. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

You leaned against the edge of the tank, arms crossed beneath your breasts, the fabric clinging wetly to your skin. “Couldn’t sleep. Not without you.”

His gaze traveled over you slowly, reverently. His throat worked as he swallowed. “Come in,” he said. “You need this.”

You didn’t hesitate. The shirt hit the tile with a whisper, already half-soaked. You stepped into the tank, descending the submerged stairs until the water wrapped around your waist, your ribs, your shoulders. Abe met you at the last step, hands catching your hips with that familiar, careful strength. He pulled you to him, body pressed close, his skin cool against your heat.

“You’re sore,” he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair behind your ear. His webbed fingers were feather-light, but sure. “I could feel it from the hallway. Your whole body… humming.”

“I’ve been humming for hours,” you said, your forehead meeting his. “Thought I’d go insane if I didn’t see you.”

His chest vibrated with a soft laugh, and then his lips met yours.

The kiss was slow at first—tentative, like a question he already knew the answer to. His mouth was cool and smooth, lips slick from the water, tongue teasing in small, tender strokes. Your arms wound around his neck, fingers slipping through his damp hair. The taste of him—fresh, earthy, something metallic at the edge—settled on your tongue like a balm.

He didn’t rush. He never did.

But the longer your mouths moved together, the more the kiss changed—deeper, hungrier. His hands slid down your back, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against the hardness now pressing into your belly. His cock throbbed against you, thick and hot, unmistakable even in the water. You let out a breathless moan, grinding against him.

“I missed you,” you whispered against his lips.

He tilted his head, kissing along your jaw, down your neck. “Then let me remind you,” he murmured, voice gravel-smooth, “exactly how much.”

With a shift of his arms, he lifted you easily, pinning your body between his and the warm tile wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, thighs snug against his ribs. The ridged texture of his skin teased your inner thighs—firm but smooth, like stone polished by centuries of tide.

He aligned himself with you, letting the head of his cock press gently against your entrance. You gasped at the feel of it—slick, ridged, thicker than anything human. He pushed forward with a groan, slow and steady, stretching you open inch by inch. The curve of him pressed perfectly against that sweet spot inside, and you arched with a cry, clutching at his shoulders.

His face was close, eyes fluttered half-shut, watching your every reaction. “Still so tight,” he rasped. “Still perfect. Every time.”

Once fully sheathed inside you, he paused, panting softly against your neck. You felt the way his arms trembled—not from strain, but restraint. He was holding back. Barely.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were deliberate, deep, dragging those ridges over your walls again and again. The water around you rocked with each stroke, the sound of your bodies meeting muffled and thick. You gasped into his mouth as pleasure sparked bright behind your eyes, nerve endings flaring to life.

The first orgasm hit fast—a blinding clench around him, body tensing as you cried out against his shoulder. Abe groaned, hips snapping harder, chasing his own release. He came with a quiet snarl, cock pulsing inside you as heat spread through your core. You held onto him, trembling, both of you panting, still joined.

But he didn’t stop.

He carried you through the water, both of you half-floating, until he settled you on the built-in ledge at the back of the tank. The water lapped gently at your hips. You lay back, chest heaving, legs still spread—and Abe knelt between them like a man in prayer.

His hands slid up your thighs, fingers parting you gently. Then his mouth was on you.

You cried out, hips bucking, as his tongue found your clit—soft licks at first, then firmer, more insistent. Two fingers slid inside you, the angle perfect, the pressure divine. He lapped at you like a man starved, coaxing your second orgasm from you with brutal tenderness. You came again, shuddering hard, sobbing his name into the steam.

He rose up slowly, lips glistening, eyes dark. Still hard.

“Still with me?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded weakly. “Yes. God, yes.”

He turned you over on the ledge, hands guiding your hips as you rose to your knees. You braced yourself against the tile, cheek pressed to the wall. Abe moved behind you, one hand sliding up your spine, the other anchoring on your waist.

When he entered you again, it was harder. Rougher. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed through the room, mingling with your gasps, your cries. His grip on your hip tightened, the other threading through your hair, tugging until your spine arched perfectly. Each thrust hit deeper. Filthier.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Take me. Let me fill you again.”

You came once more, overwhelmed, legs shaking violently. He followed with a ragged moan, emptying into you with a shudder. And this time, when you collapsed, he came with you.

You floated there in the silence, entwined. Weightless.

He cleaned you afterward, gently, reverently. His fingers careful around the bruises, his lips pressing apologies to your shoulders, your wrists, your spine. You let him. You needed it.

Finally, he cupped your face, kissed your temple, and said, “Let’s sleep here tonight.”

You nodded, curling into his chest as he gathered you into his arms. The water was warm, the tank light dim, and the weight of the day finally began to fade. Wrapped in him, everything else melted away.

And for the first time since the mission, your body stopped buzzing.

Your heart remembered how to rest.

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photo1030 · 2 months ago

Text

Leather and Lace - Chapter 26: Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Summary: You get caught up in town with Micah when running for supplies, and Arthur is none too pleased about it.

*This image is not mine but comes from Pintrest, posted by Duknan

Word Count - 14, 290 (Sorry this is a long one!)

A/N: This one took me awhile and I was about to post it, and then decided to rewrite and reorganize some passages. I know there are strong opinions of Micah Bell out there, but don't hate on me. This will have some sympathies towards our favorite antagonist. Just trying to delve into his character a bit.

Special thank you, as always, to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my cheerleader and beta-reader.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter - still in progress but there are a handful of future chapters that were posted ahead of time

The convoy of wagons and horses carefully snakes its way down the narrow mountain path from Colter. The crisp, frigid air is filled with the sounds of creaking wood and squelching mud as the horses plow through melting snow and sludge underfoot. The last remnants of delicate snowflakes dance in the wind, skipping about like crystalline winter fairies before landing on riders and wagons alike.

Dutch has decided that you all have been hiding up in the wicked winds and snow of the Grizzly Mountains for long enough and it is now time to leave due to several factors. The robbery of the train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall was a success, there is a new addition to the group with Mrs. Adler (who is still recovering from the loss of her husband and home), John is slowly on the mend from the wolf attack, but most importantly, there are O’Driscoll’s afoot in the area. While Dutch is not intimidated by Colm O’Driscoll, he is certainly well aware that his own gang is wounded and not up to snuff as they usually are. It’s best to move the group while he can, getting you all to a more temperate area, and regroup with a new plan for the gang’s future.

While Arthur is still a little cantankerous about what happened in Blackwater and, of course, the events after, you and he have at least reconnected to some extent, which has calmed your nerves a bit from the calamity that led to the gang’s abrupt escape to the mountains. It is hard enough to deal with what has happened without having to fret over your still fairly new relationship with a man who has spent years barricading himself off from anyone else.

Sometimes, you can steal Arthur away and get him to relax with you, finding comfort in warm embraces and delicious kisses, to feel warm, strong hands holding each other when it seems like the world around you is about to fall apart. But it doesn’t take much once Arthur is away from you to ignite his vexation once more.

Dutch currently leads the gang through a shallow end of the frigid river and across the rocky riverbed, which wreaks havoc on the wheels of the old wagons. This is probably not the most pleasant path, but it is a more direct route to your destination and the sooner you are off this damn mountainside, the better.

But of course, as luck would have it, the wagon that Arthur and Hosea are driving barely makes it to the other side of the bank before one of the wheels breaks. The vehicle groans and wobbles before the wheel pops off entirely, causing it to lurch, the axle stubbornly planting itself into the gloopy, frigid mud.

“Ah, shit!” Arthur hollers, tossing the reins down in a heap at his feet in frustration.

Upon hearing the loud snapping of wood, and Arthur’s even louder cursing, the convoy stops. “Everything alright back there?” hollers Bill from up ahead, twisting in his saddle to try to get a better view.

“Does everything look alright to you?” Arthur shouts sarcastically, losing his patience by the second.

“Well, what’s going on?” Javier peevishly asks, curious as to how long this will delay them as he’s eager to get out of the cold and on to the new camp.

“I broke the goddamn wheel!” Arthur’s breath huffs sharply out of his nose like a bull as his burly frame jumps down from the wagontop and he lumbers around the side to assess the damage.

A grunt of aged exhaustion bubbles from Hosea’s weathered lips as he too climbs down from the driver seat where he’s been sitting next to Arthur for the last several hours. The old man works the stiffness out of his joints as he moves to stand next to Arthur, blowing warm air into his hands and flexing as he adjusts his gloves. “Well, no sense grumbling about. Let’s get it fixed, then.”

At this point, Charles Smith has sauntered over to see if he can lend a hand. While Arthur, Hosea and Charles toss playful banter at one another while fighting with the unwelcomed repair, you eagerly capitalize on the moment of reprieve to climb out of the back of the wagon to stretch your legs and back. Taking advantage of being in his close proximity, you opted to ride with Arthur rather than riding your own horse or up with the girls in their wagon, but your butt is not thanking you for that decision at the moment.

Rolling your neck as you rub the tired muscles nestled there, you catch sight of the O’Driscoll that Arthur had caught up by Mrs. Adler’s place. Curious about the new arrival, you take a moment to study him as he stands tethered to the chuck wagon. He seems skittish and frail like a baby duckling trying to stay close to its nest. He doesn’t seem to be all that impressive and even though Dutch thinks this young man may have some valuable information, you are more inclined to think he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arthur is convinced that this little man is trouble, but you are not so sure. To Arthur, the only good O’Driscoll is dead O’Driscoll. But something in the man’s terrified and untrusting eyes tells you that he hates Colm O’Driscoll more than anything.

While the torture has not ensued just yet, the gang has not exactly been hospitable to this hostage. With the others distracted, you take the opportunity to approach the O’Driscoll yourself. You observe him with a piqued interest as you get closer to him. He doesn’t seem to be that dangerous as he shutters and shakes, nervous of every move around him. The hazel eyes nest in deep sockets, ringed with dark circles, and continually dart all around him. And it dawns on you that he is not looking at the convoy of people who hold him captive, but at the treeline and distant hills. It’s as if he’s more worried about the outside threat from someone else than he is about being left with the Van Der Linde gang.

“Hello,” you say softly, your voice low so as to not startle him. The man doesn’t reply when you catch his attention, but just stares at you with wide, distrustful eyes.

But you meet his uneasiness with your usual gentle smile. “I brought you some bread and water.” He watches your hands float to the canteen around your shoulder and then to the linen napkin in your palm. His eyes widen even more with a spellbound awe, the gurgling sound of his painfully hungry stomach filling the awkward silence as you push the items into his cold hands. “It’s okay. Here.”

His hands are still bound, but at least Bill tied them in front of him and thankfully, he is able to hold the food and canteen on his own without you feeding him. You hand him the items, but quickly step back, mindful that this is still an O’Driscoll in front of you.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, his voice feeble as he swallows the bread down. His eyes are sunken and dark from lack of food and his clothing is tattered and ripped. He is a sad sight, indeed. “This is m-mighty kind of you, ma’am. I know you all don’t have reason to trust me. But I-I appreciate the kindness just the same.”

A chuckle crosses your lips as you watch as the O’Driscoll quickly shoves the bread through his chapped lips. “Well, we may be a group of outlaws, but we’re not heartless. But if you do know something, it would be wise of you to tell them.” His chewing slows as he takes in your warning, nodding slightly in acceptance of his fate. “You’re Kieran, right? That’s your name? I’m Y/N.”

“That’s right. Kieran.” A small smile begins to bloom across his dirty face, a shred of relief fluttering in his chest like a butterfly at the act of mercy. But he is soon distracted from your kind face to the commotion going on behind you.

“That man.” Keiran nods past you, eyebrows raised in apprehension at the individual who is still ranting and cursing while fixing the broken wagon. “That’s Arthur Morgan, isn’t it?”

Your demeanor instantly drops at the idea that this potential enemy knows Arthur’s name, alarmed at the mere thought of Arthur being endangered. Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing! I-I don’t mean nothing by it,” Keiran quickly yammers. “It’s just-”

“Just what?” You take a slow, deliberate step closer to him. He cringes when he sees your fiery eyes darken and your shoulders set defensively.

Kieran casts his fearful eyes downward, afraid he may have offended the one person who has shown him any kindness in this situation. “It’s just…I’ve heard talk of him, is all.”

“What kind of talk?” Your once pleasant and sympathetic tone has turned hard and untrusting now that Arthur is threatened.

“He’s just…an enigma of sorts.” Kieran risks a cautious look up at you again, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he wobbles in the cold air. “I heard talk of how he’s bested men when he was way outnumbered, against the odds. H-how he has what’s been told a “dead eye”. You know, where you can aim your gun and…and kill a man with such accuracy that it’s unreal. I heard he can beat a man to death with his bare hands within five minutes! That he once wrestled a wolverine-”

“It wasn’t a wolverine,” you interrupt Kieran’s nervous rambling with a sigh. ”It was a bobcat.”

“Oh.”

“And yes, he is all of those things.”

Kieran nods at your confirmation of his fears. “It’s just funny to see somethin’ you’ve been warned about in the flesh. Like seein’ the devil in person, you know?”

“Well, let that be a lesson to you, then,” you warn, crossing your arms over your chest, tucking your jacket closer to you. “I wouldn’t piss him off.”

“He seems real kind to you, though.” A shred of hope glimmers in Kieran’s eyes that maybe this demon he’s heard so much of is not so bad. Or, that this angel of mercy standing in front of him may be the key to calm that demon.

“Yeah, well, he likes me. There aren’t too many that can say that.”

“Y/N!” Suddenly, you hear Arthur’s gravelly voice calling out your name. Turning your head in his direction, you see Arthur standing with a look of concern plastered across his weathered features. “Get away from that piece of shit and get back over here. C’mom, time to move!” He sharply waves his arm at you, impatient to have you back at his side. Arthur still doesn’t trust this O’Driscoll, which means he wants you nowhere near him.

“Well, Kieran, it was nice chatting with you.” You give him one last tired smile before collecting the canteen and turn to head back to the wagon.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Kieran calls to you, his fitful eyes following you as you retreat back to where Arthur looms in the not-so-far-off distance as he eyes the prisoner with a cold and hateful gaze. Arthur’s countenance doesn’t waver when you smile up at him, placing a loving hand on his forearm. The only crack in his angry, rugged wall is when he gently places a large gloved hand to the small of your back, ushering you into the back of the wagon once more.

Hosea wants to stay in an area called Horseshoe Overlook and with no other idea readily in mind, Dutch agreed. It’s still a bit of a journey from the base of the mountainside so it is suggested that the gang takes a brief stop while someone heads over to the nearest town on the way to the Overlook. Supplies were low before you even left Blackwater all those weeks ago, and you’ve been scrounging ever since for the duration of your stay in Colter. Pearson needs his food stock replenished, and you need medical supplies as everything you had stockpiled has gone to caring for John after being attacked by the wolves.

Safest to travel in small numbers, you offer to go yourself. You know what to look for on both the food and the medical supplies. But Arthur is not about to let you go anywhere on your own in an area he is unfamiliar with, so without question, he will be escorting you.

“Micah, why don’t you head over there with them?” suggests Dutch, puffing away on a cigar, the smoke encircling his dark curls like a vaporous crown from where he sits perched upon his horse, observing the small group of you that has collected in front of him to discuss what the next move will be. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with around here, best to send backup just in case.”

The mere idea that Micah should ride along with you makes Arthur bristle. “I don’t need any ‘backup’, Dutch. Certainly not from him,” he growls, waving a flippant hand towards Micah.

“Fine with me, I don’t want to be baby-sittin’ you anyway, cowpoke,” sneers Micah in response, his hands instinctively settling upon his gunbelt. The gang hasn’t stopped for more than twenty minutes and the air is already charged with the animosity between the two men.

“That was not a suggestion,” Dutch muses back at the two pouty overgrown children. “Now, get going and be careful. We don’t need any attention right now.”

“We’ll be fine, Dutch,” you quickly interject before either Arthur or Micah can launch another insult. “Come on, you two. Let’s get this done, shall we?” Shaking your head playfully at the two bickering outlaws, you head over to saddle Blue for the quick detour.

The lemon-yellow sun of the late morning dodges between rolling clouds as the three of you head out, riding in silence, with Arthur along your side and Micah trailing behind you. The nearest town is about an hour’s ride and is more of a trading village for those like yourselves, traveling between the mountain pass and down into the more populated territories. Upon arrival, you are quick to notice that there is no flourish or panache here. It is a series of rows made up of simple buildings, each marked with their specialty. The outlying area is littered with small houses and cabins nestled into the hillside for the full-time residents. But the trading post is meant for in-and-out traffic, a quick stop between destinations.

“Huh, seems…’quaint’,” you hum, looking over the dusty little village, watching the people lumber about their tasks.

“That’s one word for it,” mutters Micah, clearly unimpressed with the destination. His mustache twitches as he sucks his teeth in disappointment.

“Let’s just get what we need and get outta here,” reminds Arthur, his gaze skimming over the open area. He sits rigid atop Buck, his worn gambler’s hat pulled down over his crystal-blue eyes and assesses any possible threats. “We don’t need to be lingering too long out in the open.”

“You’re such an old woman, Morgan. What could possibly happen in a shitty little town like this?” complains Micah, waving his hand impatiently at the small expanse of buildings.

Arthur pitches back an equally bitter glare. “This old woman will put her boot right in your ass if you keep running your mouth, Micah.”

“Boys!” you snap sharply, raising your hands up at each of them to halt their childish bickering. “Let’s play nice just for a bit, hmm?”

A mocking grin rolls across Micah’s face as he urges Baylock forward past the two of you, causing Arthur to roll his eyes in annoyance.

“Come on, handsome,” you coo sweetly to Arthur. “Forget about that fool and let’s find ourselves some food.”

He turns towards you, tilting his head up just enough for you to catch a lifted eyebrow from under the brim of his hat. “Should I be offended you use the same pet name for me as you do that damn horse of yours?”

A cheeky grin decorates your face, making your eyes glitter mischievously. “Considering how much I love this damn horse of mine, you should be flattered.” You reach down and pat Blue’s neck, drawing a knicker from his wide chest.

Arthur absolutely adores your playfulness, but the mirth slowly drains from his eyes as his gaze returns to Micah who is heading over to the gunsmith. “It’s a good thing you’re here, Y/N. Otherwise, I’d tear that weasel a new ass the minute I get my hands on him.”

“I know, I know,” you muse as you follow his line of sight. “But like you said, let’s get this done and then you don’t have to deal with him for awhile, yeah?” Arthur only nods in agreement as he nudges Buck to follow you down the narrow street to the nearest hitching post outside of what appears to be the closest thing to a general store.

While you and Arthur go about securing some canned goods and clean bandages, Micah has been busy procuring more ammunition from the smith. Reconvening at the horses, the three of you pack the saddlebags with the new supplies. You casually walk around to the other side of Blue to stuff the last bit of goods into the dusty leather bag and you let your gaze wander, taking in the simplicity of the little town.

As you scan the front of the post office, which sits next to the general store, your eye catches something. You do a double-take as the blood drains from your face, eyes wide as saucers.

“Oh hell,” you whisper under your breath. Your blood runs cold as ice when you see a sketch of your likeness and your alias scrawled upon a browning piece of paper that is nailed to the bulletin board of the post office.

Noticing your change in mood, Arthur follows your sight-line and sees the object of your trepidation. He cautiously walks over and yanks the poster down, reading it over as he returns to the horses where you and Micah are standing. And Arthur is none too happy about this, either. You give Arthur a worried and guilt-ridden look as his lips flatten into a hard, angry line as his hands fist around the parchment, crumpling the edges.

Bounty to be paid of one hundred dollars

By decree of Sheriff Franklin Langston, be on the look out for this woman known as Mrs. Evageline Callahan. Wanted for robbery of the Red Rock Savings and Loan and the assault of a law officer. Wanted alive.

The bounty notice details the robbery in Red Rock where you had planted yourself as a decoy before helping Arthur crack the locks and safes, and the local Sheriff there has targeted you as an accomplice. But what the notice does not go into detail about is how the sheriff tried to play on your supposed vulnerability. He had escorted you to a hotel room under the pretense of “protection”. But it quickly became obvious to you that his protection was the furthest from his mind.

While locked in a room with the scoundrel, you secretly drugged him before he could take advantage of you and you slipped out from under his unconscious nose, walking right out the front door with no one the wiser. No doubt the respected lawman’s pride is hurt that not only was he fooled by a woman, but a woman who got the best of him in the end.

Anger and worry swirl violently within Arthur’s chest, making his heart beating rapidly. He has tried to keep you out of harm's way, but it seems he’s failed. He stupidly thought that he could be an outlaw and still keep you innocently protected from the life that comes with it. You are the one thing that he holds most precious, like a delicate flower in the cold morning frost, to be safeguarded at all costs.

He had asked you not to do that job. Begged you, in fact. But how could you tell Dutch Van Der Linde ‘no’? And with you there to pick the locks of the vault at the bank, Arthur and the others were able to come away with a hell of a lot more cash than they would have without you. And, with no casualties, too. But that has also opened the door for you to be implicated as an accomplice and now on the law’s wanted list.

Micah looks over Arthur’s shoulder at the offending paper being fisted in his gloved hands. “Well, what do ya know, she’s an ’outlaw’ now,” he chuckles. “Shit, this day just keeps getting better and better. Don’t look so glum, there, cowpoke.” He lands a teasing swat along Arthur's arm. “Thought you’d be happy knowing you two really are made for each other.”

“Shut up, Micah!” you and Arthur both yell in unison.

“Arthur? Arthur, I’m sorry,” you mutter sheepishly as you place your hands on his bulging forearms. But your plea only makes his teeth grind in anger at himself even harder.

“What you got to be sorry for?!” His nostrils flare slightly when he turns his flashing eyes to meet your anxious gaze.

“Well…”

“Hey!”

Before you can finish your thought, someone’s sharp voice cuts through the crowd. Whipping your collective heads in that direction, the three of you see an older man standing outside the general store, pointing his bony finger at you, his bespectacled eyes wide with shock.

“That’s her! That woman they’re looking for!”

Your whole body freezes, paralyzed with fear as the man’s voice carries through the dusty street, announcing your presence to everyone. A crowd of curious onlookers descends upon the square at the noise. Arthur quickly places himself in front of you like a shield and you shrink behind him, cowering as your hands come up to grasp at the back of his coat as if you could draw courage from his sheer bulk.

“We don’t want no trouble.” Arthur addresses the crowd, holding one hand up in peace. “But if anyone makes one move towards her, there will be trouble.” Your breath catches in your throat as Arthur draws himself up to his full height, widening his stance and shoulders pushed back to make himself even more massive than already is. His neck tightens as his chiseled jaw clenches painfully. His hand instinctively hovers over his holstered gun, a clear warning to those around him. Likewise, Micah takes a defensive position flanking Arthur’s side to hide you from the crowd, both hands just itching to take hold of the weapons on his hips.

It’s as if time stands still, not even a bird making a sound, as a breeze flits through the street, rolling dead leaves about like discarded paper. Arthur can feel your fingers trembling through the thick material of his coat. Your terrified eyes dart in all directions, waiting for someone to make the next move. The bitter, coppery taste of blood creeps into your mouth as you bite down on your bottom lip in anticipation. But you don’t have long to wait.

A single gunshot rings out, planting an ill-aimed bullet a mere yard from your feet. Gasping in panic, you jump backwards into Blue’s side, causing him to whinny loudly as he rears up in fear. Arthur’s arm immediately spins as if of its own accord to find the source, the offending shooter instantly crumbling in a heap with a red weeping hole in his chest.

A woman’s scream cuts into the tension-charged air as things explode into chaos everywhere. Arthur and Micah pull their weapons, firing in a whirlwind of motion with you placed behind them.

“Move!” Arthur roars, shoving you to your feet as you scramble in frantic movement.

The three of you sprint through the streets, trying to elude the townsfolk. But shots are fired from all around, causing you to constantly change directions. Shots ring out, whizzing past your head, and you let go of Arthur’s jacket to cradle your head, but by doing so, you eventually get separated from him.

You get a glimpse of Arthur as he throws himself behind a stack of barrels seeking shelter from the onslaught while you and Micah tuck yourselves behind a wagon on the opposite side of the street. But every time Arthur tries to make a break to you, a spray of bullets knocks him back, holding him in place.

“We gotta get outta here!” hollers Micah over the deafening pandemonium, grabbing your shoulder and trying to pull you towards himself.

“Not without Arthur!” you scream back, shoving his hand off of you.

But you watch in horror as a group of men descend on your outlaw. With the townsfolk distracted with Arthur, Micah grabs your arm, pulling you to your feet. “We gotta go! Big man can take care of himself!”

But you dig your heels in like an obstinate horse. Your eyes shoot back to Arthur, his keen scrutiny moving between the mob and your petrified face. He lifts his hands and begins to fire at the men coming down the street, trying to keep their attention away from you and Micah.

“Get the hell out of here! Go!” he yells at you, waiving you to move on. Too numb with the fear of leaving Arthur to move of your own accord, you absentmindedly allow Micah to drag you away from the square.

Micah leads you down the narrow street amongst the shouting of everyone around you, keeping along the buildings and firing into the crowds to ward off any following. Shards of glass and wooden splinters cascade into your hair as a rain of bullets from all directions ricochet off of the buildings and fills the air with choking clouds of smoke that burns your throat every time a shriek of panic escapes your lungs. Your feet scramble to keep up, desperately trying not to lose your footing and drag Micah down with you. Your head ducks into Micah’s side, blindly following wherever he leads you as your hands maintain a death-grip on his jacket.

You and Micah bolt in various directions, your worn boots zigzagging in the dirt, trying to elude the mob, but it seems there are guns pointed at you at every turn. This may be a tiny town, but they do not tolerate any trouble here, the whole town arming themselves to protect against any threat. Shop owners, the blacksmith, any able body pops out with a gun in hand and aimed at you. Micah skids to a halt more than once to change directions, seeking out an escape route.

The spray of bullets pushes you down yet another alley between the saloon and the small hotel, dodging between smaller barrels and crates that litter the ground. You lost the mob by ducking down this corridor, but dread freezes your breath when you find yourselves at a dead-end. You pause gasping for air with your hands on your knees as your head swivels, scouring the alley for a way out. Off in the distance, you can hear the shouts of your pursuers all around you. And they are getting closer by the minute.

Micah’s back rounds like a cat getting ready to pounce, his shoulders hunched and coiled tight like a spring. His eyes narrow and dart, assessing his surroundings.

And then the damnedest thing happens. Surprisingly, Micah pushes you behind him, holding his arm protectively over you and places himself between you and the oncoming crowd.

“Get ready.” His voice is low and serious, not carrying the usual arrogance and tasteless jokes that spill from his filthy mouth. “Here.” And he pulls another gun from his belt, shoving it in your direction. You stand there staring at the piece in your hand as if it is a foreign object, its cold metal almost burning your skin, before looking to him once more for more explanation.

Micah holds his two guns, both hands angled upwards and ready to fire at the first person to breach the corner, expecting a full-on shootout to erupt in the narrow alley at any moment.

“When they come, bullets will fly and you gotta be ready to move,” he says over his shoulder to you. “You shoot the first thing you see comin’ round that corner and don’t stop. We’ll push our way out. We need to cut a path and make a run for the horses.”

But being separated from Arthur, you suddenly become dizzy and short of breath. “Wait, there’s got to be another way!” Your voice elevates in pitch and volume with a vehement shake of your pounding head. “We’ll get gunned down for sure if we go out there!”

“No time. I gotta get you out of here, princess.” Micah’s sudden concern for your safety confuses the hell out of you, silencing your protests. “Unless you know how to hide in plain sight?”

In a split second, his comment causes an idea to form in your mind. A crazy idea. How do you hide in plain sight? And before he can even comprehend what is happening, you wrap both hands around Micah’s face, drawing him to you and crash your mouth into his. You pull him along with you as you backpedal towards the side of the building.

Taken off guard, Micah stumbles a bit as you pull him overtop of yourself when your back hits the hard wood-siding of the saloon. His eyes shoot wide open with shock, but he quickly reciprocates your actions. Micah doesn’t question your plan or motives in the slightest despite the danger you find yourselves in and, taking full advantage of the close proximity to you, he thrusts his tongue into your mouth. You whimper at the sudden intrusion as the stale tobacco scent that carries on his mustache fills your nostrils. You can taste his foul breath as his saliva mixes with your own and you try not to gag.

Almost immediately, you begin to second guess your little scheme and your trembling hands land on his shoulders about to push him off of you, but the sounds of the encroaching crowd right outside the alley halts your decision. Your eyes split open and look past Micah’s shoulder toward the street and you begin to see the blur of running men, the sunlight glinting off of the guns in hand in their attempt to hunt you down. So instead of pushing him off of you, your fingers quickly fumble as they pull Micah’s jacket and hat off him, tossing them to the ground at your feet, for he’d be recognized for sure if anyone sees that white hat and coat of his.

The hollering and commotion of your pursuers gets louder and louder. Your heart pounds in your ears, sweat beading at your temples. While you are in a panic about being found and gunned down like dogs in the alley, Micah seems to have completely forgotten about the mob on his heels. Having dropped his own guns at his feet once you were pressed against the building, his rough hands are now free to grasp and pinch at your hips as he pushes his pelvis into yours, grinding into you.

The crowd of people are at the end of the alley now and in desperation to sell the facade, you lift your leg up over Micah’s hip, pulling him in tighter to you and cover his face with your hands to shield him from the hoard of men that run past the alley entrance. Thankfully, the mob surges past you without so much as an afterthought, thinking that the two of you are just another drunken lot behind the bar who are too impatient to get a room.

The wave of commotion eventually recedes, the shouting and hollering slowly getting more faint as the mob moves down the street. As soon as you feel you are in the clear, you instantly try to push the disgusting outlaw off of you.

“Stop.” The muffled demand pushes past your lips which are being devoured, Micah’s tongue swirling around your mouth. You shove his shoulders, but he doesn't move, his face still smashed against yours.

You try to turn your face away from him in an attempt to break the sloppy kissing that Micah is desperately trying to prolong. “Stop it.” You push at him again, but his greedy hands clamp down painfully on your hips, refusing to give you up.

“Okay, that’s enough!” you holler, using your anger to summon all of your strength and roughly shove him from you. Heat flushes throughout your whole body as you try to draw slow, calming breaths into your lungs. Micah stumbles backwards a bit at the change of direction, with a huge, smug grin plastered on his dirty face.

Just the mere sight of the greasy man makes your skin bristle with goosebumps. A hateful, contemptuous scowl spreads across your heated cheeks as you spit into the dirt. “You’re a bit of a lunatic, you know that?”

Micah licks his lips as if he’s just tasted a most delectable dinner, his tongue dragging along that repulsive mouth of his as he rocks back on his heels. “I prefer the term ‘eccentric’. Besides, that little performance was all your idea, Y/N”. He waves his finger accusingly at you.

“Ugh, what the hell is wrong with you?” you groan, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as a choking sound erupts from the back of your throat.

“So many things, sweetheart...so many things.”

“Let’s just get the hell out of here, please. We need to find Arthur.” Micah’s conceited grin instantly drops from his face at the sound of Arthur’s name, his sullen eyes following you as you shove past him and stomp your way back towards the street.

Sticking close to the shadows and hugging the storefronts, you carefully make your way out of the village, scanning for Arthur or any of your pursuers.

“There! Over there! There’s two of ‘em!” Your blood runs cold and your heart nearly stops when the shouts of one of the townsfolk alerts anyone within earshot to your and Micah’s location.

“Fuck!” Micah immediately clamps down your hand and sprints, dragging you to your horses which are only a few yards out of your reach now. Upon reaching the hitching posts, Micah hurls you in front of him towards Baylock who is nervously pawing at the ground. The horse tosses his head in agitation, his haunting blue eyes rolled and ears pinned back.

Suddenly Micah lets out a stifled grunt, lurching forward when a bullet bites into the flesh of his shoulder. Like a bear that has been provoked, he angrily spins around, roaring at the top of his lungs and rapidly firing into the oncoming cluster of men, mowing them down in a spray of red to buy you time as you frantically climb into Baylock’s saddle.

With one last defiant shot into an unlucky local’s skull, Micah swings himself up behind you and you take off, heading for the obscurity of the woods and leaving the dirty little town behind.

Your heart thunders loudly in your ears as Micah’s horse pushes hard through the woods to head back to camp. The sunlight peppering through the trees is like a kaleidoscope of color, blurring and swirling and making you nauseous as Baylock races through the brush, snorting heavily as he carries his burden. Your hands are white-knuckled as your fingernails dig into the leather of the saddle horn.

In your adrenaline haze, you vaguely feel Micah pressed against your back. Your body begins to go limp and Micah wraps an arm around your waist to secure you from falling and getting trampled under the horse’s hooves while his other extends in front of you, hand fisted around the reins and urging the horse on.

You’ve been riding for thirty minutes with no other riders on your heels when you finally pull your mind together. “Stop! Micah, please stop!”

“Can’t stop now, princess!” He shouts from behind you.

“Please!” You grasp his hand in yours, squeezing desperately. “I have to stop!”

Your touch instantly resonates with Micah, the feeling of your fingers along his skin radiating through his arm like electricity, and he immediately pulls back on the reins. The horse skids to a halt, dancing in agitation at the abrupt cease of motion. “Woa, boy, woa”, Micah snaps sharply.

You desperately try to catch your breath, your chest heaving for the brisk air as you fold over the saddlehorn. For once in his life, Micah mercifully sits quietly behind you, waiting for you to regain control of your breathing and taking notice of how your body moves pressed against his.

“We have to go back,” you finally manage to breathe out.

“What?” he snaps. “Have you lost your mind?! Ain’t no way in hell we’re goin’ back there!”

“But we left Arthur back there!” A mixture of fear and pleading infuses your voice, matching your tear-rimmed eyes that shine in the fractured sunlight of the trees as you look over your shoulder at Micah.

“He can take care of himself!”

“But what if-“

“Look, you want to go back there, Y/N, be my guest.” He waves his arms back in the direction that you just escaped from to emphasize his point. “But you’re goin’ on your own! I already got my ass shot getting you out! Or did you forget that?”

You bite your lip at his statement, guilt flooding your chest.

“Best thing to do is head back to camp and wait for Morgan there.”

You hate to admit it, but Micah is right. Arthur had a crowd on his tail but nothing worse than what he’s had before. With you out of the way, that leaves him free to worry about his own ass. You know Micah won’t help you find Arthur, and you will be of little use to Arthur now, anyway. And to his point, Micah does have a bullet in his shoulder right now because of you. You both need to get back to camp safely so you can assess the damage. That is where you will be the most useful.

“Alright. You’re right,” you brokenly whisper, casting your eyes to the forest floor in defeat. “Let’s head home.”

“Now, you’re making some sense,” he smirks, his dirty blonde locks swaying over his shoulders as he nods in victory. Micah digs his heels into Baylock’s side and the horse spurs forward once more, heading into the thick of the woods.

The idea of leaving without Arthur is like a knife in your chest and feels so horribly wrong to you, like a betrayal. The trees begin to blur again and seem to be almost suffocating as they surround you, offering you coverage, but also yet another obstacle to your heart's desire.

You twist your neck to look past Micah and back towards the town. There is no sign of the townsfolk, but no sign of Arthur, either. Your heart sinks as you slowly turn to face forward again, a silent prayer on your lips.

—--------------------------------------------

*This image is not mine, but was posted on Pintrest by Len

You and Micah ride into the makeshift camp, quickly dismounting and make your way into the circle of wagons. You are met with looks of confusion and a cacophony of questions from your fellow gang members when they note your frazzled state and Micah’s bleeding shoulder, not to mention that Arthur is not with you. But before you can even string coherent thoughts to answer your friends, the sound of hoof-beats fills the air. Your head snaps back to the tree line and you see Arthur barreling through the trees at full speed with your horse in tow. His eyes, bright and shining, dart in every direction, scanning the group of people, hoping to find your face.

Trembling hands cover your mouth as your eyes flutter with the wave of relief to see him safe. Letting out a huge breath, your wobbly legs sprint towards Arthur. Buck hasn’t even come to a full stop yet before Arthur springs from the saddle, his worn boots barely touching the mud-packed earth before he strides in your direction.

As soon as you are close enough, you hurl yourself into his large frame and throw your arms around his shoulders, your face buried in the crevice of his neck with a choked sob, his heady scent of sweat and leather engulfing your senses. His arms immediately wrap tightly around you, lifting you clean off the ground, relishing the feeling of your warm, able body against his once more.

“Y/N! Are you alright?!” Arthur finally puts you down and leans back, holding you at arm’s length to get a good look at you, his keen eyes skipping around and taking in every inch of you from head to toe.

“Yes, I’m fine, Arthur,” you laugh incredulously. “Are you alright? What happened? How did you get out of there?”

But Arthur just shakes his head, waving off your question. Because it doesn’t matter to him if he is alright. It is you that is his sole focus. “‘Bout lost my mind leaving you with this idiot.“ He throws a nonchalant wave in Micah’s direction.

Your lips press together in a slight grimace. “Well, to be honest, Micah saved my life. If it wasn’t for him, I would be in jail or gunned down in an alley right now.”

Arthur’s body freezes, his head tilted slightly to the side as if he didn’t hear you correctly. “Come again?” He turns to look at Micah who just grins, arms crossed over his puffed-out chest.

“Don’t look so surprised, Arthur,” Micah gloats. “Although, a little gratitude for saving your woman’s life would be nice. But, don’t worry.” He holds his hand up as if to halt any further argument on Arthur’s part. “Y/N thanked me enough already.” He shakes his eyebrows suggestively with a knowing curl of his lip.

Micah's hungry gaze sweeps over you and you feel Arthur's entire body tense. “What the hell is he talkin’ ‘bout?” He spins on you now, eyes flashing and demanding an explanation.

You can feel your cheeks burn red-hot and your chin drops to your chest to avoid looking at either Arthur or Micah. And with a deep, regretful sigh, you relate the story of your escape to Arthur, including how you had to kiss and paw at Micah in hopes of blending into the background behind the saloon to evade the town’s attention.

Arthur stands there listening to your story without a word. His whole body radiates like lightning in a bottle, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathes deeply, the muscles in his jaw twitching. You watch him carefully as he processes this unwelcome information, his fists clenching open and closed like a pump.

You can see Arthur’s thoughts flashing like a roaring wildfire across his face. You're not sure if he’s going to punch Micah in the face, or tear into you for pulling such an outlandish stunt. He can’t be jealous, as that was certainly not the intent of your actions. But then again, Arthur doesn’t want anyone else even looking at you, let alone touching you. Least of all Micah goddamn Bell.

Seeing Arthur’s clearly visible disdain for the situation, Micah cannot help himself but to twist the imaginary knife in the outlaw’s gut right now. “What’s a-matter, Morgan? Jealous?” His beady eyes twinkle with a sinister mirth that would make the devil himself blush.

Arthur shoots a death-stare back to Micah. “What the hell do I have to be jealous of you for?”

Micah simply shrugs, the smugness just oozing from his very being. “Maybe ‘cause your woman kissed me? Maybe she liked it more than she’s letting on?” And his vulgar eyes flick to you, causing you to gasp at the audacity of his statement.

And that is the last straw.

Finally, the stress of the day causes Arthur to snap like the tension of a high-strung bow and in a second he lunges at Micah with a speed that belies someone of his stature. The other men of the camp are quick to intervene, prying the two outlaws apart as arms and fists grapple at each other in a blur of force. You try to wedge yourself between them once Bill and Javier carve an ample enough gap for you to squeeze into. You plant your wide-open palms on Arthur’s chest, pushing back against him with all your might. But it is like holding back a waterfall, too powerful and too full of chaotic energy to contain.

“Stop it! Knock it off, both of you!” You come up on your toes, trying to catch Arthur’s burning gaze and distract him from Micah. “Arthur, please!” His chest heaves, but the moment his eyes land on you again, it's like a switch has been pulled. You center him as always, rationality starting to return to his fractured mind.

With Arthur calmed to an extent, you turn your ire onto Micah. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” But the scheming outlaw can only stare back at you, an argument sitting on his tongue, and yet nothing comes out as if weighing his next words carefully.

“I ain't dealin’ with this bullshit,” Arthur seethes, staring down Micah as his arm wraps around your shoulder, curling you into himself and turning you towards your shared wagon.

But Micah Bell just cannot help but throw oil on the fire.

“You’re not even gonna stitch me up after savin’ your pretty ass, Y/N? Typical. You don’t give a shit about anyone else, but Arthur. Mighty ungrateful.” He waves you off dismissively, shaking his head in disappointment.

Before you can even stop him, Arthur spins out of your grasp, closing the distance between himself and Micah in a mere few steps and grabs ahold of a fistful of Micah’s shirt. The weasel can say what he wants about him, but Arthur will not abide any derogatory comments towards you.

“You’re as stupid as you are ugly, you know that?!” hollers Hosea to Micah, his weathered fingers clamped around Arthur’s shoulder, trying to push him back once more.

Arthur’s arm shoots up, about to land a fist into Micah’s mocking face, but it’s halted in place as both of your arms encircle his bicep to keep the dangerous limb at bay.

“He’s right, Arthur. It’s the least I could do.”

Your shaky, yet definitive voice stills Arthur as he turns to look at you in confusion. “What?!”

An apprehensive sort of smile floats across your lips as you cup your soft, warm hands around his face. “Why don’t you get something to eat, head over to our wagon and calm down a bit. Your head is out of sorts right now. In the meantime, I’ll deal with Micah, yeah?”

But Arthur isn’t having any of it. He just shakes his head at the very notion of it. “I just need some time alone with you, is all,” he says sharply, starting to pull you away from the others. But you can’t let things end here like this.

“I know.” You stop your feet from moving to prevent him from dragging you off. “But can you give me a minute, please? Let me get Micah patched up first,” you plead.

“Now, wait a minute,” growls Arthur, his brow drawn in frustration. “I thought you’d be coming with me?”

“I am and I will.” You nervously shift your weight from hip to hip under Arthur’s intense gaze, trying to keep your voice low and calm to mask the rapid beating of your own heart. “Let me take care of Micah first and then I’ll come with you.”

Arthur’s sapphire eyes dart past your shoulder to see Micah standing there in surprising silence, loving the delicious tension he’s created and anxiously waiting to see the results.

“No, he can handle things by himself. He's a big boy,” huffs Arthur. “Or let Ms. Grimshaw do it. C’mon now,” he insists, harshly pulling at your arm.

“Arthur, just wait a second, will you?” you push, starting to get a little annoyed at the possessiveness. “Let me finish what I’m doing then I’m all yours.”

“You know what, forget it!” he hollers, throwing his hands up in frustration as he steps back from you.

“Arthur, please, just give me a damn second, will you?!” Your hands try to grasp his forearm, but he’s quick to yank himself out of your reach, as if the very idea of you is detestable right now.

“Nevermind!” And Arthur storms off, throwing his hands in the air in surrender, leaving you standing there staring after him. You watch his broad shoulders lumber quickly towards the wagon, his whole body radiating an angry energy that is dangerous for anyone to be pulled into.

You should go after him. But then again, he is so angry right now, maybe it’s best to let him cool off, first. He’s probably right, you should just let Ms. Grimshaw handle Micah’s wound. But you do owe Micah a debt. He did save you from that mob. And in a gang, debts need to be paid.

With a deep, regretful sigh, you tilt your head back and close your eyes, knowing you’ve just made a grave error in judgement. Arthur isn’t the only one who has a hard time navigating matters of the heart. Like your own father, you tend to be more pragmatic than sentimental sometimes. But you are only trying to keep the peace.

“Well?”

Micah’s voice cuts into your temple like a nail hammered through a board, pulling you back to the matter at hand. You open your now-throbbing eyes to look over at the smug man, who is standing with an expectant look on his face.

“Come on,” you mutter with an eye roll. “Get yourself over to the table and let’s get this over with, please.”

—--------------------------------------

*This is not my image, but posted on Pintrest by Clem

Unfortunately, since the gang has yet to make a permanent camp, your med tent is not fully set up. You pull out a table and a few crates of the meager medical supplies that you have and whatever you were able to shove into Blue’s saddle bag while in town. Digging through what is available, you pull out your needles and thread and a bottle of whisky you keep for sterilization.

You’ve chosen to set up this makeshift operation far enough away from Arthur, lest he and Micah get into it yet again. But it’s close enough where Arthur can keep an eye on what you’re up to. And simply seeing you in such close proximity to Micah makes Arthur’s skin crawl.

“Alright, let’s see what the damage is,” you sigh with the weight of resignation heavy in your tone. “Unbutton your shirt, please.” You toss the instruction over your shoulder as you pour fresh water into a bowl and shake out a clean rag. You can hear the shuffling of fabric and Micah’s pained grunting behind you. When you turn around, you freeze, eyebrows shooting to your hairline, to see that instead of just pulling back his shirt, Micah has stripped himself of the garment altogether, sitting there topless in just his trousers and a satisfied grin.

You simply stand there, knuckles turning white as you grip the cloth in your hand, staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. “Really?”

He innocently shrugs. “Just want to make sure you can get to what you need, Y/N”, he says, motioning to himself, a wicked grin creeping along his mustached lips.

A measured sigh and eyeroll leave you as you slowly make your way over to him, careful to leave a gap between the two of you as you move behind him.

You have to give him credit, Micah tries not to flinch when your fingertips dance along the open wound on his left shoulder, assessing the depth of the bullet hole. The cool rag must send lightning through his entire body as you clean the ugly gash embedded into his skin when he shudders under your careful touch. But the fact that you work gingerly is not lost on him. Ever so vigilant to his surroundings, Micah can feel how you delicately touch him, trying not to inflict further damage. His head tilts back slightly, those usually distrustful eyes closing for just a brief moment in silent gratitude.

You keep your discerning eyes focused on the minute work, and therefore you do not notice Micah watching you, his gaze skipping over your face and down to your fingers, small and unmarred unlike his own. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as you work the thread through the needle, the lips of your perfect mouth pulled taught in concentration.

But soon enough, you push the needle through his flesh, pulling the thread through the pulpy meat of his shoulder and proceed to stitch the wound closed. You work efficiently, but quickly, desperate to get this chore done so you can then deal with Arthur who’s stare you can feel burning a hole into you from where he is vigilantly watching like a hawk from your shared wagon.

Sensing when the deed is almost complete, Micah clears his throat and begins with awkward chit chat, trying to prolong your attention by asking about your horse, talking about how it must be better to be out of the cold of the Grizzly Mountains, anything that springs to his mind. His fingers drum along his thighs as his knee begins to bounce.

At first, you just dismiss the odd behavior, trying to focus on the final stitching of the wound. Micah winces slightly, biting his lower lip, as the stitches get pulled a little tighter than they probably should in your frustration at his incessant babbling. Micah Bell has rambled more to you in the last fifteen minutes than he has spoken to you in the entire time you’ve known him.

With your task now complete, you clip the thread with your scissors, tucking the needle into the water bowl to be cleaned properly. You walk around to stand in front of him, wiping your hands with the wet cloth in exasperation.

You narrow your eyes at him, suddenly very suspicious of his good nature. “What do you want, Micah?”

The outlaw looks at you a moment, his head tilts slightly to the side considering your question carefully as he pulls his shirt back over his shoulders. “I’d like you to sit and talk to me.”

His answer floors you, so simple a request with no foul comments to follow. But there has to be more to it than that. “Sit? That’s it?“ you ask in disbelief.

“MmmHmm, and talk to me. You seem to enjoy everyone else’s company, yet we never talk.” He leans back a bit, hands resting on his knees.

A humorless chuckle escapes your lips before you can even try to stifle it, accompanied by a skeptical lift of your eyebrow. “There’s a reason for that.”

He just shrugs, frustratingly quiet to your answer.

“What on earth would we ever talk about?”

“What do you and Morgan talk about?”

“That’s none of your business”, you snap sharply.

That familiar, annoyingly smug grin crosses his face once again as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you talk about me?” he needles, shaking his eyebrows.

“Only about what a pain in the ass you are,” you respond flatly.

“Ahhh, so you do talk about me.”

You shake your head, crossing your arms in frustration at the absurdity of this whole conversation, confused as to what he’s getting at. “Arthur and I talk about everything and nothing.”

“Alright,” he concedes, pointing at you. “Let's do that, then.”

“What is this, Micah?“

He holds his hands up in surrender, a feigned innocence. “This is me trying to be the better man.”

“Better than who?” you challenge.

“Don’t worry Y/N,” he chuckles at your defensive reluctance to his parley. “I won’t jump ya. Unless you want me to.”

For the life of you, you can’t figure this man out. One minute, he’s a disgusting pig. The next, he’s trying to be your best friend. Either way, Micah Bell makes your skin crawl as he’s just as creepy when he’s trying to be nice as he is when he’s an ass.

“Fine. I’ve seen the way you treat your horse. A man who loves up on his horse can’t be 100% bad.” You give him the slightest of grins before you can even stop yourself.

“That's the spirit!” He smiles triumphantly and waves a finger smartly at you. “I can't be 100% bad.”

Assuredly, what you do not realize is that to Micah, you could’ve just given him the world. A kind word or gesture, even just the smallest inkling that you don't completely hate him, makes his black heart race just a bit more.

To you, you see the effort of this conversation as a way to get past the ugliness with Micah. To him, he sees this as a window of opportunity, a moment of weakness in your armor where he can sneak his way in.

But as you stand there motionless, unsure of what to even say next, your hesitancy at Micah’s peace offering is more than enough of an answer for him right now. A defeated chuckle ripples from his tobacco-stained teeth with a slight shake of his blonde head to go with it.

“You know what, Y/N? Forget it. Forget I even asked.” The furrowed line between his eyebrows relents a bit as his eyes soften just ever so slightly as he concedes to what you suspect that he already knows deep down. He pulls his lips inward as if debating on what to say next, leaving an awkward and pregnant silence between you. Your gaze skips about, looking for any reprieve other than staring into Micah’s cold and unreadable expression that can unnerve you like a mouse caught by a viper. “Go on, then. Scoot on back to your beloved,” he says with sarcasm and just a hint of disappointment.

After cleaning up the needle and thread, you head back to your shared space with Arthur to find him brooding, leaning against the side of his wagon as he cleans his gun. He says nothing at first, but you can sense his hostility. You smartly don’t say a word, but set about getting yourself ready for the evening.

“You want to tell me what that was all about?” you finally ask.

But Arthur won’t look at you. Like a silent, stoney mountain, he remains stoic and ominous, his rough fingers still working over the weapon in his hands. Cursing under your breath, you reach over and snatch the gun out of his hand to get his attention. Those steel-blue eyes instantly snap to your own. Brows furrowed with elevated agitation, his hand shoots out to grab for the piece, but you pull your hand back to keep the object of his distraction out of reach. He stares you down, lips pulled tightly with a sharp snort escaping his nose.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” His voice carries low and rumbles deep within his chest.

“Of course I’m on your side. I’m always on your side, Arthur.”

“That so?”

“Of course it is! How can you even question that?” you ask, shaking your head, taken aback by his doubt.

“You’re mine,” he says darkly, his blue eyes settling with the piercing, glowing quality of a stormy sea.

Arthur’s possessiveness is not something new, often rearing its ugly head, but his ire is usually directed at others, not you. And while the idea of being wanted by someone is endearing, you also resent his distrust. “I am not some horse that you own, Arthur,” you warn.

“I should come first with you.” He points at your heart. “I shouldn’t have to share you with anybody.”

“Are you really going to stand there and lecture me about sharing my time with other people? Really, Arthur?” Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, suddenly incensed by his accusation. “Let’s talk about you, then! How many nights am I going to our tent alone and lonely? All because you’re running around for god knows what?”

Arthur’s lips pinch together in an instant, eyes burning at your audacity to throw such a thing in his face. “Hey! That’s different! I am providing!” He shoves his thumb sharply back into his rising chest.

“And I’m not?” you counter defiantly, with a snapping shake of your head, a flush of heat blossoming across your face.

Arthur bites his lip before he says something really stupid, the argument right there on his tongue, dangerously close to exploding like a powder keg. His hands plant on his hips as he paces around the small area in front of you, the nervous energy clearly tearing throughout his body and unable to contain it. “What, you two are all friendly now?” Arthur retorts bitterly, waving off in Micah’s direction.

“Sweet Jesus, Arthur you can’t seriously be jealous?” Your fingers come up to pinch the bridge of your nose before dropping to your side with a deflated slap, your face turned to his in earnest. “No, we are not ’friendly’ but I don’t want to fight with him all the time, nor do I want to endure the disgusting comments anymore.”

You begin to fidget with the pendant of your mother’s necklace you always wear and Arthur’s anger shifts in a new direction. “Has he been messin’ with you? I told you I’d take care of it if he hassles you.”

A deep sigh escapes your chest as your gaze raises to meet his once again. “I don’t want to cause a problem around here, Arthur.”

“You are not the problem,” he hisses. He steps up closer to you now, standing only a foot from you, so close that you can feel his hot breath blow across your chilled cheeks.

“Why are you so riled up about this?”

“Why? That snake has his mouth all over you and you’re asking me why I’m riled up about it?! Why are you not riled up about this?” Arthur's eyes suddenly narrow at you, his head tilting just a fraction, as he looks you over like you were a mark. “Unless he’s right and you did like it.” The very idea of it causes your eyes to shoot open and your chest tighten as the air gets sucked out of your lungs.

“Don’t you even start with that!” you hiss sharply at such an insinuation. “Now, you listen to me, Arthur Morgan. There is nothing, NOTHING, between myself and Micah Bell. You got that?”

Arthur’s silence pulls the escalating argument to a screeching halt. He stops and takes a moment to really look at you, your chest rising and falling with panting breaths, your eyes shimmering with offended, hurt-filled tears. Arthur closes his eyes, hanging his head shamefully, clearly realizing he crossed a line. “I’m sorry.”

“Arthur, why are you so upset about this?” you push softly, setting your hand on his forearm.

“Because there ain’t much difference between him and me, that’s why!” he hollers, finally reaching his breaking point. The revelation sets you on your heels. Your large, love-filled eyes blink rapidly as you attempt to process this new level of self-doubt in him.

“You can’t honestly think that?“ you breathe in wonderment. “What, you think I’m going to leave you for him?”

“No,” his tone lowering with a flat and unsettling calm. “I think you’re gonna leave me because you realize I’m just like him.”

The anger within you from moments ago immediately dissipates like ether as this boulder is dropped. “Arthur, you are nothing like Micah.”

“Really? What makes you say that? Huh? What is really all that different between us?” He stands in front of you, hands on his hips as he towers over you, demanding an answer.

You cross your arms, holding Arthur’s hard gaze. “Well, now that you mention it, you’re both a couple of asses.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he bites back with sharp sarcasm. “I’m serious, Y/N. What makes us all that different?”

“Well, for starters I’m not in love with Micah. Arthur, I can’t keep having this same conversation with you.” You press closer to him, placing your hand over his heart. “This. This right here is what I want.” You can feel the rapid fluttering under his ribcage, the heat of his skin through the worn fabric of his shirt as your fingers splay open like a dove’s wingspan. “The way you make me feel when I look at you, Arthur, is why I won’t look at another man.”

His brows furrow as his eyes fall to your hand, noting how your fingers lay against his chest as if they have always belonged there. Slowly his gaze meets yours, as if searching for the shred of doubt that he is always afraid of finding there.

“You are a good man who does bad things, Arthur. That doesn’t make you a bad person,” you confirm with a calm and enchanting tone. Your hand floats from his chest to cup his face, the curls of his beard prickling the skin as his strong jaw sets upon your palm.

“Oh, well that’s convenient, isn’t it? You got an answer for everything, don’t you?” Arthur sighs as he shifts his weight. “I guarantee anyone else outside this gang will beg to differ on that one,” he pouts, giving a dismissive flick of his hand in the air.

“I thought I’ve made it very clear that I don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks. Stop worrying about what could go so wrong and start thinking about what could go so right, Arthur. We need to work on that.” You reach your arms around his shoulders and hug him tightly to you. His hard body presses to your own pliable one and you can feel the hard line of his chest and torso, his thick thighs. His coat, which is like a second skin, carries notes of forest pine and leather, a comforting aroma that instantly feels like home to you. Your fingers curl through Arthur’s hair as you cradle his head, your nose buried in his honey locks that will forever smell of woodsmoke, bringing your soft lips to his ear. “I would die without you, Arthur.”

Slowly, Arthur’s body relaxes and melts into yours as you whisper in his ear, your warm breath catching against his skin. His rigid chest softens as he presses you against him, desperate to keep you close as if he’d fold you up into his rib cage to wrap you around his very own heart. Sometimes, for Arthur, the worst place for him to be is inside his own head.

A smile cracks at the corner of Arthur’s mouth at your previous statement. Suddenly, the monster of self loathing within him goes silent once more, retreating back into the dark caverns of his heart, as he dips his head into the crook of your neck and wraps his arms tightly around your waist, squeezing with just enough pressure. Once again, you have calmed and centered him, quieted his swirling storm of self-sabotaging thoughts that continue to plague him.

You turn your face into him, placing a multitude of gentle kisses along his neck, drawing a faint groan from him. “It was either kiss Micah or die,” you whisper in Arthur’s ear before placing your lips to the cuff.

Arthur huffs out a grunt that rumbles in his chest and tickles your own as you still stand pressed together so tight that not even air could seep between you. “Still not seeing the choice.”

You giggle at his understated playfulness. “It will haunt my dreams, now. Literally the stuff of nightmares.” You pull back from him to gaze into his troubled blue eyes, your thumbs drawing across his cheekbones before your fingertips roll gently through his beard.

“I love you, Arthur. Don’t you ever doubt that.” Your smile carries a warmth and love for him in this moment that is larger than the very universe itself, like he can see the stars themselves in your sparkling eyes. Arthur gives you a feeling of being safe. And in turn, you offer him that feeling of being cherished. For all we ever want in this world is to be healed, to find that other half that speaks to your soul. To be with that person who will hold your vulnerabilities in their hands and breathe life back into you when you feel lost.

But a dark cloud dusts his features once more. “I gotta admit, Y/N, I’m scared of the kinda love I feel for you.” Arthur’s voice drops to almost a whisper, as if he’s afraid to admit it outloud, the syllables caught in his throat.

“Why is that?”

“Because I know it will ruin me.” He brushes his large hand over your hair before tenderly holding your face. “And I know I’ll let it.”

The emotion overtakes you and you drop your gaze before he sees the tears gathering in your lashes. Because it occurs to you that you’re not sure if he wants this relationship or not. You can clearly see the turmoil in his eyes from it. His new life with you could cost him his old one with his gang.

Arthur is a soul torn between two worlds. He wants you, but he also wants “the outlaw life”. You are not making him choose, but he feels that he needs to. For you. To keep you safe. And you are not sure if you want to broach this subject again with him, afraid that if you push it, you may not like the answer you get.

You wish Arthur could see how wonderful he is in your eyes, how happy he makes you. Arthur may not be perfect, but he’s perfect for you. Those blue-green eyes light up your whole day. You don’t just see a man standing in front of you. You see your whole world.

Arthur is the one who is the most special to you. The one you will lose sleep over. The one you will never tire of talking to. He is constantly on your mind. He makes you smile without even trying. Arthur is the only one you do not want to lose and to always have in your life.

The world may view Arthur as nothing but a despicable outlaw, one forged in lawlessness and brutality. But they do not see what you see. He is a man born out of conflict, a product of his environment. He is stiff and frightening in the eyes of others, an unyielding and merciless force to be reckoned with. But to you, he is vulnerable and tender. Arthur carries the brunt of the ugliness in this world, and yet still claws at the hope of finding a shred of happiness for himself.

You gently press your forehead to his, wrapping your fingers around the back of his neck. “I wish I could make you understand, Arthur.” You hold him to you for a brief moment before looking up into his face, your eyes wide and searching. “You have stolen my heart. You are worth so much more than you think. You are the very reason I keep going. You crossed my path when I needed you the most, after I lost everything. I couldn’t do this without you. You are everything I need. And I don’t ever want this to end.”

Arthur softly draws the cool evening air into his lungs as his tired eyes float across your face, mapping every line, every radiant detail that he has come to covet so dearly. The setting sun shines its copper light down upon you, casting your frame in a warm and almost unearthly glow, as if you are a spirit from another realm altogether, not even meant for this world let alone for the likes of him.

“I really had no idea what I needed ‘til you showed up in my life with every bit of it in one package,” he laments. “One day, there you were, shining brightly like the sun.” He smiles despite himself at the memory of it, lifting a thick, calloused finger to gently pull a wisp of your hair from your eye before settling his hand along your graceful neck. “And for the first time in a really, really long time, I had hope that I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life in the dark.”

Arthur is not a man of many words, but when he does speak in those private, hushed tones with you, it makes your eyelids flutter like butterfly wings. “Please, Arthur. Let me be the temptation that you never deny yourself. I can be your safe place where your darkness can shine without judgement. Without fear.

“I know this is hard for you, Arthur. And I’m not trying to make it any harder. If anything, I’m trying to make it easier for you. I don’t care that we sleep outside on a cot in a tent. That just means I get to hold you closer to me to keep warm. And I don’t care that you’re an outlaw. Because, if anything, that means you will do anything to protect me. But I need you to trust me, Arthur. Just as I have learned to trust you.”

Arthur brings his fingers up to pinch at his temples as if trying to keep his head from exploding. “Why do you put up with me?”

“I thought I just went over that.” You smile at him. “Because Arthur, I may be yours. But that means that you are mine. Remember? I told you that in Colter.”

“Hmmm, that’s right. You did mention something about that,” he grins, his cheeks running pink as he remembers that wonderful night up in your little ramshackle cabin in the mountains. “I guess you were pretty adamant about that.”

“When it comes to you, Arthur, I am always adamant.” Your fingers lace behind his head, woven into his thick hair again as you gently pull him down to your velvety lips for a deep and passionate kiss. When you separate for a staggered breath, you begin to whisper sweet nothings to him, peppering strategic kisses along his chin and neck, along his cheeks and nose and along those plump lips again. “You are mine to kiss…to hold…to yell at…to whisper to…to worry over…to trust…to be angry with… and to love beyond measure.”

—-----------------------------------

Later, the evening has draped its dark blanket around the earth once more. The crisp air fills with the sounds of the first signs of the frogs coming out for the Spring, their chirping so loud, yet seamlessly melded into the landscape at the same time. There is a humid thickness that settles over everything, bathing everything in a dewy layer that carries the smell of yet-to-fall rain.

This is just a quick layover before you reach Horseshoe Overlook in the morning. No sense in setting up a fixed camp, so everyone has a bedroll on the damp ground and congregates around multiple fires, huddled for warmth under their blankets. Everyone is blissfully asleep before the day begins anew again with another set of challenges.

You and Arthur have set up your little nest against his wagon, his bedroll laid out with blankets and a little fire going in front of you to keep you warm overnight. The two of you lay intertwined, perfectly content to be together and away from everyone else. You have finally drifted off to sleep, curled up against Arthur, his bulk and warmth a calming presence. He sits with his back propped up a bit, watching you doze so contentedly as you lay across his torso. His left arm cradles you protectively to him, his fingertips dragging lazily along your arm and shoulder.

The fire is still stoked fairly well at this late hour, casting its soft golden hues across your sleeping form as the heat of the flames envelopes you both. Arthur stares into the fire, watching the hypnotic flames lick up and around the wood, its coals flaring crimson and pulsating like a heartbeat.

He reaches over to his satchel, careful not to move too much and disturb your slumber, and pulls his journal out, lying it upon his thigh and opening the precious pages to write. His thoughts are still swirling from earlier: seeing your image on a wanted poster, leaving you with Micah, and then later fighting with that idiot. But it was seeing you with Micah afterwards that has set his nerves ablaze. But Arthur doesn’t want to burden you with it any more than he has already. You are stressed enough as it is, he doesn’t want to add to it. Losing Jenny and Mac was hard for you, causing you to doubt your abilities as a doctor. You’ve been terrified of losing John to his injuries. You almost drowned trying to save Lenny from the icy waters in Colter. And now, you are hunted, just like the rest of the gang. It burns Arthur from the inside out to see such pain and turmoil behind those serene eyes of yours, always a window to your very soul. So as usual, he opts to pour his thoughts into that leather-bound book of his like it is a church confessional.

We came down the mountain pass today. Sure glad to get out of that awful cold. But, of course nothing is ever easy for us. Maybe rightfully so. The wagon busted a wheel and had to get that fixed. The gang needs things so Dutch sent Y/N to the nearest trading post before the closest town to see if she could round up some food and medical supplies. She’d know better than anyone what we need. Of course I took her, but for some damn reason Micah was sent along with us. That man just irritates me to no end. I don’t know why Dutch keeps him around, but who am I to say anything?

But unfortunately one of my worst fears came true. We was in that village and there on the post wall was a wanted poster of Y/N. That damn bank robbery back in Red Rock. I was hoping to keep her safe from all this ugliness, but looks like I failed at that. Now she’s bound to a life of looking over her shoulder, same as the rest of us. I never wanted that life for her. Seems like everyone who gets near me gets pulled into my kind of trouble.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Y/N got pulled from me and had to rely on Micah to get her out because I wasn’t able to do it. In the midst of trying to escape, she had to kiss that ugly bastard. He had his hands all over her. Makes me see red just thinking about it again. But the worst part is that she had to tend to him once they got back to camp. He wasn’t ugly to her, which is a surprise, but in fact made me even more uneasy. I don’t know what’s going on in that twisted mind of his, but I fear he may have Y/N in his sights. That worries me because I can’t be around all the time to protect her and I have no idea to what lengths he’d go to get what he wants. Things are bad enough after Blackwater, I can only hope I can keep Y/N safe from Micah as well. I do love her so. I think I had to live through what love is not to really understand what it is. She’s a damn fool for loving a man like me, but I’m too selfish to let her go. And I’d die a thousand times if I lost her. I pray Dutch has a plan to get us all out of this mess once and for all. And then maybe, just maybe, Y/N and I can start a real life together.

—--------------------------------------------------------

Several yards away, across the make-shift camp, Micah sits cross legged on the cold, damp ground, poking at his fire with a stick. Half-heartedly satisfied with the glowing embers, he reclines back against his saddle and rotates his arm in the air, trying to stretch the stiffness from his newly-repaired shoulder. A sharp pain cuts through his nerves when his skin pulls taught at your carefully-placed stitches. Micah stifles a yelp as his hand shoots to the wound, his face wincing until the radiating wave of pain finally subsides. The pain is a stark reminder to the tumultuous thoughts that plague his mind that he’s been desperately trying to bury since this afternoon.

With a long, tired sigh, Micah lifts his weary eyes across his campfire and instinctively seeks out your sleeping form that is currently tucked into Arthur’s side. He observes how your face carries such peace and tranquility as you slumber under your lover’s protective arms. Micah shifts uncomfortably as if he can’t be contained within his own skin as the day’s events roll about in his mind, replaying over and over again like that goddamn gramophone of Dutch’s.

He hates you. At least that’s what Micah tells himself. But he doesn’t really. You just make him feel things that he claims don’t exist. Or at least, tries to. It is that lingering taste of you on Micah’s lips that has innocently seduced his cravings for you to run wild in his soul. And now that he’s tasted you, he realizes how starved he really is.

It is becoming clear in Micah’s mind that he is quickly becoming consumed by you, just as Arthur has, attracted to you in ways that he can’t explain and long forgot. He craves your attention like a man in the desert craves water. And he thinks about you more than you realize.

You are both the first and last thing on Micah’s mind each day. You are becoming his weakness, just as you are Arthur’s. He aches for the feeling of your fingertips along his dry, scarred skin. The reality of it is, his heart breaks a little more every time he hears your name. And a piece of his soul dies when he hears Arthur’s, and not his, on your perfect lips. It is a whole different kind of pain when one’s heart cries, but their eyes don’t. But Micah will stare into the blinding sun before he looks into the mirror to see what can be done to fix that.

Micah has always known that the two of you are like oil and water. But he was hoping that deep down, maybe you were just looking for an opportunity to hate him a little less. But he sees now that will never be the case. And that is the thing about it. Not only do you despise his very guts, but you are also that enamored with Morgan. And there are few things Micah can do about that.

Micah would often watch you with Arthur when he thought no one was looking. It is much more than love you have for Arthur. You take care of him, you look after him. You make sure he is fed and clean. You mend his clothing with such precision and care. You rub his shoulders when he aches and your soft fingers dance along his forearms when he’s returned after a bad job.

It is like a knife in Micah’s heart to know that you would never do these things for him. You could cruelly break his heart of stone without even realizing it. But that’s all he has to give to you, as he has never given it to anyone else. In fact he’s not sure any woman ever would accept it. But he’s come to terms with that because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. But what infuriates Micah is that he’s sure that Arthur doesn’t either.

Micah pulls his bitter gaze back to the flames in front of him, his lips twisted in a pinched and frustrated expression. He flings the stick he used to stoke the fire into the heated bed of coals with a huff before bringing his clenched fist to his lips. If he had any presence of mind, he’d swipe the unshed tears from his hardened eyes before anyone sees. But Micah Bell hasn’t cried in years, not since he was a kid. It’s such a foreign concept that he isn’t even aware that it's happening.

His vision begins to blur as he watches the burning wisps of red and orange engulf the jagged wood, noticing how they elegantly wrap themselves around the ugly, charred wooden scales like silk, offering warmth and consuming it until the fire and wood are one.

And that is when Micah realizes that you are the fire. And he has been cold his whole life.

*This is not my image, but posted on Pintrest by Lee

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*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people.

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #photo1030 #micah bell #leather and lace

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