#micah ( reflection )

[compassionmattersmost]

One Story, One Covenant of Love

A quiet invitation to rediscover the thread of God’s love that has never been broken. Many of us were taught to think of the Old Testament as a record of law and judgment, and the New Testament as a new beginning—about love and grace. But when we look more deeply, we begin to see that God’s mercy and covenant have been unfolding all along, not beginning with Jesus, but fulfilled in Him. Before…

[enslavedtoliberty]

Lists

"He has told you, O man, what is good;

and what does the Lord require of you

but to do justice, and to love kindness,

and to walk humbly with your God?"

When I think of lists, I think of to-do lists; my day to day being organized by a series of things I need to do in order to feel satisfied... productive. But the lists God finds of most importance are like those above. Follow these we're told, and all will be well on the day we meet our Creator. I'll keep trying to live by this one here, as Sproul says in his commentary, to live "a lifestyle that gives due acknowledgement to God in every aspect of conduct."

[eldritch-bf]

Recently learned that the color of the vest and tie Arthur wears during the Saint Denis ferry gambling mission changes depending on if you have high or low honor (blue for high and red for low) so now i am obsessed with the idea that the prominence of the colors red and blue on certain gang member’s outfit also reflects their honor level.

Whittemore variants versus Arthur’s default outfit, which doesn’t have a scrap of red on it, however no matter what his blue shirt is always fucking dirty and stained. And remember the gang criticizes you if you have blood all over you.

Hosea wears the blue vest (sometimes brown) but he generally has his red neckerchief on, but he also owns a red and black scarf. Mostly good but a little bit of bad.

Red is prominently featured on Micah. His entire shirt is red and he’s usually wearing his jacket like he’s disguising his nature. Even the the grips on his guns have red. And when you rescue him from Strawberry he does not have his coat.

Dutch is the most interesting to me. He has the checkered red scarf which he rarely wears and the red pocket square over his heart. Only the back of his vest is red, like he’s in denial about it, or that it’s only possible to see who he is when he isn’t facing you and putting on a show. Meanwhile on guarma his vest is suddenly reversed!

EDIT: addition

When Hosea is killed he is wearing a completely different outfit with a blue vest and absolutely no red, and both Milton and Dutch are covered in red!

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

TORN - Chapter 4

Synopsis: One night, that’s all it took for Josh and India to fall for each other. One night was all it took for her life to turn upside down. She thought she had found the one. Then he had told her the truth… he had someone waiting for him… someone whom he had betrayed to be with India.

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

All OC Characters belong to me

Warnings: Manipulation..

Talisua Fatu could never be disappointed in her four children. Whatever paths they chose, they succeeded and made a name for themselves. None ever found trouble with the law—they were upstanding citizens, reflecting the values she instilled in them. So no, she could never be disappointed in her children. 

But in this moment, she didn’t know how to feel as she looked at her second eldest. 

“You’re marrying Janae?” She asked, eyebrows pinched together in confusion. 

Across the room from her, Josh nodded, his eyes cast downward, focused on the marble countertop. “Yes,” he replied, and Talisua inhaled a sharp breath. 

Why? She wanted to ask. Why would you want to do that?! She wanted to yell at him, demand to know what spell Janae had cast over him.

But instead, she said nothing. She just stared, her jaw tight, her mind reeling.

Josh shifted under her silence. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“No, you don’t,” Talisua said. Don’t get her wrong, she loved her grandchild Micah. She would never wish any harm or pain to him, but Janae? Talisua never trusted her, not since the first time Josh brought her home. 

“How does she feel about Egypt?” 

Josh inhaled a sharp breath, his shoulders tightening. He couldn’t bring himself to look up. 

“She don’t…” He started, his voice wavering. “She don’t really want Egypt around.” 

Talisua’s heart clenched. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but her voice remained calm. “Come again?”

“Not unless I have full custody.”

Talisua blinked slowly, her heart heavy as the words settled over her like fog.

“Full custody,” she repeated, her tone measured but laced with disbelief. “And you think that’s right?”

Josh flinched, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. The guilt in them was unmistakable.

“I ain’t say it was right,” he murmured. “I just… I don’t know what else to do, Ma’. If I don’t, Janae’s gone. She said she’s taking Micah and leaving.”

“And what, you’re just going to let her use your child like a pawn?” Her voice trembled now, not from anger but heartache. “Micah is your son, Josh. He’s not leverage. And Egypt? She’s a baby. An innocent baby who already lost her father for months. Now you’re going to take her from the only person who's never left her side?” Talisua stepped around the island and gently touched his arm. “I raised you better than this.”

He swallowed hard, the sting of her words cutting deeper than any lecture.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Then act like it,” she said, placing a hand under his chin and lifting his head to meet her eyes. “Trying to do right by Janae doesn’t mean you have to do wrong by Egypt, or her mother.”  

“She wants me to choose Ma,”  Josh said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She told me it’s either her and Micah or Egypt. That’s the deal.”

Talisua’s eyes searched her son’s face, looking past the guilt to the fear beneath it. “That’s not a deal, Joshua. That’s a demand. And love don’t come with ultimatums.”

“I can’t live without my son.” 

“So what happens when Egypt grows up and asks why her father never fought for her?” Talisua asked softly, but the question hit like a blow.

Josh flinched, his body going rigid as he stared at his mother. “Don’t do that, Ma’. I think about it every day.”

“Then think harder,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Because this ain’t about Janae. It’s about your children. All of them. Micah, Egypt, Jeremi. They’re watching, Josh. And one day they’ll understand every decision you made.” Talisua sighed. “You’re not a bad man, Josh. But you’re about to make a bad decision. And I won’t stand by and watch you sacrifice one child for another.”

“So what do I do?” 

Talisua’s heart softened as she heard the pain in her son’s voice. She could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight of the world pressing down on him. She’d raised him to be strong, to think before he acted, but in this moment, it seemed like the choices before him were too much to bear.

“Go see Egypt,” she said quietly. “You’ve spent so much time trying to fix things with Janae, trying to make her happy, that I think you’ve forgotten about the little girl who needs her father just as much. Maybe more.”

After his talk with his mother, Josh raced back home with one thing in mind. He had to be a better father to Egypt. It wasn’t fair that Micah and Jeremi got him at full capacity while Egypt had been sidelined, only getting the pieces of him that were left. She deserved more than that. 

He parked his car and stormed into the house, breezing past Janae, who immediately stood from her seat on the couch and followed up the steps to their bedroom. She watched as he grabbed his duffle bag out of their closet and started to pack. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked, her voice laced with irritation.

Josh didn’t even look up as he rifled through his drawers, tossing clothes into the bag with swift, sharp movements. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He wasn’t in the mood for anything.

“I’m going to see Egypt,” he said flatly, his voice tight with resolve.

Janae scoffed and walked over, blocking him from entering the bathroom to grab his toiletries. 

“Nae, move.” Josh sighed. 

Janae stood her ground, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “You think you can just drop everything and go see her? What about us, Josh? What about Micah?” 

Josh felt his patience thinning. “What’s the issue? I’m tryna be a good fuckin’ dad and you tryna make it seem like I’m abandoning you and Micah!” 

Janae’s eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, not backing down. “You didn’t give a damn about being a dad when Egypt was born. Don’t act like this is some noble, selfless move now.” Her voice was cold, biting.

“I’m not gonna ask again, move.” 

She stared at him for a long second, the weight of his words hanging in the air like thunder before a storm. Then, slowly, she stepped aside, but not without one last barb.

“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life.”

Josh grabbed his bag and brushed past her, his voice low but firm. “No. I made that mistake already. This is me fixing it.”

Janae narrowed her eyes as she watched him pack the rest of his overnight bag. He said nothing else as he brushed past her and out of their room. She heard him walk into Micah’s room. She waiting until he came back out to start her mess again. 

“So that’s it?” she asked, voice low, laced with disbelief. “You kiss your son goodnight and just walk out like everything's okay?”

“Everything is okay.” He stressed. “You making me going to see Egypt a bigger deal than what it is.” 

Janae folded her arms, leaning against the hallway wall as Josh closed Micah’s bedroom door gently behind him.

“Everything is not okay,” she shot back, her voice sharper now. “You running back to that girl and her baby like you some kind of savior.”

Josh turned slowly to face her, his jaw tight. “That girl is Egypt’s mother. And that baby?” He pointed toward the floor as if Egypt’s presence could fill the space between them. “That baby is my daughter. Just like Micah is my son.”

“Oh, now she’s your daughter?” Janae scoffed, eyes flaring. “Where was all that energy when she was born?”

Josh scoffed. “I’ll see you Sunday,” he muttered and walked past her. 

Janae’s voice dropped, low and sharp. “And if you don’t?” 

Josh stopped walking and turned back around to face. “Why you making this such a big fuckin’ deal? You wanted me to get India to sign the papers right? How imma do that without going there?” 

Janes scoffed. “You think i’m stupid, nigga? I know why you’re really going to Dallas.” 

Josh looked at her like she had just grown three head. “Yeah… to see my daughter.” 

Janae gave a short, humorless laugh. “Nah. You going to see her. Don’t play me, Josh.”

“She’s Egypt’s mother. What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

Janae stepped forward, eyes hard now, but her voice stayed steady. “You think I don’t see it? The way you talk about her. The way your whole mood shifts when her name comes up. You didn’t move like this for no damn one-night stand.”

Josh’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He knew India wasn’t just a one-night stand. He didn’t want her to be a one-night stand. 

“I could deal with a mistake,” she continued, arms folded. “What I can’t deal with is you pretending like she don’t still got a piece of you.” 

“Janae… i’m going to Dallas to see my child. That’t it nothing more.” 

Janae said nothing. She just watched him. Watched as he gripped the strap to his duffle bag. He cleared his throat. “I’ll see y’all on Sunday.” He hesitated before turning his back to her and walking down the steps and out of the house. 

Janae stood at the top of the stairs, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she listened to the sound of the door slamming behind him. Her stomach twisted with something cold and unfamiliar, a mix of anger, betrayal, and fear.

She didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

She knew what she needed to do next. She needed to get India out of their lives.

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. Now that graduation is over, hopefully I can start writing more! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and shit.. things are about to get messy 😬

taglist: @paigereeder @empressdede @jaethaone @mzv11 @shantinextdoor

@xmonetsworld @li-da-savage @adoreesun @bebesobrielo

@rianasixx @queeny23 @cyberdejos2 @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @msbigredmachine

@ashykneee @callmekayd @yana3sworld @alichesmi @nayys-world

@partypoison00 @raya-hunter01 @trippinsorrows @theusotwinzcom @vampygomez

@christinabae @amandairene88 @4milly @mindairy @isabella-2025

@duhitzkay380 @nbanenefrmdao @flyshtyonlyy @chynagirl13 @xbriexx

@zoeroxiie @uceyliyahh @amaazinggirlsstuff @reci1996 @jazzyboo123-blog1

@luuvprincess @shanthefemalerapper @skyesthebomb @transparentphantomface @mselenalovebug

@trippiexlove @jstarr86 @ajenae @juicypinksblog @blveeeeeee

[fawnwilde]

Could you potentially write a little something about reader traveling with Charles after Arthur’s death? Reader was in the gang, she is very sweet and friendly, and is good at getting people to do what she wants, while Charles is good at survival and keeping them alive. Together they travel, seemingly complete opposites but slowly falling for each other. Reader understands his need for silence, and Charles entertains her meaningless conversations. Charles is tired of being a lone wolf and finds comfort in having someone to look out for, and gains a sense of safety having her looking out for him. Maybe something about them around a campfire one night, maybe reader convinces Charles to have a drink with her and things get a little intimate for the first time, or fluffy idk! Whatever you want! Thank you very much

What Comes After I ⋆˚࿔

Charles Smith x reader

next

rating: explicit (18+)

This is such a great ask, thank you so much!! I took the prompt and kind of went crazy with it, so I hope you like it! <3

content warning: smut MDNI, angst, fluff, sunshine reader, period typical racism, friends to lovers, outdoor sex shenanigans, cunnilingus, piv sex, cuddlin n shit

word count: 4.2k

You were there when Arthur died.

The both of you had witnessed the gang’s demise, until it was only you two and John left. When it came to it, he had told you to leave with John. And you planned to, but you had a bad feeling when Arthur left your line of sight.

You found him on the mountain, beaten to within an inch of his life with Micah Bell standing over him. You tried to get in between them, willing to die to protect your friend. Micah looked ready to do that for you, if Dutch hadn't intervened.

But that brief kindness meant nothing to you when both he and Micah left, turning their backs on you.

Arthur told you not to worry, told you to leave in case Micah came back. But you refused, unwilling to leave him in his state. You held his hand as he succumbed to his injuries, his body too far gone to do anything. The both of you watched the sun rise, and you only allowed yourself to cry when you felt his hand go limp in yours.

Charles found you there, not too long later.

You were sitting beside your fallen friend, tears blurring your vision as you prepared yourself to bury Arthur. A shadow was cast over you, and you looked up to see Mr Smith, a devastated look on his face.

You weren't upset with Charles for not being there when it all fell apart. He had his own job to do, one which was personal to him. But no matter how many times you said that, you could tell he felt guilty for not being there to help when he was needed.

You buried Arthur together. Hands shaking with every pile of dirt removed from the ground, tears reflecting off your skin as you placed him in his grave. The two of you stood on top of the mountain for a while, unwilling to leave Arthur alone.

After a while, you felt Charles take your hand. You looked up at him, and he nodded, pulling you away.

You and Charles weren't close before. He joined the gang less than a year before the fall, where you had been a member since John had joined.

Charles was always kind to you. He was soft spoken when talking to you, his hands were respectful when he helped you off a wagon, and he sat silently beside you around the campfire, a calming presence. He was a friend, someone you could rely on, but only one of many.

Now, as if overnight, you were all each other had. And The two of you certainly made an unusual pair.

You travelled side by side across the plains. He atop his large steed, you driving your trusty wagon. The quiet roads between towns were only disturbed by your incessant talking. You never liked silence, and would often find yourself chattering away to an audience of one.

Charles would rarely contribute. He would hum in agreement if you asked for his opinion, or huff out an amused laugh at your retelling of an old camp incident. The most you would get out of him was when you would ask him a question about the surrounding nature, or about the type of bird that landed on your bench. You enjoyed the days where he would tell you about his culture.

Sometimes you wonder if you annoy him. He was a man of few words, while you were always known for your silver tongue and lively personality.

Whilst you had been a part of the gang for years, you were never there for your fighting abilities. You knew how to shoot, sure, but your skills were limited. You were a natural born sweet talker, and a personable aura that got people to trust you. Dutch often had you working as a distraction, or out gathering information. But you liked to think that your main job was being the voice of reason, or a friend to everyone in camp,

But while you could sell milk to a cow, you couldn’t defend yourself against a real threat. The others would protect you in danger, and now that Charles was your only companion, he was always your saviour. He would defend you from the occasional coyote, he would hunt food to keep you from going hungry, he would be by your side if a stranger got too comfortable with you.

Charles had become everything to you, but you were scared that in the days where he would be silent, he was regretting taking you with him. You weren't much use save for your chatter, which Charles clearly had no use for.

You sometimes fear you’re a burden.

Today, as the sun had started to set, you were glad to see a town on the horizon. A town meant you could get a drink somewhere, maybe a hot meal that Charles’ wouldn't have to catch for you, and a room with a bed.

You were also thankful that Charles would get a break from you.

It was a self deprecating thought, you know, but you hoped that if Charles had a night away from you, it would make it easier being on the road again with you the next day.

You look over at the man in question, noting the deep furrow in his brow, and his tight grip on the reins. He was tense, and you shrank in your seat worrying if you are the reason.

The two of you hitch your horses outside of a run down saloon. You begin climbing down from your wagon, accepting the hand Charles offers.

“Thank you.” You smile, and he nods.

The two of you walk into the saloon. It’s dim,and smells strongly of liquor and sweat, but you cannot help but feel giddy at the sight of food being served from the bar.

“I'll apologise in advance, I don’t think I’ll be too ladylike when I get a meal.” You laugh, looking up at Charles as you make your way across the floor, “I could eat a horse right now.”

“Don’t tell me you’re bored of what I get us already.” Charles huffs, an amused smile playing on his lips.

You smile even brighter at his jest. You take a seat at the bar, warily putting your hands on the sticky bar. Charles hovers beside you, surveying the saloon with focused eyes even in the low light.

The bartender wipes a rag over a glass, raising an eyebrow at the odd pair of you, “What can I get you?”

You order food and a shot of whiskey for yourself. Charles declines a drink, eyeing the bartender warily as the other man stares at him for too long. You place a couple of notes on the bar before Charles touches your shoulder.

“There’s a hotel across the street, I’ll go and get us a couple of rooms.”

“You don’t want to eat here?” You ask, confused.

He shakes his head, “I'll figure something out. Don’t feel like staying here too long.”

You nod with a sad expression. This is one of the worse areas, plenty of white patrons glaring at Charles. It makes you sick, judgement against one of the best men you know simply for the colour of his skin. You understand why he wants to leave, and touch his arm gently in reassurance.

He looks down at you with an unreadable expression, before nodding and turning to leave.

The bartender leaves you your meal, and you try to eat without feeling down about being alone. You enjoy Charles’ company, and you always feel safe when he’s around. You down your shot, feeling a prickling sensation at the nape of your neck.

The feeling of being watched.

Turning your head, you make eye contact with a man. He’s tall and gangly, face red with sun burns. He smiles hungrily at you, dry lipped and yellow stained teeth. You shudder, turning back around and trying to make yourself even smaller.

A presence appeared at your side, and you hoped that Charles had changed his mind and come back. But no, as you turn, you come face to face with the unnerving man from before.

He licks his teeth, looking you up and down with a predatory grin, “Never seen you around these parts, girly. Where’ve you come from?”

Disgust crawls up your spine.

You lean away from him, grimacing.

“Aw, where do you think you’re going, kitty? Come play with me.” The man reaches out, his fingers brushing against the bare skin on your shoulder, before his hand is snatched away.

You gasp as Charles comes into view. He towers over the other man, who’s face drops when he looks up at your rageful friend.

“Get your hands off of her!” Charles shoves the man back, sending him crumbling and cursing.

You gasp as Charles takes your hand, leading you firmly but gently out of the saloon. Patrons stare as you leave, whispering amongst themselves at the chaos.

You’re led across the street, Charles’ hand in yours the only warmth protecting you from the chill of the night. He walks briskly, a sneer on his lips. You hold onto him tighter, letting him lead you into the hotel and up the stairs.

He takes you to one of the rooms, unlocking it and gently pulling you in. Once the door is closed, he deflates slightly, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gotten so angry.” Charles says softly.

You shake your head, “You've got nothing to apologise for. You saved me again.”

He smiles sadly, shrugging as he makes eye contact with you, “It's been a long day.”

You look down at your joined hands, surprised to see him still holding it. He lets you go, almost hesitantly, before taking a step away from you.

“You should get some rest. We’ll go at sunrise, get away from this town.” Charles growls the last word, eyes flashing as he remembers the man from the saloon.

Nodding, you clasp your own hands together. He turns to leave.

“Goodnight Charles.”

“Goodnight, dove.” He says gently, the nickname he sometimes uses for you making you smile.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone and rubbing at the hand he held, missing the warmth he provided.

The next morning, you meet Charles outside the hotel. He feeds both of your horses apples, talking quietly to them with an easy smile on his face.

You join his side, exchanging greetings before heading off.

The journey starts normally, you retell a story of when Arthur and you stumbled upon an O'driscoll hide out and had to hide in a couple of fox holes. Arthur got stuck and you had to dig him out while a mother fox almost bit his nose off.

Halfway through the story, you notice Charles looking tired and weary, and anxiety creeps up on you again, worried you’re annoying him again.

A fork in the road separates the path in two directions. You pull your horse to a stop, a sigh deflating you.

Charles halts as well, looking over at you.

“Charles… look, maybe we should..” You start, voice trembling. You can’t look at him keeping your eyes low as you try to sift through your thoughts.

He says your name softly, walking his horse closer to our wagon.

“Maybe we should go our separate ways.” You choke out, “I… I can’t stand making you feel miserable. I know you feel an obligation to me, us being the last two left, but you shouldn't feel the need to stick around. I want you to be happy, Charles.”

You sit in silence. Your eyes remain on the dirt ground, a tear falling down onto your skirt.

Charles sighs, murmuring your name again, urging you to look at him again.

“You don’t make me miserable.”

Looking up, you lock eyes with him. He looks ashamed, guilty for making you feel this way.

“Im sorry if I seem miserable. But I’m not. I like listening to you talk. You make my days happier.” He shrugs, looking away and off into the distance, “So. I don’t think we should go our separate ways. I'll be too bored.”

With that, he clicks his tongue, spurring his horse forwards.

“Now, what happened when the fox found Arthur in her home?” He asks you.

You watch him for a moment, feeling happiness rise in your chest again.

After that conversation, things became infinitely better with Charles.

Knowing that you didn’t annoy him and that he enjoyed your talkativeness made you embrace your own personality around him. Your days were filled with easy conversation, enjoying the scenery surrounding you both.

Charles made more of an effort to engage with you, but you often reminded him that he didn’t need to change himself for you, you liked him just the way he was.

You loved him just the way he was.

You didn't tell him that. You realised it while the both of you were taking a break from travelling.

A deer calf had gotten trapped on the edge of an embankment,it’s mother panicked and erratic. Charles climbed down and rescued the baby deer, moving swiftly but gently.

He managed to renite the family without causing any more stress, taking his leave as the mother cleans her young.

As Charles mounted his horse, a buck approached the doe and calf, checking over the baby and mother. The small family looked to you and Charles, before retreating back into the woods. The buck lingered, before it followed his family.

He wondered aloud about the buck, explaining to you reincarnation and how he believed that maybe the buck was Arthur, and the doe and calf, the family he lost. He shrugged off your skepticism, stating that he just hoped Arthur would find happiness in another life.

You realised you were in love with Charles Smith in that moment.

The two of you had set up camp in a small clearing, a winding river surrounding you and giving you somewhere to fish.

You got you both dinner, and helped Charles start a fire.

Once dinner was eaten and the sun had set, you sat back and watched him as he stoked the fire. The flames lit his face stunningly, his strong brow and full lips casting moving shadows, his dark eyes tired but focused on the task at hand.

You reach into your satchel, looking for your journal to do a quick sketch of him. Your fingers brush against something glass, and you almost exclaim in glee when you pull out a bottle of whiskey you bought a few weeks back. It's unopened, the opportunity to pour a glass never appearing.

Tonight would have to do.

You unscrew the lit, nose wrinkling slightly at the harsh odour immediately released. Taking a quick swig, you wince at the burn, but grin at the warm feeling it immediately provides.

Charles looks up, and you wave him over.

“Come on, come drink with me.” You smile, shaking the bottle gently.

He raises his eyebrows, looking between you and

“I don’t think so.” He chuckles, grabbing his knife and a block of wood to whittle.

You sigh, frowning.

“I don’t understand you sometimes, Charles Smith.” You say, exaggerating your disappointment to guilt him to join you, “We’re safe here. You can relax for a night.”

Charles huffs through his nose, glaring at you half-heartedly “And if tonight is the night we finally get attacked by a pack of hungry wolves?"

“Then I will defend us.” You say with faux stoicism.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” You giggle, grabbing both of your tin cups.

He laughs, eyes crinkling with a large smile, “Fine. One drink.”

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and… you lost count at six. The two of you were lay on the grass a few feet from the fire, laughing at a story you were telling about when Sean tried to do a heist alone and somehow ended up getting chased all the way back to camp by a pack of hungry dogs. Your side hurt from laughing, and Charles’ own laugh echoed around you.

While you sighed and stretched, you could feel Charles’ eyes on you. He's silent for a moment, and you open your mouth to ask him what's wrong, before he speaks.

“I’m in love with you.” He murmurs.

You giggle, turning to look at him. He’s already watching you, his normally serious face relaxed with the effects of the alcohol.

“Really?” You ask, turning over fully to lie on your side.

Charles turns too, nodding. He reaches out, tucking a piece of fallen hair behind your ear. He watches your face, his eyes travelling over your features before landing on your lips.

“Could you love me?” He whispers.

You smile, “I already do.”

Who moved first is anyone's guess, but it doesn't matter as is hips meet yours. They’re warm and firm, and better than you dreamed.

You sigh against him, and Charles deepens the kiss, your tongues meeting in a pleasant battle.

He rolls on top of you, settling between your thighs and dragging his hands over your body. Charles is careful with his touches, feeling your skin with reverence and affection.

You wrap your arms around his neck, winding your fingers in the thick hair cascading from his scalp and fanning around both of your faces. He groans appreciatively as you tug on his strands, his hips pressing flush against yours.

Your gasp breaks the kiss, feeling his large, solid member pressing against you. Charles grunts, kissing along your neck while he shallowly thrusts against you, seeking pleasure only your body can provide.

“Charles…” You moan, spreading your legs further and gripping onto him harder.

“Fuck, love.” Charles sits up on his haunches, admiring the sight you make. His eyes roam over you, his pupils dilated and lips swollen from your kisses.

His thumb rub soothing circles on your hips, his eyes locking on yours once more.

“Do you want this?”

“More than anything.”

A deep rumble emerges from his chest as his hands fly to your shirt, unbuttoning it before growing impatient and tearing it in half. You gasp, then whine as his hands drift to your breasts, caressing your flesh lovingly before pulling your chemise down to expose the skin to his eyes. His lips descend upon them, nipping and sucking marks and taking your nipples into his mouth.

Writhing beneath him, your hand return to his head, dragging your nails across his scalp and gripping his hair when he sucks on your sensitive skin.

His mouth travels lower, tugging your chemise down along with your skirt and bloomers, leaving you naked beneath the moon. Charles inhales sharply as he admires you, groaning as he kisses every inch of skin accessible.

With a swift motion, he pulls your thighs over his shoulders, looking up at you for permission. You nod and whine down at him, “Please, Charles-”

He needs no further invitation, plunging his face into your cunt. Gasping, your neck arches as he latches onto your clit, rolling his tongue and teeth over it thoroughly. Stars appear behind your clenched eyes as Charles worships your pussy, devouring you like a man starved.

One of your hands grips his hair, while the other claws at the dirt below, feeling your orgasm approaching embarrassingly close. Charles alternates between plunging his tongue into your slick hole and sucking your clit into his mouth, making you pulse and writhe against his mouth. He groans against you, his own eyes rolled back in enjoyment.

As you reach the precipice, your hand clenches in his hair, sharp enough to possibly hurt, but he doesn't cease his task. He knows you’re close, and puts pressure back on your clit, his teeth dragging across it.

You cum with a cry of his name, back arching and cunt leaking like a faucet. Charles kisses your cunt as you come down, murmuring praises against your thighs.

“Are you alright, my dove?” He asks, crawling back on top of you and cupping your face, eyes looking over you with love and pride.

You nod, a tired smile on your face. “Mhm.” You reach down, cupping his bulge and causing him to groan, “Want you.”

“Think you can handle me?” He's not cocky with his question; you can tell he is sizable against your palm, big enough to rip you apart if he's not careful. But you trust him, and need him in this moment.

“I can. Made for you.” You smile, kissing him again softly and unhurried.

Charles groans, sitting up to pull off his shirt. Your hands wander over his firm chest. His skin is warm, muscles rippling with his haste to get undressed. He's littered with scars, and you admire them, caressing your fingers over them. He can see the love in your eyes, and it makes him swell with happiness.

He shoves his trousers down, tossing them away to land with the rest of your discarded clothes. Your eyes widen at the sight of his cock. It’s above average in length, but as thick as your wrist and curving upwards. The tip is an angry red and leaking, eager to fill you up.

“I’ll be gentle.” Charles says, noticing your awed expression, “I'd never hurt you, my love.”

“I know.” You smile, taking his face in your hands to pull him down for another kiss. It's slow and meaningful, as he leans back over you with your thighs around his waist.

You can feel him nudge against your entrance, rubbing against your clit as he gets comfortable. One of his arms holds him up beside your head, while the other reaches down to grasp himself in hand.

The both of you look down as he lines himself up, twin groans escaping you as he pushes the tip in. You’re wet enough for him to slip inside easily, inches disappearing inside you agonisingly slow. It’s a tight fit, and your hand grips onto his forearm beside you at the fullness.

Charles curses as he bottoms out, his other man grasping yours as he takes a second to bask in the feeling. You watch his eyes roll shut, his chest heaving. Leaning forward, you kiss his jaw, nudging at his flushed skin.

He presses his face into your neck, pulling out only to fuck back into you, pleasure shooting through your whole body. You grasp onto him, moaning out as he repeats his shallow but hard thrusts.

The alcohol mixed with your joint yearning brings you both to the edge quickly, your knees against Charles’ chest as he moves faster and faster, the wet sounds of your coupling with your gasps and his grunts.

“Fuck, feels so good…” Charles grunts against your shoulder, speeding up his thrusts as he chases his climax.

The cord inside you winds unbearably tight, your own end getting closer with every time his tip bullies your g-spot. His hand leaves yours to disappear between you, pressing rapid circles against your clit.

“Need- need you to cum with me, my love… please, please cum with me.”

You cry out, locking your legs around him as you shake beneath him, your cunt squeezing him tighter. A harsh thrust has you falling over the edge, biting down on his shoulder as your vision blurs and you ride wave after wave of euphoria.

Charles groans, hips suffering, “God- where, my love?”

“Inside. Please, Charles, inside me.” You mewl.

Barely a second later, Charles shoves himself fully inside you, grunting out your name as he empties himself within you. He collapses against you, being wary of his size and not lying on you too long, falling to his side beside you.

Exhausted and sated, you lie boneless and ready to sleep. With your eyes closed, you can hear Charles move around, and can feel him pull a blanket over you both. He pulls you to his chest, kissing your hair.

You fall asleep as he murmurs how much he loves you.

The sun rises on a new day, and you lie awake nestled in Charles’ arms.

His face is peaceful, mouth set in a small smile. You wish you could capture the image and keep it with you forever, never wanting to forget how beautiful he is now he's yours.

The hard ground presses into your hip, and you squirm slightly to get more comfortable. Charles huffs, eyes fluttering awake to see why you were moving out of the cocoon of his arms.

“Morning.” You whisper, brushing you hand over his cheek.

He smiles as his eyes focus on you, turning his head to kiss you palm, “Morning.”

“Any regrets?” You ask, though you know the answer.

“None. You?”

“Only that we didn't do that in a bed.” You joke, grimacing at the hard ground below you.

Charles chuckles sleepily, pulling you over and on top of him. His body is infinitely more comfortable, and you sigh contentedly.

“We’ll have a bed. In our own home, one I’ll make for us.” He murmurs, kissing your head

You drift off again, warm and safe, wrapped in Charles’ arms as he softly talks about the life you will have.

Both of you can't wait for the future.

AN/ Like I said, I went crazy. I really hope you liked it!! Mwah x

[meo-eiru]

My hands trembled as I bundled Eden into a thick woolen blanket, his tiny face peeking out, eyes wide and curious. He was only two, but he seemed to sense my anxiousness. His usual babbling fell silent, and in the hush that followed, my breath came quick and shallow.

I glanced around the room— it was my prison for the past three years. The bed, neatly made, the worn rocking chair in the corner, its wood rubbed smooth by countless hours of nursing Eden, the faded curtains I had sewn myself.

Micah had left early, as he often did, locking the door behind him. But something in me had shifted that time. Perhaps it was the way Eden had looked at me with those clear eyes, as if seeing me for the first time, really seeing me.

I saw myself reflected in those eyes, truly saw myself—the woman I had been, the mother I had become. And I knew then that we could not stay here.

Not another day.

Not another hour.

I had bundled him up, pulling a small bag from the closet— one that I had packed in secret over the weeks, stowing away small things that Micah wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t much— just some clothes, diapers, and a small children’s book.

The plan was simple— too simple, perhaps. Slip out unnoticed, walk the streets as though nothing was amiss, as though I were just another mother taking her child for a stroll. Once we reached the outskirts, we would find a way to leave this place, to escape him. Somehow, I told myself. Somehow we will be free.

“Shh, baby,” I softly say as I tucked the blanket tighter around Eden’s small frame. “We have to be quiet now, okay?”

Eden blinked up at her with those bright, clear eyes that were nothing like Micah’s. His hair was the same light shade, his features a mirror of his father’s, but those eyes— they were mine. He was the only part of me that hadn’t been tainted by Micah, yet.

Eden blinked up at me, his bright, clear eyes— so different from his father’s. His hair was the same pale shade as Micah’s, and his features echoed his father’s angelic feautures. Yet those eyes—they were mine, untouched by him. He was the only part of me that hadn’t been tainted… not yet.

I pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the scent of him, that sweet, innocent smell that only babies possess. It anchored me, if only for a moment. His breath was warm against my neck, and I could feel his tiny heartbeat— fast, like a hummingbird— beating in time with my own.

But as I stepped outside, the cold air biting at my skin. The town was quiet, the streets empty, but I could feel the eyes of the houses on me, their windows like unblinking stares. My hands shook as I fumbled with the gate, Eden stirring slightly in my arms.

We made it a few streets over before I heard it— the sound of footsteps behind me.

“Y/N…”

I froze, every muscle in my body locking into place. I turned slowly, as if in a trance, to find Micah standing beneath the pale light of the rising sun. His eyes dark and unreadable. His face was calm, almost serene, but there was something in it that made my blood run cold. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he finally spoke, low and steady, the way it always was.

Eden shifted in my arms, turning to look at his father, his bright eyes blinking up at him with innocently. I felt my breath catch in my throat as Micah stepped closer.

“I—” I started, but the words died in my mouth. What could I say? That I wanted to leave? That I needed to escape? That I couldn’t breathe in his presence?

But Micah didn’t need me to speak. He reached out, gently, almost tenderly, and took Eden from my arms. The boy went to him without protest, a wide smile spreading across his face as he wrapped his little arms around his father’s neck.

“You’re tired,” Micah said softly, his hand brushing against my cheek. His touch was deceptively gentle, as it always was. “You need to rest. You’re not thinking clearly.”

I wanted to scream, to push him away, to grab my son and run. But my body betrayed me, going still under his gaze. He had won, as he always did.

Micah turned, Eden still cradled in his arms, and began to walk back toward the house. I followed, because there was nothing else I could do. The streets seemed narrower now, the sky darker.

When we returned, Micah set Eden down, and the boy toddled off to play, oblivious. Micah said nothing more about my attempt to leave. He didn’t need to. Eden clambered back into his father’s arms, Micah’s long, pale hair trailing through the boy’s small fingers, he swept a hand across the my son’s back. His opened eyes, empty as the void. Yet his smile remained, gentle, almost kind— disarming. It held all the warning I needed.

And so, the day passed as it always does.

DUDE!!!! HOW ARE YOU SENDING IN MASTERPIECE AFTER MASTERPIECE THIS FAST!!!!

God Micah is so scary I love this so so much. The way he appeared? Are you a monster??

I feel so bad for the reader man, it's like she's a flower he took home with him, forever unable to escape under his watchful eyes.

The previous parts for anyone who missed! 1, 2, 3

[markodragic]

and actually, I'll say it. despite the fandom's typical treatment of both characters, grimshaw is the psychologically interesting evil-but-nuanced character that micah is not. there's layers there. time-period relevant societal pressure that she can never live up to, her personal relationships w/ other camp members, e.g her bitterness over being ditched by dutch for a younger woman playing into her internalised misogyny and how that manifests in her treatment of other women, how she does genuinely awful things but does them under the impression that she's doing the right thing/the way things "ought" to be done, her mix of care and toxic possessiveness over the girls, her attitude towards her "sons" vs her "daughters" and how that reflects her own self hatred, the fact that she sees mothering no biological children + her own fading youth as some kind of failing etc etc. there are sympathetic sides of her among her contemptible actions that actually do prompt you to dissect her as a character if you care to pay attention to the small details. AND she's a milf, like...

[manic-sapphic]

working on an amv and noticed something again

tbh, it happens so quick i don't think i ever realized melog actually bites micah's arm this gnarly

but i mean eh, melog does reflect catra's feels a lot and she's kinda down to chomp if she gotta lol

<3

[sparklingself]

𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆

Daily reflections #3

I can of mine own self do nothing. John 5:30

I know a lot of people (myself included more or less) struggle with letting go of the "getting" and focusing on the "being". A need to force something into being, because you want something so much. But truth be told, you cannot force anything. There is nothing for you to do.

It's impossible to force anything into being, because creation is finished. This means that that version of you has already forever existed. You do not conjure anything new, it is all there already. You do not have to do anything to create it into your world, you must only appropriate the state. You only change your assumptions, not the world.

Surrender yourself to the law. Let the ball of events roll, be the observer, but do not interfere. It seems like you're not getting what you want? Okay, what of it? You shall imagine anyway, because that's what your inner-self desires.

What do I, the Inner Self want? This is the only question that should matter to you. (Edward Art)

Yield yourself to your desire and know that it shall be expressed through you. Do nothing but that and see the world transform before your eyes.

He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. Micah 6:8 

You have shown yourself what is good. Imagination, the forever being, has showed yourself, the mortal, what is good. And all you must do now is persist in that goodness through forgiveness and mercy to yourself.

It is all mental. Nothing is to be done, but to surrender yourself to yourself.

[charliegyrth]

Speedos - 1 of 2

A Competitive Swimmer Gets Fat

Hi, everybody! Charlie here. I wrote this story in response to another awesome suggestion from Anonymous. Whoever you are, I hope you like this story!

***

Micah walked into the room with a cake in his arms and a big ol’ smile on his freckled face.

“What’s this?” I asked from the couch.

“What do you think?” He placed the cake on the table in front of me. It had vanilla-white frosting with a blue triangle drawn on the top. A tiny plastic gold medal sat in the center.

I had to laugh. “Okay, I get the medal.” (I was on our college swim team and I’d just placed first in the 300-meter butterfly.) “But what’s with the triangle?”

“Don’t you get it?” he asked as he slid next to me on the couch.

I shrugged.

“Seriously? It’s supposed to be a speedo!”

I looked closer. I guess the shape was a little speedo-like, and the baker had added a pile of extra frosting at the bottom to simulate a bulge. “Cute,” I said. It really was.

But I still didn’t get why he got me a cake. He knew I didn’t like sweets.

He kissed my cheek. “So glad you like it, babe. I figured the cake is like Step One for us finally getting back to normal.”

“Back to normal?” I asked.

He flinched. “Yeah. You know, so we can be… like, happy again.”

“Huh?”

“Look, Nate. I freaking love you, but you know how you get during swim season.”

“No?”

“Okay. I’ve been holding my tongue for months now, but we gotta talk about this. Off-season, you’re the perfect boyfriend. But once the season starts, you’re kind of a… monster. No offense.”

“How am I a monster?”

“One, you’re always at the pool. I barely see you. And when I do see you, you snap at me all the time. You’re never happy.”

“It’s because I get so stressed.”

“No! It’s because you’re starving yourself. We can’t even have carbs in the house when you’re competing. You just eat your tasteless slabs of chicken every day. And it makes you so angry! All the time! So I thought, now that you’re a champion and the season’s over, we’ll celebrate with a cake. You’ll allow yourself to eat normal stuff. And you’ll start being nice again.”

My stomach sank. “Is that really how you feel?”

He looked away. Clearly he wasn’t planning to unload all this stuff on me, but I’d asked. Now he felt guilty for saying it. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

I squeezed his hand. “No. You’re right. I haven’t been a good boyfriend, and you deserve better. Really. I’ll, uh, be right back.”

I rushed into the bathroom, not because I had to use it, but because I didn’t want Micah to see me cry.

I took a long look at my reflection. I was in the best shape of my life: 8% body fat, smooth muscles coating my entire body. I had the perfect body for swimming, but I also had sunken cheeks and a constant look of exhaustion on my face. I was objectively handsome, but… but it wasn’t worth it.

Thinking back on the last few months, I remembered all the times I’d been harsh with Micah. I did snap at him. I cancelled our plans all the time. I was mean. And just because he never called me out on it didn’t mean he wasn’t upset.

He should be upset.

So as I looked at myself, my image blurry through tears, I promised that I’d fully embrace the off-season. I wouldn’t hold back. I’d do whatever I wanted. I’d eat whatever I wanted. And most importantly, I’d treat Micah with the respect that he deserved and really pay attention to his needs.

I wiped my face and walked back into the living room. “Let’s have some cake!”

Micah beamed as I sat next to him. “Actually, none for me. It’s all yours.” He sliced off a huge piece and plopped it on a plate. Then he handed it to me. That was way more than I could eat, but I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to disappoint him.

I took a big bite. Ugh, it tasted terrible. Just pure, processed sugar. The sweetness overload literally gave me chills.

Micah watched me swallow it down. “Good, right? Doesn’t it feel great to finally stop restricting your calories?”

“Totally,” I lied.

His eyes were still on me, so I took another bite. And another. And another.

As I ate, Micah told me about his day. He mentioned that his mother had finally recovered from pneumonia.

“That’s great,” I said through a mouthful. I felt so guilty. I had no idea that Micah’s mom had been sick. I’m sure he told me, but in the midst of swim season, I hadn’t paid attention to anything he said. Yet another thing that I’d have to change about myself.

Pretty soon, I’d finished the entire slice. I ate it super-fast because it was terrible and I wanted to get this over with.

He grabbed the empty plate from my hands. “Damn, Nate. You loved this, huh?”

“Delicious,” I lied.

“Thought so.” He scooped me up another piece, just as big as the first.

I almost refused, but he looked so happy that I took it and started eating. Somehow, the second piece was easier to get down than the first. I think I’d gotten used to all that sugar.

***

“What do you want for dinner, babe? Shrimp fettuccini or spaghetti bolognese?”

Neither. Pasta was way too rich for me. Micah had been making Italian food all week, and it always left me sluggish and bloated.

But it meant so much to him. He loved cooking, and now that I wasn’t turning down his meals, he went all-out every dinner. He always served me these massive portions, and I ate every bite. For him.

“I don’t know…” I said gently. I tried to think of the best way to reject both choices without offending him, but he interrupted me before I could say anything.

“Great! I’ll make a little of both!” He scurried into the kitchen. Dinner was hours away, but he wanted to get started early.

That gave me some time to head to the pool and swim for a couple hours. I needed that time to sort through my thoughts.

I dug through my dresser, but I couldn’t find my speedo. “Micah?” I shouted across the apartment. “Where’d you put my swim clothes?”

“Can’t hear you, babe!” he called back.

I headed into the kitchen to find Micah holding a measuring cup with three sticks of butter. He kissed me. “So I was thinking. After dinner, wanna watch the latest episode of Bridgerton?”

“Uh, sure.” He liked that show way more than I did, but if that’s what he wanted, then why not?

“Awesome! You’re all caught up, right? We’re on episode eight.”

“Oh. I guess I’m a few episodes behind.”

“Perfect. You can watch the last few while I’m cooking. Otherwise, you won’t understand what’s going on.”

“Actually, I was…” I stopped, remembering the look of disappointment on his face whenever I chose swimming over spending time with him. I didn’t want to see that look again. “Good idea.”

I trudged into the living room and switched on Netflix. I guess I was gonna binge-watch a show that I didn’t even like just to keep Micah happy. Small price to pay.

***

After an hour of searching, I finally found my speedo and goggles shoved in the back of the closet. Micah must’ve put it there. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was purposely hiding them from me.

It had been two months since I’d been in a pool, and I was getting restless. All I did was go to classes and stay home with Micah. I loved spending time with him (don’t get me wrong) but I really needed to move my body.

Micah was at the library in the middle of a study session with his classmates, so now was the perfect time. I stripped naked and pulled on my speedo. At least, I tried to. I got it halfway up my thighs before the tight fabric started digging into me. This kind of material (a mixture of polyester, nylon, and spandex) didn’t shrink, and I didn’t own any smaller sizes. Weird.

With effort, I pulled it all the way up, feeling the fabric dig painfully into my waist. I’d outgrown my speedo, and judging from the lack of circulation, I’d outgrown it by a lot.

That could only mean one thing: I’d gained weight. I always did during the off-season. Every year, my muscular body became smoother and less defined, but I’d never outgrown my swimwear before.

Logically, I shouldn’t be surprised. Micah made me huge dinners every night. He took me out to restaurants, too. Often, he’d surprise me with sugary snacks, always kissing my cheek and saying things like, “Aren’t you glad it’s the off-season now?” or “You’re so much nicer when you’re not starving yourself.”

I should’ve known that my body would change. I felt so stupid.

I hurried to the mirror and looked at my reflection for the first time in months. I was fat. I bulged out of the top of the speedo, in the front and (especially) on either side. My hips looked so much wider than they should’ve. I turned to the side to see how far my ass flared out in the back, and… Well, it flared out a lot.

The changes were so obvious that it was impossible for Micah not to notice. He knew I was fat, and yet he never said anything. Perhaps that was because he thought I knew it too.

But then why did he keep encouraging me to snack? Why did he look so happy every time he ladled me seconds? Hell, why did he hide my swim clothes in the back of the closet?

The only explanation was because he wanted me to gain. I doubt that he actually liked these new love handles. (I mean, who would?) He was trying to sabotage me throughout the off-season so that I wouldn’t be able to compete next year.

My God. It all made sense now! I only had one more season left before I graduated, and with every bite he forced onto me, he was ensuring that I’d never swim again. At least not competitively.

As I was sorting through all these thoughts, the front door creaked open. Very quickly, I pulled off my speedo and hid it under the sink. I hid the goggles, too.

“Nate? Where are you?”

“In the bathroom!” I called. “Give me a second.”

He didn’t. He just walked right in, glancing up and down at my plump, naked body. His mouth curved into a half-smile. “Hey, sexy.”

This was my chance to confront him, to tell him that I’d figured out his little game, but the words wouldn’t come out.

He walked closer and wrapped his arms around my waist. I felt his hands squeeze my fattened cheeks. “I’m so glad I left my study session early.” That’s all he said before he pulled me toward our bedroom.

He threw me onto the bed and then climbed on top of me.

“Micah...?" I started.

He stopped me with a kiss.

***

For dinner that night, Micah made a huge platter of lasagna. I still hadn’t confronted him about his devious plan. Now that I was aware of it, though, all his little tricks were ridiculously obvious. The massive serving he placed on my plate, compared to the much smaller serving on his own. The subtle comments about my appetite. The way he kept glancing down at my stomach, as if he was mentally measuring me.

I didn’t want to argue with him, but I was done being manipulated. I ate less than half my meal before pushing my plate away. “Babe, that was delicious.”

“But you didn’t finish.”

“Naw, I’m full.”

He looked surprised. Since the beginning of the off-season, this was the first time I’d turned down his food. I could sense his little brain gears clicking away as he thought about how to respond. “Should I add more cheese?”

“Nope,” I said, holding firm. “It really is delicious.”

“Okay,” he said. It was a very dramatic-sounding “okay.” It didn’t sound like he was mad at me. It sounded like he knew I was onto him and he finally had to give up on his plan. He sounded disappointed, resigned.

“So how’d your studying go?” I changed the subject.

“Great, actually.” He started telling me about everything he’d learned, and even though I found it really boring (macroeconomics), I loved his enthusiasm. He wasn’t mad at me. He’d moved on.

I ended up eating the rest of my food as he talked. The last few months had increased my hunger, but I was eating because I chose to, not because anyone tricked me. And I didn’t go for seconds.

That’s progress.

***

I went to the pool, wearing a brand-new pair of speedos. This wasn’t a secret to Micah. I told him I was going.

It had been a week since I’d realized how fat I’d gotten, and while my boyfriend continued to make huge meals and always have snacks within arms’ reach, he stopped encouraging me to eat. Everything felt like old times again.

I still ate more than I would’ve last year (and I’d grown to like that artificial-sugar taste in all the packaged sweets Micah bought), but I wasn’t going overboard anymore. Just a bit more than usual.

And now, I was going to start exercising again. It would take a while to get back to my fighting weight, but that was totally fine. I had months and months before next season. More importantly, I had determination.

The pool was surprisingly packed for this time of day. All the lanes were taken, so I was stuck in the smaller side pool, meant more for hanging out than swimming laps. I peeled off my shirt, feeling my belly flop out. That was such a strange sensation. Jiggling. I’d never felt that before.

Then I took off my pants. Even though my new speedo was a couple sizes bigger, it still felt tight. My soft thighs just spilled right out.

I started walking toward the edge of the pool. I felt stares from all directions. People recognized me, and now they could see how out-of-shape I’d gotten in just a few months. I caught one of my teammates staring from a distance, his mouth hanging open and his eyes locked on my wide, swaying ass.

Sounds embarrassing, right? Well, I didn’t feel embarrassed. I loved it. In fact, I loved it a little too much. I could feel my dick stiffen under my speedo. I was only halfway to the pool, and already I had a noticeable bulge. My hands shot down to my crotch and I raced back to my beach chair, plopping down.

People noticed. Of course they did.

I kept my towel on my lap, scrolling through my phone and waiting for little Nate to shrink. Finally, he did.

I stood up and started back toward the pool. I felt jiggles ripple through me with each step. And just like that, my erection came back. “Dammit!” I rushed back to my chair and pulled my pants back on. Swimming would have to wait.

***

Read Part 2 here.

[jesncin]

Cover reveal time, fellas!! Let me introduce you to: THE BEASTS BENEATH THE WINDS! A middle grade anthology about Southeast Asia's elusive cryptids, written by a stellar lineup of bestselling and award-winning authors… including the illustrators ;> not only did we draw the cover for this incredible collection, but we've also meticulously illustrated the interior pages as well! Think Gravity Falls Journals with pages dedicated to specific cryptids…but Southeast Asian! Mysterious twins illustrating a book of cryptids? More likely than you think!

We're truly honored to be included in this anthology. As kids we loved reading american books, but never saw characters or creatures that reflected our culture. And now, here's a whole collection of them!

Cover design by Micah Fleming! I love seeing cover text bring the whole composition together.

[esquilone]

Just a simp

RDR2 | Micah Bell x Reader

❤︎ Summary: Late at night, with whiskey warming your veins, your gaze drifts to Micah Bell’s tent, set apart from the rest. So you don't even notice when you're already there.

❤︎ Tags: Alcohol mention, intoxicated character, teasing, implicit tension, kissing, touching, light suggestiveness, Micah Bell being Micah Bell

The night was quiet at the camp, broken only by the distant croaking of frogs and the snapping of twigs beneath small nocturnal animals. The breeze carried the scent of damp earth and the cold ashes of the fire. Everyone in the camp was asleep.

Or almost.

Your head felt light, your body warm like a baked potato, your thoughts floating in a lazy haze caused by the drink you had earlier. The taste still lingered on your tongue, and with it came an impulse—a mischievous urge you didn’t want to ignore, to do something you might not have done in full consciousness. But tonight, your body was light, your mind was drifting, and you didn’t care about giving in to the impulse.

Micah Bell was not a man easily surprised, and it was bold of you to slip into a place where you weren’t invited. But maybe this was your chance—your alcohol-dazed mind and body had already made the decision.

His tent was set a little apart from the others, just the way he liked it. A reflection of his reclusive nature and constant suspicion. But you? You weren’t the least bit concerned about that. You staggered forward, and once you got close, you slowly crawled through the grass, your knees sinking into the soft earth as you moved with smooth, almost feline motions. Your eyes adjusted to the dimness as you lifted the flap of his tent and slipped inside without asking permission.

He was there.

Micah lay on his back, one arm thrown above his head, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His face was relaxed, free of that ever-mocking smirk. Sleeping deeply—which was rare—the steady rhythm of his breath matching the faint glow of the lantern leaking through the tent’s sides, casting soft shadows over his peaceful features.

You licked your lips, a lazy smile playing at the corner of your mouth.

With smooth movements, you crawled forward, slowly climbing over his legs. Your hips found their place over his thick thighs, feeling the warmth of his strong body beneath the worn cream-colored pants. And you kept going, sliding up with careful, light movements, as if already anticipating that he could wake up at any moment. But he didn’t. Not even when you settled over his stomach, your weight sinking slightly into the makeshift bedding.

Micah murmured softly, still lost in sleep.

But you didn’t stop.

With warm, delicate fingers, you traced over his half-unbuttoned red shirt, feeling the shape of his chest beneath the rough fabric. Your eyes wandered over his face, taking in every detail—from the unshaven stubble to the slightly parted lips. For some reason, he looked so handsome and peaceful? No… not peaceful, calm. Guard lowered, free of tension.

Your fingers, warm and delicate, slid over his shirt, tracing the outline of his chest with a soft touch. One hand now moved to his chin, brushing over it slowly in a gentle caress.

And that’s when Micah stirred.

His chest expanded with a deeper breath. His brows furrowed slightly before his blue eyes opened—slow, yet disturbed, as his mind surfaced from the fog of sleep.

He blinked a few times, confused and sluggish. Then, his eyes focused on you.

Silence.

A full second where Micah just stared at you, trying to understand what the hell was happening.

Then, a smile appeared. Slow. Sinister.

— Heh… well, well… what do we have here? — His voice was thick with sleep, laced with lazy amusement and something darker, something intrigued. He really did resemble a grumpy, wicked cat.

His eyes trailed over you, taking in your teasing expression, the hazy mischief in your gaze, the way your fingers still played against his chest.

— Tsk, tsk, tsk… — He clicked his tongue, shifting his arms to rest his hands behind his head as if settling in for a show. — Looks like the little bunny wandered right into the fox’s den…

His laugh was low, filled with dangerous amusement.

His voice was rough, lazy, thick with sleep and something darker. His gaze roamed over your body, noting your position, your hands still splayed over him, the mischievous glint in your eyes.

— And now? — He arched a brow, arms still resting behind his head as if he were far too comfortable to react. He looked at you like a cat that had just been surprised by its prey climbing onto its lap. — What are you gonna do now that you have my attention, huh?

You leaned forward, slowly closing the distance, feeling his warmth against you. Your lips brushed over his lightly. A kiss soft, almost innocent—or at least, it would have been if his smirk hadn’t grown against your mouth. He probably tasted the alcohol on your lips.

— Hm… If I had known that just a little sip of alcohol would get you like this, sweetheart, I would’ve handed you a whole damn bottle before. — His smoky chuckle was low.

Micah let out a low purr, satisfied, his thick fingers finding their way to your back. Slowly, he slid his hands up and down, a lazy and unexpected caress.

You sighed, a soft, wet whimper escaping.

— Hm… — Another rumbling purr. He sighed roughly, voice thick with amusement as his hands squeezed your waist lightly. — You’re playing with fire, doll…

But this time, he wouldn’t let you run away like a little rabbit.

⸻

Author’s Notes:

I was really excited to write this! I just wanted to do something short and throw it out there, just to enjoy these ideas while they were fresh. I don’t plan on writing much for a while—except maybe trying to update the chapters of “Winter Flowers”. We’ll see! ;)

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel 10

Chapter 10: adamant Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: depictions of a panic attack. PLEASE AVOID if that would end up harming you i beg !!! dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. I am being serious when I say that arthur is bad at handling this situation. he does not think he has done anything wrong. if youve been reading so far you know that that is BAD. please do not read if you can't handle it, im putting a giant RED FLAG on this WC: 4753 SNOW ANGEL DROP TN??? everybody say thank you to @emerald-ranch CHAPTER 10 !!! we did it !! it took me a while to churn this out and get it to a place that i liked. im still not even sure i like it LMAO thank you for all of the lovely little niche questions i get about my strange snow angel arthur, he is everything to me and i love to speak him into existence. first time writing angst soooo Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol You and Arthur clear the air.

“Caught me a little bunny, pretty one too,” you can feel his excitement behind the fabric of his pants, his belt digging into you uncomfortably. Arthur’s features, although covered in shadows from the dusk drawing in, still reflect his anticipation. He takes his hat off, his hand drags his hair back, damp with sweat, darker than the usual lighter brown. Some of it still flops over into his face anyway. 

Your hands push at his shoulders weakly, whining as he dips down to kiss you, the warmth of his breath fanning over the roundness of your cheek, you can feel the scrape of his stubbly hair on your face, the dimple at the tip of his nose brush over you. 

“Arthur, please, I just- I wanna go home, you won, you got me,” he hums, running his tongue over your neck, his arms prop his body up over yours, keeping you warm in the cold chill. He covers you well enough, shields you from the winter with his frame, wide and heavyset. You can feel the rumble in him when he says ‘you’re damn right, I did,’.

The sky is a pretty shade of purple, a little like lavender. You look up, feeling his body tilt to one side, held up on his elbow, his other takes the opportunity to roam over your body. “We can go to our home, Arthur,” you try to pull at his desires, but he won’t have any of it. 

“Wanna see my prize first,” he says between puffs of air, his tongue pacing over the delicate skin of your neck. His hands tug your skirt upwards while you try and keep your legs closed. His hands grip the fat of your thigh, dipping under the dainty fabric of your stocking. Between his legs is the rather stiff press of him and his arousal. You don’t like how easy it is for your body to respond to just the notion of him taking you like this, like an animal.

His rough fingertips skim over the mark he left on you, the one your mother saw. 

“All you had to do was say you liked it. I know you did. You like everything I do,”

“I-No, I…I couldn’t-” You couldn't make it stop. Couldn't make your body stop reacting to him is what you want to say. But to say so would admit that some part of you liked what he did. You snap your mouth shut like a coin purse. You can’t bring yourself to say such a thing. Not that his ideas deserve to be validated. He gives you a knowing look which sends a tremor down your spine, your legs shifting nervously. 

“Quit your lying’, girl, you ain’t fooled me yet. Shouldn’t be ashamed, sugar; I might be a bastard but I ain’t the worst thing coulda happened to ya,”

“I’m not trying to…I told her not to say anything,” you whine and push again at his shoulders but he doesn’t budge. 

“Mhm, how come I don’t believe that for a second,”

Either way, he drops his mouth to your neck, sucks another painful mark just under your ear, the sensitive skin tingles with sensation, pulling pain from your nerves. You tilt your face away, you can’t get him to stop. You can hear the wetness of his tongue moistening your skin before he's sucking a deep red mark, which will be another bruise on your skin. You pull at his hair, but you’re held down just as easily while he nips away.

Your back arches, your skin tingles. A lewd whimper is all you have to offer, keening for him. The quiver inside you isn’t mindful at all. Pure reaction, pleasure rising to the surface. 

 He gives you more than one this time, leaving them at his leisure. He's ripping your blouse open next, so he can leave more on your breasts. The soft flesh is alight with nerves, rippling desire through you. 

“Think you’re starting to like it, angel,” you still your body, disconnected from its actions, which until then was moaning, clutching his shoulder for dear life. The tide of your emotions rises higher though, ice cold water crashing down on the pleasant warmth gathering on your lower belly.

Like you’ve stepped in front of a wagon train, the panic sets in, more than any other time before now. A shameful part of you; an awful desire that burns for Arthur somewhere inside of you, wants him to keep going. To make good on all of his promises. But it’s too difficult to indulge that part of you. The shock of what happened in your family’s home is too much. It drops on your head like an anvil or a blacksmith's hammer. You’re entirely too aware of how your father’s blood dripped over his own fingers. Your mother crumpled to the ground as she watched Arthur take you away. 

“I don’t-don’t want to do this right now, please,” It’s maybe the first time you cry at his insistence. And the first time you’ve been utterly clear about what you do and don’t want. In the most explicit terms possible. You feel the tears well up in your eyes. You cried like this when he first told you what he wanted. They drip down the sides of your face. You hadn’t been able to stop him on the first night. And after he made you all too aware of how things work between a man and a woman, you hadn’t tried to, overwhelmed with how good he was at dragging pleasure out of you. But now, it’s like the world has come closing in and there’s nothing that can stop it from swallowing you whole. Not after what he did, simply because your father thought to stop him from taking his only daughter away. 

Your breathing comes far too quick. Your head feels like it's full of air and it begins to hurt. The cold stings your finger tips. You have no regard as to what your face looks like, letting it bunch up in what is probably an unsightly expression of your reactive sobbing.

“Hey, hey, I-” He’s no longer using that husky tone with which he usually addresses you when he gets like this. It’s trying to be soothing but a certain panic underlines his words. You can see him take his hands off of you, as if he’s burning you with every touch. But he still keeps you underneath some of his weight, his mouth opens as if to say something else, furrowed brows 

“Get off…Get off me,” you push at his shoulders and at first he doesn't move an inch. When you don’t immediately feel his weight move from pinning you down, your sobbing becomes volatile. Struggling to breath through your tears and your desperate wails, you inhale faster but it still feels like it's not enough. Thrashing mindlessly at him, uncaring of his anger or his punishments, is what makes him ease off of you a little. 

“Woah, easy,” he tugs your skirt down, shielding you from the cold as much as he can without touching you but you can’t stop yourself from being consumed by the physical reaction your shock evokes from you, wrenched from you. Like a child and their toys infected with scarlet fever. 

His soothing does work a little, now that you know he’s stopping, that he’s covered your legs. You sniff and writhe, your fingers grip at his upper arms. You can finally blink through your tears to see his expression, worry clouded with something you’ve never quite seen. The pull of his mouth tugs towards a guilt he’s never shown you before. 

You’re starting to breathe way too much, all of the air makes you dizzy and the cold still burns your lungs but you don’t care, letting the pain ground you. Your arms wrap around yourself to cover your breasts, trying to fix your ruined shirt to no avail. The frustrated fumbling of your fingers has Arthur softening more, but his voice still intonates with his natural authority.

“Sweetheart, you need to slow down. Jus’ breathe, you’ll be alright,” his commanding voice controls you more than you thought it would. He sits back on his haunches, hoping the distance might do you some good, crowding you isn’t in his best interest. You gasp for air, sitting up a little with the space he’s afforded you.

Arthur comes closer to calm you when he notices you can’t seem to do it all on your own. He’s slow, shushing you, his hand pets your hair, down behind your ear, to the side of your neck. He keeps his eyes low, the warmth of his hand helps you a little, so does his own rhythmic breathing, slow and steady.

He doesn’t say much for a minute or two, a ‘that’s my girl,’ tingles your ear, warms you up. You sigh, trying to regulate your breathing, appreciating his help but still feeling frightened and confused. Especially when you consider that he is the source of all your troubles. Arthur is close enough so you feel body heat, his fingers brush your tears away. Sweet in this gentle moment. How could you stand to take comfort from a man who shot your father? Who could have missed, who could have killed him? As always, you doubt that you’re right in the head. Something must be broken within you.

It’s hardwired though. Arthur is all you have left now. The only one here with you.

He doesn’t seem excited in the same way he was before. The adrenaline from his chase dies in your blood, leaving behind the residue of stress, a headache forming. The pace of your heart does slow down now, the puff of the air in your lungs. He watches you with an odd expression. Glad that you’ve calmed down but still disappointed. Perhaps with you, having ruined his plan of taking you, of spreading your legs in the snow, burying himself inside of you. If things hadn’t gone so wrong today, you might have let him.

The thought makes more shameful tears drip down your face. Despite any calm summoned from you, you still feel the curl of disgrace, laying in your tattered shirt underneath this man, shrinking away from his stare.

“What's wrong? Did I hurt you?” You can at least appreciate that he is worried about you, even if he has no clue why. You can see a fear in his eyes that he tries to hide from you, a fear that he’s caused you real pain. At least you know now that if you had done more screaming and crying, he might have stopped that day. You didn't think him to be so thick as to not understand why you are as emotional in this moment as you are. 

“Arthur, no, no, I just- I don’t want- I want to go home…now,” You had wanted to come away from this moment, maybe just a bit touched at how he had helped you through your foolish hysterics. But as always, some part of Arthur balances it out. 

“Just tell me why you was cryin’. I know that ain’t all of it,” He narrows his eyes. Your jaw drops, unable to hide your outrage. Your anger, which you keep in check most of the time, pushes at the lid of the pot you stuff it in. Every single grain of it threatens to spill out. Your fingers scrunch, your face does too. 

“Shooting my father and then hunting me like an animal; pushing me in the dirt for- for your desires- that’s not enough?” You realize now that dusk is here and it’s colder in this dark valley than it was before. You move to stand, he’s upright before you and he does try to help but you refuse him. Unfortunately, your anger hasn’t been honed into a point sharp enough to cut. It’s only wet and girlish, it makes you cry and tremble, your throat thickens unpleasantly.

“You did what you wanted with me, like you always do. But my family… I never wanted-” You wobble onto your feet, closing his coat in front of your chest. You should never have indulged him. You should have bitten and chewed and snarled and spat until he left you alone. 

You aren't sure why you didn't. You suppose it felt nice to have a man notice you, to call you pretty. To want you in some way other than to just ignore or to leer at disgustingly like the lonely trappers at the trading post, even when they were friends of your father. How pathetic of you. 

Yet, nothing about what he did felt disgusting. It was the expectation on you as a woman to reserve these affections for marriage that lashed against the inside of your ribcage. That whispered that it was wrong; it was anything but the pure and gentle lessons you received as a girl. Opening your legs so willingly for a man because he called you pretty, called you all sorts of saccharine praises, was tearing away at you. You hadn't fought him harder and at first you thought it was because there was no point, that he was too strong anyway so why waste the energy? But now, you aren't so sure of that resolve. 

He was handsome in his own way and he didn’t seem like all the boys your mother told you to keep an eye on in case you should marry one day. Lanky and thin, sparse hairs on their chins which they stroked like great beards. He wasn’t a drunken fool or witless boy.

Arthur was a man. He acted like one, he smelled like one, looked like one. He wasn’t afraid to muck stalls, to cook. And he acted like you were married already, like you loved him and he loved you. Perhaps you liked the idea of having a man such as him, a man who didn’t need you to replace his mother’s duties, a man who wanted you to simply be with him. And those glittering moments where you played house with him, sat on his lap and let him kiss you. You could have stayed with him there forever, buried in the snow. You would have been happy if spring’s thaw never came. But now, he stands, with an almost resentful look at your accusatory tone.

Everything has dissolved into a coagulated mess, like spoiled milk. 

“I do what I want with you? The hell does that mean?” He’s more upset now, at the insinuating circumstances. 

“Arthur,” you recoil at the anger in his voice. You don’t even know what you meant particularly but Arthur fishes a meaning out from your words, even if you hadn’t put too much stock into your own words. 

“You’re sayin’ that I violated you, is that it?” his hands rest on his hips as he moves to keep staring you in the eye, you’ve never seen him like this before. Really angry. 

“I didn’t ask to do that with you, I told you to…” It’s like he can sense how noncommittal you are with your own sentiments. Your own certainty doesn't linger with you. As much as you would like it too. He sniffs it out like a bloodhound, throwing the truth in your face. 

“You know what I think? I think- fact, I know. You’re one of those gently reared girls, think they’re better than this, above any of this low down ruttin’ us sinners do. You can’t even say it, can you? All that we got up to. That’s called fuckin’ , sweetheart,” The word curls into his vicious smile. You’re scandalized, can feel how your hands pull his coat even tighter. You don’t think you’ve heard anyone talk like that to you. It’s a dirty word but you suppose that is what it felt like to be with him. Dirty. But that rush, you can’t deny that. The one that shoots up your spine when you remember how it made you feel. 

 “Can’t say you ain’t like it, can’t say you did; and I get it. Ain’t the first time I met a girl like you. But you can’t lie to me,” 

You ignore the hind-brain jealousy that pokes your mind. His words are truer than you want them to be. You said stop once or twice, although you can’t recall too well about things you said. Instead, you told him you belonged to him. You had meant to endear yourself to him. It worked far more than you wanted it to. 

Pretending like you didn’t want him to do what he did protected your own self important image as your father and mother preferred you, not how things really were. And now that you don’t have them anymore, what use was that image? You try to cling to the truth of your old life, crumbling to pieces around you. 

“It’s not just about that. I…I didn’t say yes…I thought you would hurt me, you told me you didn’t want me to fuss. When you told me I had to stay…” you stun him, he seems like he hardly remembers doing that. In that low voice, his startling command. It scared you to the bone then, but it did shake something awake. You had never felt so wanted in your life as that day. Both of you are some type of wrong, you think. Maybe he recognized the same kind of wrong in you.

Carefully, he mulls over what you said. It affects him, you can see how that same guilt settles in the creases of his face. It roots around his eyes, the harsh lines soften. How his boots scuff against the ground. One of his hands scratches at his beard. But all too soon, it’s gone and a resolve hardens on his face, like he’s dashed the guilt away. Made room for something else. 

“Am I just supposed to believe you was lyin’ when you said you liked it? I don’t make you talk, darlin’. You might be pretty as a doll,” He looks over your features, over your hair and your pouting lip. “But you ain’t no string puppet. Wouldn’t hurt you, honey, not like that, not how you’re meanin’. It’d do you some good to remember that ain’t true ‘bout most anybody else,” He lets his body naturally intimidate yours, looking down his nose at you.

You don’t know how he can have such a prideful stare. Like he knows he’s right. He pushes the memory of your father, kneeling and gripping his wound to the front of your mind. 

“You didn’t have to shoot him. Heaven forbid my father from trying to protect me from you. Wouldn’t be the first time a father tried to keep his daughter from marrying you. Arthur, why exactly is it your first instinct to go waving a gun around when something goes wrong? I don’t understand what drives someone to do the things you do,” He chuckles darkly, as if you told a morose joke at a funeral. He does let a quiet frustration come over him, a glare gets leveled at you. But he holds himself tightly in his own restraint. Your retaliation against him; he treats it as a minor slight. You cross your arms while he brushes it off. All too good at letting insults slide off his back.

“That makes the two of us. I ain’t been a good man most my life and I ain’t sure I’ll ever be any good at it. I try to be good to you, I do, but maybe it ain’t enough. That’s just fine with me,” He steps closer to you, sensing your shock at his words. He’s back to that prowling wolf from before. His demeanor changes on a dime. He bends at the waist to grab his gloves and hat, dusting the bottom of the brim casually against his coat before placing it back on his head. His gloves are shoved haphazardly in his pocket. “I don’t know if I need that from you, some fairytale love story, where your Pa hands you over to me and I bring you up to the altar dressed like a government boy,” You’re almost afraid of him, how he carries himself. There's a dread hanging in the air around him, a foreboding poke in the back of your head. 

“Used to be an outlaw, around New Austin, Heartlands, all over…” you look at the cold look in his eyes. Colder than the snow that dusts the ground. Frozen stiff like a corpse, but you tremble anyway. He shifts his legs, widening his stance and placing one hand on his belt, next to the shiny revolver. “I’ve killed people, robbed them, or both…done things I wasn’t always proud of. I ain’t too proud of what I done with you neither. Tellin’ you that is…just about as good as bein’ married. Can’t let ya go wanderin’ off knowin’ the truth, now,” Arthur raises his arms in something like a shrug. The nonchalant air about him has that wet anger rising in your throat again.

“You ain’t goin’ back home. Least the home you had. Me puttin’ a bullet in your Pa don’t change that. I’d advise you to make your peace with the fact. I keep havin’ to tell you. I hate repeatin’ myself,” You continue to stare, eyes wide with the realization of his truth. An outlaw. You must be the most unfortunate girl in the state. To walk into the home of a killer. Your thoughts trail back to how he disposed of the body of the man who had tried to rob you. The cold and careless manner of dealing with death was telling then. It screams at you now.

“I-I’m not some belonging for you to collect, for you to hang on your wall. To put up on top of your fireplace, Arthur,”

“No, you’re much more than that,” You aren’t completely sure of his meaning. But it’s something that entails you being with him how he wills it. No better than being chained to his bed, really. He nears you and you do take a wary step backward, a little afraid of the neutrality on his features. He schools his reactions, tells you of his past with no remorse. 

“If you care for me, care for me at all, wouldn’t you- wouldn't you let me go?” you ask but you know his answer, when he finally closes in on you, drags one finger down the curve, the roundness of your cheek. His thumb rests on your lips, his other fingers curl around to almost the nape of your neck. His hand makes you feel entirely too small in his hold. Guides you to look up at him, as your fingers clutch the fur of his coat tightly around you. 

“See, that’s the problem right there,” he has a strange twist to his voice, a light lilt while he smirks down at you, the darkness dipping the shadows across his face into an even darker tone. “I care about you too much. Maybe it ain’t right, can’t say I give a damn either way,” the fragility of this moment isn’t broken until he puts a kiss on your lips that’s a thousand times lighter than the precarious air of this conversation. But you should have known being so restrained isn’t permanent with Arthur. 

A strong hand closes on your hip, drags you into the front of him. His breath quickens, it flatters you how much he likes you so near to him. Your hip aches pleasantly as he squeezes it. Your heart swells, you wish you could will yourself into rejecting him.

“Tell me you don’t want me, honey. Tell me to leave you alone…” You’re stiff as an iron rod when he pulls you to him. You brace yourself on him, hands compelled naturally to lay flat on his chest. Something about the full form of his body is so pleasing to you, the breadth of him against you. The warmth you feel and the strength lying in wait. The smell of him, leather and hide, tobacco and mint. It closes you in. You open your mouth to say something. Anything. 

“Arthur, that’s not fair,” you whine. Your anger might have caused you to lash out at him for once. But you’re back to the docile thing he liked to chase around, too occupied with his body so close to yours to realize that you’ve dropped all pretense of that strong front, that you haven’t answered his question. You wish you could continue being the kind of person who could tell someone like Arthur what he's asking. Strong willed, not so swayed. But you’re moved in the opposite direction by whatever is inside of you, some deep buried want of yours. And the constant tone of knowing that he’s bigger and stronger than you. It’s always there, rain pattering on the roof in autumn. He had no trouble chasing after you like this, in the encroaching dusk. It was more a game than any real challenge.

“Just say it, you keep tryin’ to, don’t ya?” you look away. Why can’t you say it? When he’s inviting you to rebuff him. You look up at him. A knot gets tangled in your insides. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. What is wrong with you?

“You can’t cause you don’t mean it, not when this little pussy gets wet when I touch you, when you kiss me back. You don’t remember when you was touchin’ all over me? Those kisses you put on me?” he teases you, a more smug exhale is what you get. The night weighs on your shoulders like a heavy blanket and so does his reality check. He has a sigh and a faint groan, as if thinking of all that you’ve done with him in the privacy of his home. 

You think to defy him, to spite his words but you can’t when he gives you another kiss. The dryness he licks away. This one is a wet sloppy mess, it doesn’t last long but he’s as right as he knew he was, you melt into it, grab onto him, tilt so he can kiss you deeper. His teeth nip at your soft lips, his tongue rubs over yours. A warm shame fills your belly and crawls up your face. You can’t bring yourself to hate his stupid smug lovesick look, the way he rubs the scar on his chin as he pulls away.

“You like me, don’t you, sweetheart?” He’s mocking you now, he knows the answer just as well as you do but he likes to feel like he’s wrenching it out of you. He’s caught you and he’s holding you up by the ears while you dangle uselessly; a rabbit caught in the hunt. You stare up at him, caught in his pretty blue eyes, the little nicked scar on his nose bridge. You have a very reluctant almost imperceptible nod. Despite the raging heat in you at such an admittance. You like the man who locked you in his home, who wants you to marry him while hardly knowing him, who used to be an outlaw. 

“Even after I shot your daddy? You’re somethin’ else, girl,” he revels in your reaction but with his own version of pity, an endeared expression at your warbling chin and heavy sniff.

A bad feeling curdles in your belly, you bite your lip. You shouldn’t do this. How could you ever do this to your family? Turn your back on them like this? But you didn’t see another choice. Tears bead on your lash line. He has to rub his inevitable victory in your face. You don’t know how you’re going to continue. How you can even stand the sight of Arthur: of yourself. Now that he’s twisted everything out of shape to suit his needs. You should spit on him. Curse him until he gets struck down by the powers that be. 

But you don’t. You aren't sure there’s any end to that. You hope to never repeat this cycle again. Where you try to pull against his control and he overpowers, strong-arming you into doing as he pleases. He gathers your tears, brushes them away. Rough calluses over the little sensory hairs on your skin. 

“C’mon, sweet thing, it’s time you get what ya want, huh? Time to go home.” 

UGH this arthur gets on my fucking nerves but i am so weak for him i hate his corny ass. god dark arthur is just too much for me lmaooo feedback is more than appreciated, please let me know your thoughts im begging wahhhhh

[hikamancer]

A Perspective on Arthur, Dutch and Hosea

As the game progresses, there are a lot of ways Arthur becomes more and more similar to Hosea, most especially in chapter 6. Much like Hosea, Arthur questions and confronts Dutch on behalf of the well being of the other gang members. Like Hosea, he feels and expresses remorse for the decisions he's made in life and regrets that he has little time to change things and make them right. All throughout chapters 1-4, you can hear Hosea having heavy bouts of coughing, and it's implied that, like Arthur, he's dying of an illness. Hell, Arthur even looks kinda like Hosea when he was younger.

But perhaps the clearest example of their similarities is when Dutch outright says it during this conversation in chapter 5.

"You sound like Hosea. I miss... him."

What stands out to me about this line and its delivery is how dismissive it feels. When Dutch hears Arthur expressing concern about the rest of the gang, reminding him of the potential of costing more lives with his recklessness, he doesn't fully hear it as Arthur speaking. He hears Hosea's words, and it strikes grief in him, but he doesn't respond to what Arthur is saying.

I think that to Dutch, Hosea and Arthur always had their specific places/roles at his side. Dutch and Hosea co-founded the gang, united by a common dream. They'd been close friends for 20 years, and Hosea was always there as his consultant. He respected Hosea perhaps the most out of anyone in the gang, and he was one of the few people who he'd actually listen to and seek advice from.

On the other hand, Arthur is the boy whom he and Hosea raised. They brought him up into their life of crime, teaching him, instilling their values into him, and he became their protégé and the gang's lead enforcer. That's the way it was for Dutch. He was the leader, Hosea was the right hand and the brains, Arthur was the left hand and the brawn. And he loved and relied on them both for what they were. But while his love for Hosea was one born out of a more genuine respect of equals, his love for Arthur came with taking him very much for granted. Like a loyal guard dog.

But now Hosea is gone, and Dutch has lost the only voice that kept him in check. The disastrous Saint Denis bank heist and Guarma have left Dutch completely disarmed, but instead of actually reflecting on the deaths he's responsible for, and recognizing what's at stake for the rest of the gang, he instead scrambles to reassert himself and continue trying to "win the chess game" so to speak ("Maybe life ain't such a thing to cling onto so tightly").

(It's worth noting that the chess moves Dutch recites before intiating this conversation is an actual maneuever called "the Dutch Defense," where you sacrifice all your pieces to win.)

But Arthur has started to see things beyond just Dutch and his game, especially after his TB diagnosis. Though Arthur, at his heart, remains loyal to Dutch, he was also loyal to Hosea and, consciously or not, espoused himself to Hosea's ideals of prioritizing the safety and morality of the gang ("I guess I'm more interested in saving lives than winning at chess").

Dutch, however, does not properly recognize Arthur's shift in perspective. Throughout chapter 6, he views Arthur's many attempts at saving those around him as acts of disloyalty and betrayal. Because Arthur's role has not changed in his mind at all. Arthur is still meant to be his muscle, his workhorse, to have his back, because that's what he relies on him for. But Arthur is speaking and acting on ideas above that station. "You sound like Hosea." And so he dismisses Arthur's concerns, dismisses his actions as disloyalty. And it hurts him. All he can see is Arthur changing and turning on him, and that breaks his heart. And he responds to these feelings by detaching himself from Arthur, lashing out at him in anger and disappointment, clinging ever tighter to his own interests and leaning on Micah, a blatant yesman to all of his reckless actions.

It's not until the very end that Dutch is able to realize those feelings. When Arthur, beaten and dying, is lying at his feet. Warning him of Micah, telling him how he gave him all he had, that he tried so hard to save everyone and was still trying to save Dutch. This boy that he raised, that he loved for 20 years, gave him everything. And Dutch did nothing but take advantage of him until it was too late.

I think in that moment, not only did he see Arthur dying, he finally saw Hosea dying in front of him as well. Only then, once everything else had fallen apart, did he realize how much he loved Arthur, how much he loved Hosea, how much they and everyone else who died loved him, and that it was all his fault. And being confronted with that reality, seeing it in the fading of Arthur's eyes, hearing it in his last breaths, was too much for him to bear.

So he just walks away.

[meo-eiru]

Eden.

A garden that has been long untouched by the spoils of man, a paradise. Yet for Eden himself, there was little serenity to be found in the name his father had bestowed upon him. The Eden of the scriptures was a place where man first tasted the sweetness of sin.

As a child, Eden had looked up to his father with awe, the way an astronomer might admire a distant star—brilliant, untouchable, but that was long before he had long come to understand his father.

He was devoted husband and by devoted— he meant in a constricting way. His love suffocated as much as it sheltered.

Micah had built a fortress around his mother. The doors to the outside world were closed to her, and any desire she voiced for freedom was swiftly quelled with reminders of how dangerous, how unpredictable, how cruel… the world will be. He made her believe that all she needed— no, all she could ever want—was within inside the home of his making. And if she ever dared to question, Micah would respond with a subtle open-eyed smile, a look that chilled Eden to his core. His father’s eyes, blank and empty, seemed to say more than words ever could

Eden once believed his father loved him—in his own peculiar way. But that love was less about Eden himself and more about what he represented: the product of Micah’s “love” for his mother. He didn’t look at Eden the way other fathers looked at their sons. There was no warmth in his gaze, no pride. When Micah looked at his son, it was with the same detached curiosity one might show a stray dog that had wandered too close to home. There was affection, yes, but it was distant, cold, the way a man might feel for a possession that had outlived its use.

There were only so many places Eden was allowed to go. The house, of course, and the garden, which Micah maintained with an almost religiously. Sometimes, if his father was feeling particularly generous, he would be allowed to play with the neighborhood children. But those moments of freedom were rare, and Eden quickly learned not to ask for them too often.

But this more than his mother was granted. She, poor creature, was kept within the house at all times, a bird in a cage. Micah’s treatment of her was peculiar, to say the least, but it was the only life Eden had ever known, and so he accepted it as normal. He did not question the way his father controlled her every movement, her every thought. Eden knew no different. It was the way of things, after all. Is that not what love is—binding and strong?

Micah was determined that Eden be well-educated. School was out of the question, of course— his father had his reasons. “Why would you need to go anywhere else,” he would say, “when I can teach you everything you need to know myself?”

And so Eden was taught in languages, in numbers, in the sciences and histories, all under his father. Micah ensured that Eden was always immaculate, every hair in place, every thought controlled. It was he was to be an extension of Micah himself, a mirror in which his father might see his own reflection.

Weird.

That’s what the other children called him, when Micah allowed him to play with them.

But what did they know of it? What did any of them know of him, and the empty love that held him fast? They knew nothing, and so they called him weird. And perhaps, in their ignorance, they were right.

AAAAAAAAAAA IT'S SO GOOD AGAIN I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!

You're soooo good at writing Micah I love reading these so much. AND I LOVE EDEN!! Lowkey wanna make him canon at one point now

[nthspecialll]

If there is one character that I am proud of it is Oville Swanson. A lot of people don't like him because he is loud and doesn't at the first glance a lot to the story, however there is much more to him.

I am not a religious person at all, however his relationship with religion breaks and warms my heart at the same time. He grew up knowing he what he wanted to be, he wanted to serve god, he wanted to do good, but he lost himself instead, starting drinking, doing morphine and in the end, fell in sinful love. He fell in love with a married woman, when she fled he was alone and he was so broken that he "just added bigamy to the list of sins he had already commited."

It didn't mean anything to him, he was so lost that he didn't care, yet he still clung onto his religion. In chapter one, the one time he doesn't have access to alcohol, we hear him quoting the bible, reading up from it, even though it mostly sounds like he is trying to convince myself to believe it.

Then in chapter two we see the complete loss he has suffered as he is constantly high or drunk and we can also find his bible hollowed out with morphine hidden in it. Meaning at some point between chapter one and two he was willing to sacrifice something with so much meaning to him for morphine.

He continues to suffer, and suffer, and get worse, we can even see an interaction between Micah, Grimshaw and Swanson where Micah kicks Swanson and he doesn't do anything, he lets himself get kicked as he sits quietly on the ground. Grimshaw stands up for him though, says he is ill and takes care of him.

We also hear him say "I am sorry, I wish I was different" to Morgan and appologizing to Dutch for taking up space and relapsing. In the mission with Morgan he also says "home, yes, I can go have tea with Margrete" (the married woman) in a really dreamy voice before blacking out. I don't imagine it is fun to have to go over the loss of your lost one over and over because the drugs you use to numb yourself sometimes makes you forget your lover died and you think you can go home to them.

It is first somewhere around chapter four and five that he finds himself again, finds his religion and gets himself together, I imagine that the church in Saint Denis helped as well as the sudden need for someone to step up and take over the other boy's shoes when they were in Guarma helped. I imagine that he had a similar talk with the sisters and brothers of Saint Denis as Arthur did. I imagine he felt ashamed, seeing his brothers and sisters and having to explain to them how far he had fallen.

Even after the loss of his family, his home, practically everything, he sticks to his religion, this time it isn't a burden, this time it is a rock to support himself against and from 1899 and forwards he uses his experience with the Vanderlinde gang as a way to reflect and bond with others who thinks they are too far away from salvation.

His experience, his life, his salvation, was so moving that he was offered a posision as the head of the church in new york and for that I am so happy for him and so proud.