#-gangs n shit and attack things for the hell of it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

grogwrites · 7 months ago

Text

Stranger - O.P. 81

Part Three - Final Part

part one • part two • part three

Summary: When someone returns to Oscar’s life after years apart, he has a hard time finding common ground with her to reconcile the feud between them. That is, until she signs on as a driver for the upcoming F1 season. Then he can’t seem to get her out of his mind.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Female OC

CW: Dual POV series. Please take my warnings seriously before continuing on. This series is not for everyone, as consistent depictions of mental health struggles are conveyed in the writing, primarily PTSD and loss of a loved one. angst (shocker), swearing, depictions of PTSD, mentions of death and car crashes, crying/anxiety attacks, Lando’s a twat at first, slight suggestive content, some making out, FINALLY SOME FLUFF (only took us three parts to get there, right gang?)

A/N: THE FINAL PART! 🥹🩵 thank you all for the love you’ve shown to Claire and Oscar. I may do a little epilogue part if it has enough interest shown towards it. I’ve loved writing this, though, and I hope you all have loved it as well 🫶🏻

Word Count: 3.5k

* DISCLAIMER: I do not know any of the people in this fanfiction personally, these are all just the works of my imagination.

She didn’t necessarily remember how the argument started, but she was surprised how quickly things escalated. Fire and ice. Claire absolutely hated how Oscar clocked her shit like that. Then again, he always seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

She stared back at Lando—the image was like a stand off: the two of them on either side of his living room, trying to think of the next word or phrase to leave their mouths. Her dad’s voice was echoing through her head as she tried to calm herself down before her anger managed to boil over. Breathe, Claire. Breathe.

“You used me,” He finally accused, taking a few steps closer. His voice was quiet, calculated. She countered his movement by backing herself into the wall, distancing herself from him.

“We used each other,” she barked in response. “You know we did. We agreed to keep things surface level, so you can’t come at me and—“

“No, because I can,” he dug his phone out of his pocket, before flashing her a text conversation between himself and Edith. So much for being friends. Claire was about at the point of shutting everyone out again, just like she did in Seoul. She could almost laugh at how Edith was so quick to backstab her in such a manner. Claire had done nothing but stick up for her, and here she was now: throwing Claire under the bus for the opportunity to suck Lando’s dick. “She said you research your competition—you find their weakness so you can try to drag them down.”

“I do,” Claire retorted as she quickly met his gaze. It was slightly a lie, but she was too pissed at him to try and correct the accusation. Her chest was burning up with anger. “It’s a damn good strategy, too. I do what I can to win.”

“You haven’t even started in F1 yet,” Lando scoffed as he put his phone away. “What do you know about winning?”

Lando was talking about racing, she knew that. But yet…his words seemed to cut deeper inside of her—winning. She felt her shoulders slump. Sure, she was one hell of a race car driver, but in other aspects of her life, she failed. She failed with Oscar…she failed with keeping her dad alive…she failed with maintaining relationships, platonic or romantic. And now here she was, failing at her own fucking strategy that has helped her win over the course of her life. She wasn’t a winner—she was quite the opposite. But racing? That was the only thing she seemed to get right—the only thing she was confident in…or used to be, anyways. Driving used to be muscle memory to her. Her dad made her into a machine on the track, so she was going to make sure she did anything to continue to make him proud—to try and erase what happened the day they got into the crash.

It was all why she started looking into the weaknesses of her competition, anyways—why she made it her go-to racing strategy. One mistake, and things could turn fatal. If she could pinpoint someone’s flaw on track and avoid it at all costs, then she would be safe. She didn’t notice the other driver hydroplaning when she crashed into them…when she ultimately killed her dad. She met Lando’s gaze again as the fire in her chest continued to scorch and disintegrate any possible bit of calm she had left.

“I don’t need to prove myself to you,” she sneered at the Brit, gritting her teeth as she spoke. She took a few steps closer to him, gaining her confidence again with each step. “You choke under pressure. You lack confidence in your driving. Just because you’ve won a race, doesn’t mean you know anything about winning, either.” Lando’s next words drove the pre-existing stake in her heart in even deeper.

“Go to hell.”

She pushed past him, leaving his apartment before anymore words could be spewed between them. She knew her decision to sleep with him was reckless, and all she’s done since leaving Melbourne was seemingly ruin her own life. The tears ran rapidly down her face as she fumbled with her keys to get into her apartment. She couldn’t even bring herself to be mad at Lando as much as she wanted to, because she was the one who brought this onto herself. As Claire shut her front door, she pressed her back to it and slid down to the floor.

The feeling was overwhelming—like everything was crashing into her at once: all the way back from when her dad died, leading up until now. Every decision she had ever made, every bridge she had burned to get to where she was…and for the first time in a long time, she felt regret. She regretted the life she built for herself, and she regretted the person she turned herself into. Claire regretted pushing Oscar away, moving to Monaco, sleeping with Lando…everything was a deep rooted seed of regret. She had spent all these years building a guard around her heart, when it only seemed to make everything worse than it already was.

The only person she wanted to talk to right now was Oscar, but she wasn’t sure if they were in that threshold again in their relationship. The reconciliation at the club the other night was definitely a stepping stone, but hardly a big enough step to validate visiting him at three in the morning. Would he push her away? Would he even answer his door? Claire was wagering to guess that he might be mad—he used to be a bit of a grouch when they were kids if someone woke him up. On the other hand, however, circumstances have changed between them. For better or for worse, she wasn’t entirely sure.

Claire played with the hem of her t-shirt as she gambled with the idea of going to see him. Her tears had slowed, and her demeanor was calmer. If she had any shot of regaining control of her life and mending the mistakes she made, then there couldn’t be any harm in trying to see him—she had to at least try. She inhaled deeply before pushing herself to her feet, and leaving her apartment once more.

Claire was the last person Oscar was expecting at his door this late at night. It was a miracle he even woke up when she knocked, but perhaps the universe was working overtime at bringing their lives back together. Ever since he saw her at the club two nights ago, he’s felt…strange. He couldn’t decide if he was excited to potentially have her back, or weary. As he looked back at her now, he noticed how red her eyes were…how puffy her cheeks were.

“You answered,” she observed, equally as surprised as Oscar felt. He smiled sleepily towards her, then leaned against the doorframe. “I’m sorry it’s so late.”

“Don’t be,” he responded groggily. “Is everything okay?” Her arms were around him in a matter of seconds, further catching him off guard. When he felt her sporadic breathing against his chest, he realized she was definitely not okay. He wrapped his arms around her in return, holding her close. He closed his eyes as she nuzzled her face into his chest. His chin rested on the top of her head, as he sat in silence, letting her work through whatever had just happened.

“Lando and I ended things,” she managed to say between sobs.

Oscar wasn’t exactly expecting the news to hit him as hard as it did. Was he…happy? He felt a bit like an ass at feeling relieved when she said it—he cared about Claire and Lando both so much. But this was Claire—his Claire. He pulled away from the embrace, then used his hands to wipe away her tears.

“I’m really sorry,” he said softly. “You want to come in?” Claire nodded lazily, and Oscar wasted no time helping her into the small confines of his apartment.

He was silently grateful he cleaned today. He hung up a few family photos around the place, trying to decorate it more so it felt more like a home. Oscar enjoyed feeling comfortable in his environment, and now that he was living away from Melbourne, he wanted the place to feel as warm and welcoming as possible. He watched Claire take in everything, when her eyes landed on one picture in particular: the first Piastri Christmas that her and Simon came to.

“Oh my god,” her voice was barely a whisper. She brought her hand up to the photo, slowly tracing the image as if to instill it into her memory. Oscar’s heart ached for her. Claire had told him at the club how broken she felt, but now was the first time he could really see it. She didn’t look well. Her already fair skin was even more pale than usual, and her eyes were void of any kind of life. “Things were so…different.” She looked back at him with a hint of a smile playing on her somber expression. Oscar smiled softly in return, making his way over to her.

“I never threw away any pictures,” he admitted sheepishly as he faced the photo with her. He chuckled softly at the sight of her puffy, red Christmas dress she wore in it. They were holding the remote control cars, each grinning ear to ear. Things were so simple back then. “I still have the cars, you know.” He heard a small gasp from Claire before he turned his attention down to her. She looked up at him in return.

“No way,” she responded. “God, those were so fun.” Oscar shifted his weight slightly, feeling his curiosity get the better of him. He wondered what happened between her and Lando—just a few days ago, Lando was talking about how well things were going.

“Um,” he cleared his throat. “Do you…want to talk about what happened?”

“With Lando?” She asked. He nodded. He watched as she drew in a deep breath, thinking of what to say. “Um, Oscar, I haven’t become the best person since I moved. I want to start by saying that—“

“I don’t care,” Oscar quickly interjected, trying to reassure her. “I can promise you, nothing you say will make me hate you again. You can’t get rid of me again that easily.”

“I was using Lando,” she stated simply. “After the accident I, um, developed this sort of plan…I wanted to know every other driver’s flaw or weakness while they drove so that—“

“—you could anticipate it before it happened?” Oscar finished for her, now picking up on where she was leading with this. She had talked about the accident only briefly with him, but he didn’t know much detail. He didn’t need to, really, to put the pieces together.

She was driving the car the day they crashed. Someone driving in the lane next to them hydroplaned on the water in the road, and crashed into them—killing Simon on impact. He knew Claire well enough to know that she started implementing this ‘plan’ because she blamed herself for the accident—she probably was trying to avoid any other potential accident as to if try and reverse what happened that day. But that was the fucked up thing in life—you couldn’t change the past.

“I knew Lando was self conscious,” she continued, clearly shifting uncomfortably under Oscar’s gaze. “I figured if I slept with him, I could find how, exactly, that interfered with his driving. He chokes under pressure…he tends to bomb his race starts if he is near the front of the grid. He lacks confidence.” Oscar couldn’t help but raise his eyes in surprise at how much she knew about Lando. It was spot on, too.

“Claire,” he started gently, “the accident wasn’t your fault.”

“It could’ve been prevented if I noticed the guy swerving,” she argued, as if she could change Oscar’s mind. He knew she was trying to paint herself as a villain, but he saw her as anything but. He just saw her for what she was—broken.

“You wouldn’t have noticed him, Bear,” he whispered as he took both of her hands in his. “The rain was coming down too fast and too hard. It made it hard to see anything in those conditions.” He knew she heard truth in his words as she shifted her weight, leaning towards him ever so slightly. Her head bowed, as she looked down at her feet.

“I miss him so much, Osc.”

He missed Simon, too. More than words could ever express. Hearing the exhausted desperation in her voice could’ve been equivalent to getting punched, Oscar thought.

“I miss him, too,” he used one of his hands to lightly grab her chin, and guide her to look at him again. Her eyes were misty, still. “Bear, you can’t change the past. You can’t continue to worry about the things out of your control. The most you can do is look towards the future—and how proud Simon would be to see you racing in Formula 1.”

He wasn’t exactly expecting her to kiss him, but when her lips collided against his, he was quick to melt into her touch. He could feel her tears as they rolled off of her cheeks, and on to his hand. It felt like fireworks in his stomach, as a warm, low buzz echoed through this body. Claire. He was kissing Claire. A small hum sounded in his throat, as he instinctively pulled her closer to him—his hands landing on her waist. She grabbed ahold of his t-shirt, sending a swarm of butterflies through his chest.

Oscar swiftly lifted her, as she instinctively wrapped her legs around his torso. Both of them refused to break the kiss, as he stumbled his way through the living area before laying her on the couch. With each breath of air, the kiss deepened as though they were trying to make up for lost time. Oscar’s hands eagerly wandered her body, trying helplessly to memorize every curve. His mind whispered her name repeatedly like a song he couldn’t get out of his head. Claire. His Claire. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she moaned softly against his lips. It was enough for his legs to give out under him. She was intoxicating—she was addictive. He never wanted to let her go—he couldn’t make that mistake again.

“I love you,” she whispered into the kiss. Oscar pulled away momentarily, allowing the depth of the words to fall between them. As he stared down at her, all twelve years of their relationship seemed to flood over him. Love. His heart swelled as the word—the feeling—dripped upon him like a profound epiphany.

“I love you, too,” he finally said. “I love you so much, Bear.”

7 MONTHS LATER - Melbourne, Australia

Stolen glances were what Oscar thrived on. Each time he caught Claire staring at him in the paddock, he swore his breath caught in his throat. They’d each smile, maybe laugh a little, then continue on with their commitments. He felt like a damn teenager again; it was pathetic. After the summer break ended, they had made it a point to text and call constantly. But being here—the first race of the season—it felt…different. Lando, however, seemingly caught on quickly to their behavior. Unbeknownst to Oscar, he had been watching them intently since Claire and him ended things. Oscar tried to care; he really did. But all Oscar could think about was the next time he got to hold her—the next time he got to kiss her.

“Claire is a better driver than I thought,” Lando grumbled in the McLaren trailer after Qualifying finished. Claire managed to take the shitty Alpine car to an impressive finish in P5. Oscar could hardly control the smile on his face when he found out. Right now, though, he was biting the insides of his cheeks. He didn’t want to piss Lando off even more—especially considering he finished below Claire.

“Yeah, she’s decent,” he managed. Oscar shook his helmet hair out, then ran a hand through it. “Tomorrow should be an interesting first race.”

Lando was quiet, presumably thinking about what to say to Oscar next. It had been like this since the weekend started, and Oscar knew it was because of Claire. He knew they needed to hash it out, but neither of them really knew where to start with the conversation. Lando had begun suspecting that they already knew each other since that first day in Monaco, so when their late night rendezvous officially ended and Oscar began taking more suspicious phone calls, it basically confirmed it for him.

“Oscar?” The Brit turned, leaning against the table that they were standing next to. “We’re, um…we’re friends, yeah?” Oscar glanced at Lando to find him staring back at him intently.

“Yeah, of course,” Oscar reassured him quickly. He wanted to be honest with Lando, but he just hadn’t found the right opportunity to bring it up yet. If he could clear the air, he’d feel so much better. He didn’t like lying, especially to people he cared about. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, um,” Lando sighed. “Is there something going on between you and Claire? Like, romantically?”

“Yes,” Oscar wasted no time. He wanted the tension between them to leave, so he didn’t think beating around the bush would serve either of them any good. “Um, it kind of started unexpectedly. I just didn’t know how to tell you—“

“She’s using you,” Lando quickly interrupted. “She does that, mate. Her friend told me that she researched her competition and—“

“I know,” Oscar now cut Lando off, not wanting to hear him talk about it. It was a complicated situation that Lando didn’t understand, and didn’t need to know the details of, quite frankly. Claire’s trauma wasn’t his business to share or to hash out. “I mean, not about her using me—but I know she researches drivers.”

“You don’t care?” Lando scoffed, as a smile of pure disbelief took over his expression.

“Lando, I’ve known Claire for twelve years,” Oscar explained, keeping his tone calm as to not escalate the situation. There were still camera crews around, and he definitely didn’t need this plastered across Netflix or Sky Sports. “She…does that because of some trauma she’s got. It’s complicated—“

“So, not only are you dating my ex,” Lando’s tone was wavering on the edge of anger and pure mania, “but you lied to me about knowing her?”

“I know how that looks,” Oscar carded a hand through his hair, quickly growing flustered. He hated the attention—he hated confrontation. “But I honestly wasn’t on speaking terms with her that first day. We hated each other back then.”

“And now you’re here, excusing her actions because of some bullshit excuse—“

“Hey,” Oscar surprised himself at the sudden shortness to his voice, but he couldn’t sit here and let Lando continue to drag Claire through the mud without knowing the full story. “I’m not excusing her actions. Regardless of what she went through, she shouldn’t have done it. But you can’t diminish someone’s trauma just because you don’t know or understand what they went through.”

“Okay, so help me understand,” Lando argued, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Help me understand what exactly happened to turn her into a bitch?” Before Oscar could act on his anger, Claire’s familiar, gentle voice rang from behind the two drivers.

“My dad died.”

The two boys turned, watching as she slowly made her way over to them. She was still wearing her Alpine team kit, with her hair tied back in a ponytail. Loose strands of hair hung around her face from wearing her helmet earlier that day.

“I was driving us to visit my mom’s grave,” she continued to explain. Her voice was calm, collected—it perfectly evened out Lando’s aggressive demeanor. “It was raining. The road was ponding. I didn’t see the car next to us hydroplane and swerve. It hit us, and my dad died on impact.” In Oscar’s peripheral vision, he saw Lando’s jaw clench. He knew that he felt sorry for her, but his pride wasn’t allowing him to cave and apologize. Claire extended her hand towards Lando, as if to offer an olive branch of sorts.

“I’m sorry for what I did to you,” she smiled weakly. “I’m sorry for the things I said. I do think you’re a rather good driver—I just wish you could see it for yourself.” Finally, Lando took her hand in his—accepting the apology.

“I’m sorry, too,” he mumbled, as a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I’m sorry about your dad.” Claire dropped Lando’s hand, then shrugged.

“It’s in the past,” her gaze flickered to Oscar, causing his heart to skip a beat. “It’s time I focus on the future.”

* None of my writing is available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated.

©️ grogwrites, 2024

Taglist:

@leclercdream @martygraciesversion381 @henna006 @fortunapre @urlocalcemetery

#f1 #f1 fanfic #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 x oc #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #oscar piastri x oc #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri #op81 fic #op81 #mclaren formula 1

62 notes · View notes

fallenprophets · 6 months ago

Text

How can I make it OK?

Arthur Morgan x reader

PART 1 🌀 PART 2

Summary : you're homesick.

gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, not explicitly romantic unless you wanna read it that way, 3K words

Warnings : swearing, mentions of suicide, panic attack described in semi detail, not the jolliest thing i've ever written

A/N : first post that's actually writing in 2025 ! wrote most of this on the train while listening to house in nebraska by ethel cain and more than this by wolf alice so yeah. also this isn't arthur heavy in the sense that it's reader rambling about being homesick mostly. to be read in a southern accent as god intended

Of all the places I have travelled with the Van Der Linde gang, I think this is my least favourite.

Living- or rather, camping- in the ruins of some plantation, bodies of the former owners stagnating in the pond. Sometimes I hear ‘em- the ghosts, in the walls, screamin’. I know it’s my mind, playing tricks on me; but it’s harder to have that rational thought when you’re lying alone in the middle of the night, wind whistling through broken windows. It’s not that I don’t like having a roof over my head. Shit, everyone in this godforsaken gang is happy to have a real shelter from the weather, even one as flimsy as this house. So I shut my mouth, hunt as I’m expected-which is what I am doing now, borrowed bow over my shoulder, quiver resting comfortingly between my shoulder blades.

Hunting is familiar. Back in the Grizzlies, where my daddy raised me, we’d go out any time of day, in any weather, hunt for the coming storms. I’d do everything the way he taught me to- lay out traps, wait behind a boulder, bow in hand. It builds patience, he told me when I asked why the hell we didn’t just track the damn animal, instead of waitin’ in the cold for it to find us.

Now, it’s not cold, and dear old daddy ain’t here to help.

I left my horse hitched by a lake, with enough grass for him to be fed and well until I bring back something worthy of Pearson. It’s near sunrise; already, the heat is uncomfortable; my skin is sticky, my clothes uncomfortable. It’s moments like these that I long for the snow.

I wipe my forehead with the back of my head. I’ve been walking for a little while now, waiting for a pack of deer to pass by. There’s something that bothers me about killing them- maybe it’s their eyes, so big and brown, caught frozen as they stare at you. Or maybe it’s their resemblance to this little girl I knew, at a local village at the base of the mountain where I grew up.

I shake the thought of her big brown eyes and twitchy nose as I spot a herd of ‘em, grazing near a small stream. There’s enough light for me to count them- seven, big enough to feed us.

I get on one knee, like my daddy taught me. Notch an arrow in the bow, pull it back. One of the poor animals raises its head, looks in my direction.

Before I can hesitate, I let go, and the arrow flies; a fraction of a second later, it has notched itself in the animal’s throat. It falls; its friends, the rest of its herd (its gang, I think, almost laughing) scamper off, into the woods. I don’t go after them. Pearson will have to do with this, and whatever herbs or mushrooms I’m able to pick up.

The doe is dead by the time I reach her. I kneel. Pull the arrow from her neck; thick, sticky blood gets on my hands. I almost reach for snow, to clean it off; curse myself when my fingertips meet grass and mud. The doe’s dead eye stares up at me, brown and empty as the sky. I resist the urge to close them.

“Sorry, sweet.” I whisper it as I hoist her up, put her over my shoulder. She’s heavy. I must be getting blood on my shirt- it’s a shame, because it’s my favourite colour, and I’ve just bought it.

I swallow any regrets I feel as I walk back to my horse, the weight of the doe uncomfortable against my bow and quiver.

You’re the reason she won’t come home, a little voice whispers in my head. I stop, then, because my chest is tightening and I can’t really breathe. I say something incoherent. The fields around me are empty- it’s just me and this doe.

I drop her into the mud and loosen my shirt, gasping for air. I want cold, I want crisp mountain air; not this thick, humid, barely-air that clogs my throat and makes my lungs heavy.

I dig my fingers into the mud and grass, as I would have done in the snow, back home. Home. What a weird thought. I catch the dead doe’s eye again, and that’s when the tears come, thick and hot and nasty, blurring my vision. So stupid, I think, as I force myself to stare at her. She- no, it- is just an animal. She doesn’t have a home, not the way I did. Do.

I think of crying out for help, but that’s pathetic, and I’m a lot of things, but pathetic ain’t one of them.

I think I stay there, on my knees, fingers deep in the mud, for a long time- when my vision clears again and I’ve stopped gasping for air, the sky is clear, clear blue, no traces of sunrise left. If I focus hard enough on it, I can almost pretend I’m back in the mountains.

I get up, teeth digging into my tongue to prevent any new feelings from resurfacing. I’m not in the goddamn mountains. All that’s left for me there is two frozen bodies deep beneath the snow, and a hut that’s probably been raided or taken over by some other gang.

I pick the doe up, this time careful to avoid looking at her face. Its face. It’s an animal, not my goddamn sister.

I make it back to my horse without another incident; strap the doe across his back and climb onto his saddle. His name is Coal, ‘cause of the colour o’ him- black and charcoal grey, a streak of white down his face.

“Hey, boy,” I murmur to him as I flick the reigns. My voice is shaky, hoarse; it’s obvious that I’ve been crying.

Coal begins to trot back to camp. I think of changing direction, of going to Rhodes, clear my thoughts. But I gotta bring this back to Pearson, or he’ll skin me.

The camp is still there when I return, which is a relief. I don’t think I’ll forget the moment when I came back after a hunt and found everyone gone, everything burned to the ground.

I shiver at the memory and get off Coal. “I’ll come ‘nd fix your saddle later,” I say to him, scratching his neck. He grunts, in a tone I hope is affectionate. I remove the doe, put her back over my shoulder. Make it to Pearson’s stand, where he’s angrily chopping vegetables.

“Hey,” I say, dropping the doe in front of him. I angle her head- her eyes- away from me. “Got some meat.”

“I can see that,” is Pearson’s kind answer.

I ignore him and walk away again, into the derelict house we’ve been callin’ home for the last few weeks. My room is on the top floor; I wish I shared it with someone, but I got lucky (Dutch’s words) and got my own, private room.

I tug off my bloodstained shirt and drop it on the floor. There’s nothin’ to be done about my trousers- they’re the only pair I’ve got (the others have just been washed, and hang soaking wet outside) and I don’t plan on walking around bare-legged.

I change quickly. Sit down on the bed, stare at the wall.

I don’t know how long I stay like that; starin’ at the peeling wallpaper, trying to pretend it’s the same white as the snow I used to see out my window. Obviously, the pretendin’ don’t work, because it’s not the snow, it’s a crumbling fuckin’ wall in a crumbling fuckin’ house. I stand, take a deep breath in (of hot, hot, humid, thick air), push it out. It ain’t cleansing- I don’t feel better once I’ve tasted the surrounding bogs- but it’s enough to calm my heartbeat, and make me feel somewhat human again.

For the rest of the day, I help around camp, doing stupid, mind-numbing tasks. I try not to think of the mountains, and how much better than this godforsaken swamp they were. People talk to me, and I answer, polite and all. I eat Pearson’s stew, listen to another grandiose speech about Dutch’s plan (or, as far as I’m concerned, concepts of a plan). I finally find a moment of quiet sitting on a log, staring out at the swamp. Not the prettiest sight; all brown and green, with hints of yellow dust.

I’m alone for only a few minutes before I hear footsteps. I turn, and find Arthur approaching, taking his cigarette packet from his satchel. I shift on the log I’m sitting on, making the split second decision that his company is something I want right now.

He sits next to me, silently. Offers me a cigarette (I decline with a shake of my head and a wave of my hand) then lights his own with a match. He stays quiet for a little while, blowing smoke from his mouth, tinting the world blue and grey.

It’s strange, sitting next to him. He don’t mind being quiet; seems to like my company well enough, ‘cause he keeps coming back here to smoke.

He’s the one who found me, all that time ago, on a solo hunt in the Grizzlies. It was at the edge of the mountains, where it starts to get warmer; where the sun melts away most of the snow. Was from Blackwater, he said- I asked if I could go back with him. Promised I’d leave ‘em all alone when I got there, I just needed a job, as far from my daddy’s corpse as I could get. He’d said yes, maybe reluctantly.

Turns out, I’d found somethin' better than a job. Not quite a family, but a gang, people to rely on, people to distract me from the emptiness created by my father’s death. I suppose it’s these people keeping me here, in this swampy nowhere, sweating my socks off. Here, I’ve got people- back in the mountains, I’ve got two dead bodies and an empty house.

My chest tightens again, and wordlessly, I take the cigarette from Arthur’s hand, take a long drag. I hand it back, still silent, and dig my fingernails into my knuckles.

“You miss home?” Arthur asks me, his words marked by the smoke curling from his mouth. I take the cigarette from his fingers again, press it between my teeth, inhale ‘till I can blame the burning in my eyes on the smoking rather than whatever has grabbed hold of me; whatever old, buried feeling I’d thought long gone had chosen to make an appearance. Guess it must be more obvious than I thought, that I’m feelin’ odd, ‘cause he clearly smelled it on me.

“I don’t know, I guess,” I say, softly, fiddling with the dirty fabric of my trousers as I hand the cigarette back; as if I don’t know the answer, as if I haven’t spent half my goddamn life thinking about this. I exhale, blowing out smoke from my nose. “Never really thought about it.” The lie burns in my throat, so thick I can hardly breathe.

It’s not the stability that I miss. The weather in the Grizzlies was nothin’ permanent, not in any sense- one minute it’s a blizzard, the next you’re standing staring at the bright blue sky, knee deep in snow. I guess it’s the wolves howling, it’s the comfort of a fire as wind rattles against the window panes; it’s even the way the stars look after three days holed up inside. There’s no one thing I miss or don’t miss- I just know I miss it, so much that my chest tightens at the thought.

When my daddy got shot, three- no, four- years ago, I thought the one answer was to leave that place behind; pack up my clothes and go out into the Wild Wild West, make my own future away from the smell of his freshly dug grave, right next to my mama’s frozen bones. And when I came across Arthur, and later his gang of gung-ho outlaws, who seemed ready to take on the world, I thought that was it- my life was set.

But I don’t like the constant moving like I used to. It don’t feel like adventure anymore; it feels like escaping, like we’re always running from something.

“I don’t…” I hesitate, reach up to dig my nails into the dip of my collarbone, try to dig the feeling out, hold it up to the light to examine it. “I guess it’s different.” A veiled confession. Away from the Grizzlies (away from home) it’s hot, stiflingly so; I can’t climb onto my horse without breaking a sweat. It’s already too warm by the time the sun rises- clothes sticking to your skin uncomfortably, flies buzzing above, drowning in the smell of swampy nothingness as soon as your eyes open. I don’t hate it- it has become familiar, but familiar in the way the weight of a revolver at my hip has become familiar; the way the constant paranoia that clogs my throat has become familiar.

“Different how?”

Another pause, as I scuff the yellow dust ground with the toe of my boot. Different in a whole lotta ways, I want to tell him; even the colour of the sky isn’t quite the same back home.

Home. I think of the snow as I stare at the yellowed leather of my shoes. Where there’s snow and wolves and no people to shoot at you unless you really look for it.

“I don’t know,” I say, even though my whole body knows; it courses through me, the knowledge that a few days ride away is the mountains, and the snow. “It just is.”

The answer dissatisfies him, I think. “C’mon,” he says in that gruff voice of his. “You gotta be able to find one difference between here and the goddamn Grizzlies.”

“’S warmer,” I say, the words followed by a short, slightly forced laugh. “Don’t snow as much.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Alright,” he responds, maybe a little condescendingly. “Think o’ anything else?”

“You got less wolves down here,” I add, after a few moments. I don’t say that I miss the sound of them howling; that when I close my eyes, I try to picture it, try to pretend I’m back there instead of here.

“Alright.” He says it kinder this time, like we’re getting somewhere.

“The sky looks different.” I dig my fingers in deeper. He offers me the cigarette; I take it, repurpose the burning in my throat. The smoke flickers around me as I exhale. “It’s- clearer, up there. More blue.” Here, the sky is tinted almost yellow. It ain’t ugly, but it ain’t home.

He doesn’t answer, now, staring out at the swamps. I don’t know how he feels about this place- about Rhodes, and the foreignness of Saint Denis, with its factories and smoke and cobbled roads. I wonder if he misses home- if he ever had one to begin with. “I guess I do miss it,” I say, to fill the silence more than anything. “But… I don’t know, I don’t think I wanna go back.” Alone is the word I don’t add. I think- maybe- if I had the gang, my new family, I’d go back to the Grizzlies. After we escaped Blackwater, and hid out in that abandoned town up in the mountains; that was the happiest I’d been for a long time.

But alone isn’t something I want to be. Not the way I was alone, the few weeks after my father passed- just me and the freshly dug grave, me and the wolves, me and the gun that killed him, sittin’ on the table, an unwanted temptation.

“I don’t wanna be alone again.” It comes out soft, hoarse, pathetic, the words grating in my throat, like sandpaper on my tongue.

It’s true. Yes, home is in the mountains; I know that now, when my chest clenches at the simple thought of the snow. But home is also with these people- with Arthur, and Mary-Beth, and Pearson, and the rest of them. Hell, even Kieran, the O’Driscoll boy, has become home, in a way. Home is not just the place where I grew up (the place where my daddy now lies); home is also the people that have become my family; who have embraced me so kindly and warmly. I know deep in my stomach that if I were to leave now, take a horse back to the hut, I’d end up like my daddy, a bullet in my head and a gun in my hand.

He did it ‘cause he was lonely. So lonely that even I wasn’t enough to stop him from pulling the trigger. Lived in the mountains his whole life, but he had my mama then, and his parents. I guess fifty years of snow and not much else can drive you insane.

My hand goes to my temple; I dig my fingers into the skin, right where I found the bullet in his head.

“Y’won’t be,” he responds gruffly. He’s finished his cigarette, and yet he’s not made any attempt to get up, leave me with my thoughts. I snort, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Don’t know that,” I say. “With the Pinkertons on our asses, ‘nd all.” It’s meant to be lighthearted, but it comes out quiet, rough.

“Yeah, but they’ve always been on our asses.” He puts a hand on my leg; it engulfs my entire knee. “Tell you what.” He hesitates, clearin’ his throat a little. Squeezes my knee. “I’ll take you huntin’, once a week- or twice, or less, if you want.”

“I go huntin’ anyway,” I answer. “Not in the mountains, y’don’t.” My chest both tightens and loosens at the same time. I swallow; my heart is thumping in my chest. I put my hand to my collarbone again, digging my nails in. “C’mon, it’ll do you good. Cold air and all that.”

I know there’s a deeper meaning to that. Cold air- he’s giving me the chance to go home, and not by myself. Even if it’s not for long, it’s enough- to feel the snow again, to hear the wolves. Maybe once I’ll camp overnight, ride back to camp in the morning. The idea fills me with hope- a feeling we’re all starved of, these days.

“Really?” Is all I manage to croak out.

“What, you don’t wanna?”

I laugh, and it’s genuine this time. “No, I- I wanna.”

“Alright then.” He gives my knee a last squeeze, then stands. I stand with him, smooth my shirt with the flat of my hand. “Tomorrow then?” Tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. I’d sing, if my throat weren’t so damn tight. My eyes sting, and I wipe at my nose with my hand.

“Thank you,” I say, quietly. He don’t respond, but he nods, and I think maybe he smiles a little.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll get to take a piece of my new home to the place I grew up- someone I love, to the place that holds my heart.

I watch him walk away; and suddenly, the humidity don’t feel so bad anymore.

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption x reader #bloodhoundsandplagues writes #very little mention of arthur actually #im sorry #this is just me projecting my vaguely homesick feelings #when home is a place but also a person who's not in that place #yk #argh #i miss my mum #happy new year tumblr #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x yn #arthur morgan rdr2 #please indulge me #would you be surprised if i said this wasnt proofread

52 notes · View notes

jestersprivilegee · 1 month ago

Text

High and Dry | ch. 6

t. jefferson x reader

warnings: the usual, idk why I even add this part anymore tbh

wc: like 2.7k

a/n: pretty short chapter. Wanted to get something out. Anyway shoutout to ruby for giving me some ideas 😝😝 also if y’all have feedback or anything you’d like to see, please feel free to share w the class!! I love hearing whag y’all have to say and I want this story to be as enjoyable as possible. We’re in this tg right gang?! (Team on 3, 123 team!! Sorry)

The hangover took a couple minutes to really hit.

When it did, it hurt like a motherfucker. Your head was throbbing, the soles of your feet hurt because you had passed out in your heels, and nausea bubbled in your gut. It was torture.

You groaned, sitting up and tugging at the straps of your dress, desperate to feel some relief from having slept in the tight material all night. When it was off, the first thing you did was find the baggiest t-shirt you could, and use the bathroom. Everything was painful, and you thought you didn’t drink too much last night. Granted, after the game with Thomas and them, you decided to let loose a little. Even staring into your reflection was painful.

The mascara you had was now smeared, mixing with your eye bags to accentuate the exhaustion, you didn’t even want to deal with the mess that was your hair, and you desperately needed a shower. You reeked of alcohol.

Taking a warm shower, changing into something comfortable, and drinking a shit ton of water with some ibuprofen helped. You still hated your past self for ruining your Saturday morning, but the memories were worth it. All you could do now was fall back on the habits you put in place on mornings, or when things get particularly rough. Eat something nutritious, drink water or coffee, and relax.

Although the memory of Thomas flooded you, interrupting the meditation practice. A frustrated groan escaped your chest, wondering why he was consuming your thoughts. Why the lingering touches and the butterflies you felt every time your eye caught his plagued you. He was infiltrating your mind, and you really fucking hated it. Was it perhaps that you’re so touch-starved, even the mere presence of a man was enough to send you into a spiral?

Deeming it useless to attempt clearing your mind, you walked over to rummage through your purse on the couch. Since you fell asleep the moment you hit the cushions, you hadn’t got the chance to plug your phone in at all, leaving it on two percent. Something about your purse felt particularly light, though. Like something important was missing. But you couldn’t—

“Oh fuck!” You yelped. The wallet that held your ID, credit and debit card, and any other important form of identification was missing.

Panic settled in your chest. Suddenly, you were wide awake. No more headache, no more stomach pains, only anxiety. Your breathing became ragged and short. Aren’t panic attacks so fun? Not being able to breathe because the worst case scenario is the only thing you can think of?

You scoured your apartment, your dress, hell—even your shoes for any sign of it. Nothing. Not a trace. Either you left it at the bar, or someone stole it. Neither of those options were ideal. Someone could potentially be stealing your identity right now and there was nothing you could do about it.

“Alexander, did you see my wallet last night? I can’t—I can’t find it,” you rushed, tugging at your hair.

“Whoa, calm down, breathe,” he said. His voice was gravelly from just waking up. “I didn’t see it. Maybe ask Laurens?”

“Fuck, I did! He didn’t see it either!” You cried. There was some shuffling on the other end, and it was muffled, but you heard Alex tell someone he was talking to you. “Who are you with?”

He paused for a considerate amount of time. “Eliza,” he finally spoke in a small voice. “Have you asked Lafayette?”

Eliza? Did they hook up? Which if they did, you won a bet because last night, you told John they would get together by the end of the night. If not, then you’d give him twenty bucks. Looks like he owed you some. Ignoring the fact that Alexander was in bed with Ms. Schuyler, you responded with a shaky, “No. No, I’ll ask him right now. Has Eliza seen it?”

He inhaled sharply, and you could practically hear his face flush a deeper shade of red. “Uh—no, she hasn’t. I’ll—I’ll talk to you later. Good luck, I hope you find it,” he stammered, and a second later hung up.

You paced around your apartment, waiting for Lafayette to pick up. When he did, he sounded grumpy, sick, and tired all at once. You felt bad for the Frenchman, but then again, he did rob you of your money since he won. So you weren’t too concerned with the state of him at this very moment. “Lafayette, did you see my wallet last night? It’s gone, and I think I might’ve left it at the bar, or someone stole it. I’m freaking out right now, man!”

“Non, ami, I do not know what ‘appened to your wallet, I am sorry,” he sighed, seeming to wake up a little more. It was clear he was way more hungover than you or Alex were. “‘Ave you tried—“

“Yes I’ve tried talking to everyone!” You abruptly snapped. “I’ve asked the entire goddamn staff at this point, asking around looking for my wallet!”

He was quiet for a moment, growing agitated with your rudeness, but gave you compassion since he knew how panicked you must feel. You realized your mistake in screaming at him since he was trying to help. There was no point in yelling, and you only felt guilty for doing so. “Sorry,” you muttered, “I’m really stressed. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.”

“It is okay, mon ami,” he said in a gentle tone. “I was going to ask if you called ze bar yet? They usually take up any missing items like wallets, purses, phones—you name it—and keep them safe.”

You coughed in embarrassment. It was so simple; call the bar and they’d likely have it. Why wasn’t that your first response? Right when you were about to squeak out a thanks, three short knocks on your door caught your attention. “Hold on—someone’s at my door. Better have my fucking wallet, whoever it is,” you grunted, earning an airy chuckle from Laf.

Standing in the hallway of your apartment building was none other than Thomas Jefferson himself. “It’s Thomas,” you spoke, peering through the peephole.

“Oh? What is Thomas doing at your apartment, Y/n?” There was a smugness in the way Lafayette teased you.

Rolling your eyes, you began unlocking the door, “you should ask Hamilton what Eliza was doing in his bed. Talk to you later, Lafayette. Thanks for the help.” With that, you hung up, rendering Lafayette speechless. And stirring up new drama, because why not?

“Thomas,” you said, opening the door. He was wearing a coffee-brown hoodie with gray sweatpants, and something felt intimate about seeing him in such casual clothing. Domestic, almost. It was annoying how good he looked even after a night out. “What are you doing here?”

He scanned your messy appearance from running around like a chicken with its head cut off, and he couldn’t help but smile. “You left your wallet at the bar last night. Figured I should return it.” He replied simply, holding out the upcycled denim wallet.

Oh.

Jefferson had it this whole time. And he didn’t text you or anything to let you know he had it?

You must’ve been standing there like a deer in headlights for a solid minute, because he raised an eyebrow, shifting awkwardly.

“Everythin’ alright? This is yours, ain’t it?” He asked, his smile faltering to a nervous one.

“Yeah—sorry,” You blinked, snapping out of it and taking the wallet from him, checking to make sure everything was in there. “I’ve been worried about this all morning. Called just about everyone we know,” you chuckled.

He nodded, taking a glance into your apartment, curious at what your home looked like. Before your brain could catch up, you found yourself blurting out an invitation. “Do you want to come inside? I have some coffee brewed if you’d like some.”

Thomas’s eyebrows raised in surprise at your hospitality, but accepted, stepping in when you opened it further for him. “Nice place,” he whistled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Thanks. Sorry, it’s a little messy, but—“

“You don’t have to apologize,” he cut you off with a chuckle. “My place is way worse, trust me.”

His words were reassuring, and your shoulders relaxed. Why you were so worried about what he thought of you was a mystery. You shouldn’t care what he thinks at all, and yet here you stood, fretting over the cleanliness of your living space. “Right—um, do you want some coffee?”

He smiled, “That would be nice.”

While you got him a cup of coffee (subconsciously choosing the nicest mug you own), he examined the studio. All the earth tones, plants, decorations, and pictures strung up were so you. Fuck, it even smelled like you, and he never realized how much he enjoyed coconut and vanilla. He strolled over to a wooden stand that was adorned with framed pictures and trinkets. His eyes glossed over the photos of you with your mother, most of them being childhood photos. What caught his eye the most, however, was the frame that was turned down; shunned away from seeing the light. Forbidden to be remembered.

“Thank you for bringing my wallet to me, I don’t think I said it before,” you spoke, feeling the need to entertain him somehow.

He hummed, picking up the picture. “‘T’s no problem at all, darlin’. Happy to help.” There he goes again with that stupid nickname.

Thomas’s heart clenched as he realized the photograph faced down was of you and him, on the last day of Freshman year. He dragged his thumb over the memory of eating ice cream together, a soft, nostalgic smile tugging at his lips. The moment after the photo was taken, you dropped your cone on the concrete. He shared the rest of his cup with you. He was never much of a cone guy, anyway.

“You still like your coffee black?”

His head snapped up, and he set the photo down. Thomas left it standing up this time. “Yep. ‘M surprised you remember that.”

You gave him a half-hearted shrug, averting your gaze. “I remember more about you than I’d like.”

The cup made a screeching noise when you slid it across the table to him. He mumbled a thanks, taking a seat across from you. “That feels like an insult.”

“Mm, it might be.” A teasing grin found its way on your features.

”Wish you wouldn’t be so hostile, darlin’. Are you ever gonna stop hating me?” His tone wasn’t accusatory. More so tired, exhausted from playing this game. He wanted it to end.

“I don’t know what you’re wanting me to say, Jefferson. That I was wrong?” You scoffed, the grin slowly fading.

“No, that’s not what ‘m wanting from you,” he frowned, “I just don’t want to continue being the villain when ‘m not the same guy from high school.”

Well, that was a door you didn't want to open. Not right now at least.

“Hate is a strong word,” you mumbled. “I wouldn’t be serving you coffee and inviting you into my home if I hated you. Mutual distaste would be a better classification.”

“Mutual?” He echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. He took another drawn out sip. How he managed to enjoy black coffee had always been repulsive.

A tense silence fell over the two of you. He scanned your home again, still uncomfortable at sitting down and having coffee with you. It felt like it was crossing so many lines, it felt like it was moving too fast in getting you to warm up to him, and it felt like it would all come crumbling down. He knew this would be a one time thing. That he’d have to leave because you’d kick him out, but to him this was progress. You weren’t being overly rude or insulting him at every turn; you invited him inside and offered him coffee! Sure, you still didn’t like him, but admitting you don’t hate him is a step forward.

“Y’know, I didn’t think you’d move to New York of all places,” he broke the silence.

Your eyes flickered down to how he ran his finger over the rim of your coffee mug. “I didn’t either. But Virginia was unfulfilling. I needed something more.”

“Do you feel fulfilled?”

“Kind of. There’s always something that’s missing. New York is a lot different than Charlottesville, especially the people, but I enjoy it here,” you finally answered. “What about you? I thought you moved to France for good.”

“No, no,” he shook his head, “I only went to France because my parents wanted me to study abroad. They stayed in Monticello to take care of the family, and I lived with my sister for a while. When I finished college, I moved up here.”

A knit formed in your eyebrows. “Weren’t you going to become a lawyer? At least, that’s what I remember you telling me.”

He inhaled sharply, unwanted memories and feelings flooding him. “That was the plan. My parents had my whole career mapped out, but I fell in love with teachin’, so I switched majors.”

“Hm, and how did they take that?”

He chuckled, but there was no humor behind it. It was completely dry, uncomfortable, pain-filled. “You’ve met my parents. How do you think they’d react?”

The way your features softened didn’t go unnoticed by him. “Oh. You still keep in contact with them, right?”

“Yeah, of course. ‘M actually goin’ down to visit for the holidays. Not that I’m particularly thrilled to do so.”

You tilted your head, “No? I guess with such a big family, it gets a little overwhelming.”

He shrugged awkwardly, leaning back in the chair. “A little is an understatement. Mom and Pop get real pushy about—“ he paused, looking conflicted. “Nevermind. I should probably head out. Thank you for the coffee, Y/n.”

Part of you wanted to tug him back down, ask him to finish his sentence, to let him pour his heart out and rant, but you didn’t. He was visibly uncomfortable in the way he wiped his hands on his hoodie and glanced around. Urging him to open up when he isn’t ready wouldn’t be a great option. “Sure,” you whispered, watching him head to the door.

He stole one final look at you, giving a firm nod before leaving.

—

“She invited me inside, James. And she willingly made me coffee,” Thomas ranted, one hand on the steering wheel while the other hung out the window, letting the cool air in.

“That’s great,” Madison coughed, “it sounds like she’s coming around just like I predicted. Who’s right, per usual?”

Jefferson turned into his parking garage, finding his usual spot and sitting there while he spoke to his best friend on the phone. “Hah, don’t get ahead of yourself. I can tell she’s still hesitant to open up. She’s always been that way, never openin’ up to anyone. It used to take me thirty minutes to get her to admit she was feelin’ sad, and a whole ‘nother thirty to admit why.”

“Hm. Well, again, just keep trying to talk to her. If you show her you trust her, she’ll trust you. That’s how relationships are built.”

“See, you’re real wise when you apply yourself, but eighty percent of the time you’re a dick. Why is that?” Jefferson teased, a smirk evident in his voice, even across the city.

“Because anytime I try to be helpful you call me a dick. I’ll talk to you later, Thomas,” James snorted, hanging up the phone after his friend laughed out a goodbye.

Thomas replayed the conversation from earlier over and over in his mind, rethinking his choice of words and your responses. It really wasn’t a bad talk. The walls you put up were slowly starting to crumble; he knew the old you well enough to know those same habits would carry into adulthood. James was right about continuing to talk to you. It would take time, but he knew he could earn your trust again through little consistent efforts.

After all, the stonecutter who hammered away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without cracking it, will eventually split it into two at the hundred-and-first blow. Yet he knew it was not the last blow that did it, but all that had gone before.

#hamilton #hamilton x reader #thomas jefferson #thomas jefferson x reader

30 notes · View notes

athanza · 2 months ago

Text

Safe and Sound (part 1/2)

Pro hero Katsuki Bakugou x fem! Pro hero OC

Plot: After being too scared to tell Saiyu how he feels about her, he sees her losing a solo fight against a villain and rushes desperately to get to her before it's too late.

Tags: Hurt/comfort, romance, time skip/age up, confession, protectiveness, rescue, no use of y/n, happy ending.

Warnings: Canon violence, crying, swearing, reader being in danger.

Disclaimer: This is kind of a placeholder oc, not a self-insert. You can put whoever you like in place of her, I just don't like y/n fics 😅 I hope you enjoy ♡

Song inspo ♡

Part 2

He dreamt about her again last night. This was the 3rd night in a row, and it was driving him crazy.

He'd admired her for years, ever since they were introduced back at UA in his 2nd year, but things had changed since then, and he was afraid to admit it. They had become close friends over the years, but she occupied so much of his mind that he could barely concentrate, but he had to, he had work to do and needed to stay focused. Heroes can't fall in love, it's just too dangerous. The fewer weaknesses you have as a hero, the better. That didn't stop others, but it scared him more than he cared to admit.

He scoffed down his protein-packed breakfast and did his warm-ups as his coffee brewed for the long shift ahead of him. When his phone went off and he saw Eijiro's face pop up on the screen, he answered it.

"Hey, Eijiro." He said, fully expecting the human personification of a hype-train.

"You seen the news?"

"Huh? No? Why?"

"It's Saiyu."

His heart leapt into his throat.

The seriousness in his voice worried him and he switched on the TV, only to see Saiyu on the news in a one-on-one fight with a villain. It was serious. The villain's quirk was a bad match for hers and she was struggling to keep him at bay. Wounded and exhausted she hit him with another attack, which she managed to land, but the recoil from his attack blasted her backward into a nearby building.

"Where the hell is her backup!?"

"There's a new gang trying to gain control of that area. All the other heroes on patrol have their hands full. I'm on my way now, but I'm too far away."

"Damn it!!" He yelled. He hung up and leapt out of the window of his apartment, not wasting any time.

He used as much of his quirk as he could to get to her as quickly as possible while conserving as much energy as he could for the fight ahead.

"I can't let her die." He thought, as he flew past building after building at lightning speed. "I won't."

"Shit." Saiyu thought as she crawled desperately to her feet. "His quirk is the worst match imaginable for me, and backup is too far away. The only option I have is to try to stall him, but I'm reaching my physical limit and that's only weakening my quirk. Damn it!"

"What's wrong girl?" Laughed the villain. "You struggling to keep up? Some hero you are."

"Argh! Shut up!!" She yelled, leaping toward him as fast as she could. She was fed up with his bullshit.

"I have to try to gather as much information about his quirk as I can before help arrives, but I also need to try to tire him out. I need to keep going!"

He reached out his hand and launched another attack that she barely managed to dodge. She smirked when she realised he was getting slower, if only just a little, but that was good news. Even if she could only slow him down just a little, that would mean victory or defeat for her eventual backup. She had to hold out.

"What's wrong?" She taunted. "Getting tired old man?"

"On the contrary." He replied, as an energy began building around his fist. "I was just storing energy for my final blow. Say goodnight girl."

Her smirk faded and she froze.

"Why did I freeze?" She asked herself. "Move. Move!"

Her legs kicked her off the ground as hard and fast as she could muster and the villain punched the air so hard the shock waves engulfed three entire blocks.

She managed to avoid the brunt of the blast, but she crashed violently into a building and felt all the air be forced out of her lungs from the impact.

She lay in the rubble, unable to move, as the villain approached her, laughing. Her entire body ached and no matter how hard she tried, she could only move an arm at best.

"I'm impressed you managed to dodge that attack." The villain taunted. "Too bad you can't dodge this one."

As she watched him raise his hand again and she could feel the energy build up, her mind went blank, except for one face.

"Katsuki."

When an explosion went off, the thought that was it, that it was the end, until she realised she wasn't hit, and a familiar voice cut through the air.

"Saiyu!!" Yelled Bakugou. His eyes wide with worry as he saw her lying there motionless.

The villain winced as he emerged from the settling dust. "You pesky heroes! Just when I think I've won, another one of you always charges in to ruin everything!! DIE!!"

"I don't think so asshole!" Bakugou replied.

A blinding light built up around his hands and a blast so bright and powerful exploded right in the villain's face. Saiyu closed her eyes as the blast blinded her and she felt the building shake violently, rubble falling around her, but she was unable to shield herself properly.

As soon as the blast subsided and there was no trace of the villain left, Bakugou rushed to her side, frantically pulling rubble off of her and carrying her out of the building before it collapsed.

"Hey! Look at me! Saiyu!" He said, his heart racing with worry.

She slowly blinked her eyes open. "Katsuki." She croaked. "I tried to tire him out. I tried to stall as...as long as I could."

"You did great." He smiled, his eyes welling up. "I wouldn't have been able to defeat him so quickly if it weren't for you."

She smiled weakly.

Bakugou tapped the earpiece in his left ear. "Eijiro! I'm taking Saiyu to the hospital. The villain is down. Have a recovery team get here asap. The area was evacuated, but the damage is extensive, I wanna be sure no one was caught in the crossfire."

"Got it. On my way." Kirishima replied.

He looked back down at Saiyu and picked her up. "Let's get you to recovery girl."

She was too weak to say anything else, she just let herself pass out, knowing she was safe now. Knowing he was there.

Saiyu was in the hospital for 3 days. Her wounds were extensive but, luckily, most of it was able to be repaired. Unfortunately, she would need a support item for her right leg for the rest of her career, but as long as she used it, she would be able to fight as normal.

Bakugou didn't leave her side once, he slept in the chair beside her bed and helped the nurses take care of her. Despite how many times she told him to go home and get some proper rest, he refused every time.

Part of her genuinely did want him to go get some rest, but the other part was glad he was there. She didn't want to be alone at night when visiting hours were over, that was when there was nothing to stop her mind from going to dark places. Having him there was like a cure, she didn't know why, but he made her feel safe and she needed him.

"Eat dumbass!" Bakugou scolded, shoving the home-cooked food in her face that the others had brought her earlier. "You haven't been eating properly! Your body needs energy to help you recover you idiot!"

Saiyu politely refused. "I'm just not very hungry."

"Tough shit!"

She smiled. She felt so lucky to have a friend like him. Willing to take multiple days off work to take care of her despite her being in a literal hospital. But her smile didn't last long.

...friend...

"Look." He said. "I know you must feel bad for losing to that villain, but you-"

He stopped when he noticed her crying.

"I just-" she sobbed. "I just can't believe I almost lost to some fucking lackey. What kind of hero am I if I lose to a shitty villain like that? If you hadn't have shown up, I would've died. I just feel so...useless."

His demeanour shifted. He was serious now, not his usual hot-headed, loud self, and his tone was softer.

"You're a true hero, you know that?" He said. She looked at him. "It doesn't matter if you win or lose or if you need help in a fight or not, you still held him off and kept him away from civilians until help could get there. You did a great job, you really did. Plus, his quirk was your literal weakness, how often has that happened? You're not useless, you're-...you're incredible."

He wiped the tears from her face with his sleeve and she realised, in that moment, what she had been denying for years; that she loved him.

"So stop moping already and eat something, god damn it." He added.

She smiled, barely able to see through the tears. "Okay."

Part 2 ♡

#part 2 coming very soon!#its gonna be nothing but comfort and fluff #i hope you liked part 1! If you did don't forget to hit the like button and maybe reblog? 🥹 tysm ♡♡♡#bakugou #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #mha #mha bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bnha bakugou #bakugou fanfic #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bakugou x fem!reader

26 notes · View notes

broareweabouttoviberightnow · 6 months ago

Text

mood board of curtis decor I firmly belive exists pt 2 (out of the tags boogaloo)

Enjoy your fucking dinner plate: Darry fucking LOVES that plate. he used to scold Two and Soda for being food INHALERS by telling them to actually TASTE the food and ENJOY it. They jointly thought it would be the funniest fuckin thing to save him the trouble to saying it n just take a marker to a plate. He's got a matching one that says EAT YOUR FUCKING DINNER that is reserved exclusively for Dallas (gangs picky eater agenda pushing)

Coke Jar: Mrs. C had the jar since they were kids n they usually kept some little sweets in there. One day Darry comes home n Two-Bit had it filled up with powder and had a line on the counter in front of it and he almost HIT the fucking CELING two was BEGGING for his life like ITS FLOUR ITS FLOUR I SWEAR TO GOD Darry checks to make sure n then makes him do the line anyways. Two spends the rest of the night coughing n Darry considers it even for the HEART ATTACK he gave him.

No smoking without me sign: Pony took the original sign from his school n hung it up on the back fence with the addition of without me🥺 bc Johnny would sometimes go out to smoke alone n Pony would whine CRAZY about it.

Fridge magnets: Modern! gang would fucking LOVE those n I stand on that. Dallas loves disappearing into the kitchen to make the fridge say like fuck <3 n half the time when he stands up in the middle of a movie darrys like "if I go in there n my fridge says cunt I'm gonna kick ur ass"

Phone booth: It appears in the living room on week and is moved onto the back porch. They don't know where the hell it came from but they sure as hell aren't putting it back. (it was Dallas n Tim pissed out of their minds and thinking it was funny. It kinda was.)

Groceries stuck in the wall with a knife: Other then Darry, Soda and Dallas are the big shoppers. Two is banned from most stores in tusla, Pony HATES food shopping bc he's 14, Johnny WOULD go but he'd have to walk n none of them like the idea of him not being able to have his hands free. So Soda n Dallas go back and forth on shopping and since notes left on the table or counter get lost more often than not, this was the solution. Darry picks his battles on this one. He does NOT want to be the only one going to the store.

Sodatop necklaces: Joint Soda and Johnny effort. They are crafty as HELL when they want to be. For Soda it's a feat of finding the urge to actually sit down n work on one thing n for Johnny it's finding a project. They make one for the whole gang and, tho they won't all admit it, they wear those things nearly everyday.

The tire table and the mounted bumper light: Steve's contributions. Steve wouldn't describe himself as artsy or crafty but he does like to take car parts and repurpose them. The tire is painted and has a circle of metal over the center and they use it as an outdoor table and the bumper is his crowning accomplishment with the wiring n shit. That is PROUDLY displayed over the couch in the living room

29 notes · View notes

effy-writes · 1 year ago

Text

Addict (Blitz x Reader)

7: CHERUB: Wack The Hell Out Of ‘Em

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The group was flipping through the channels, trying to figure out what to watch.

You didn't look so good, occasional tremors, couldn't stop scratching yourself, and very noticeable eye bags were seen. You haven't been doing drugs since that one incident during spring break, but you're slowly falling back into the hole. You can't get ahold of anything because Blitz is always keeping an eye on you.

The years of doing drugs still left a number on your body/face. You were still thin because the stimulants fucked up your stomach so you get full easily. Your face had scratch scars on them from meth binges, and your teeth well…some were missing and chipped. You hated yourself for doing this, you hate your parents, and you hate the circus. If it wasn’t for greed then you wouldn’t be going through withdrawals at work. If it wasn’t for greed then Blitz wouldn’t have to be up your ass all the time (literally too).

Your head rested on the cold table. It cooled your skin, helping with the low grade fever you had. Even though you were still shaking, the temperature of the table soothed you. The table rumbled, making you raise your head up in a very annoyed way.

"Guys... do you feel that?" Loona questioned as her ears perked up.

"Oh, shit! Is that a hellshake?" Blitz jumped up.

You rolled your eyes, "Those don't exist."

"That's possible?" Moxxie added.

"No, Moxxie. Blitz is just an asshole." You spat.

"Hey!" Blitz pointed his finger at you before losing his balance due to the shake.

"Don't panic, Moxxie!" Millie put her hands on her husband's shoulders.

"I'm not panicking because hellquakes don't happen."

"STOP GETTING HYSTERICAL, FATTY!" Loona shook him.

Everyone flinched whenever the wall was tore down. You dusted yourself off and looked at the new hole.

"Oh goddamnit, I just scrubbed the hell out of that wall!"

A hybrid robotic guy stepped out, "Do not be afraid!"

"Please tell me you got that insurance thing." Blitz groaned.

Millie grabbed her axe and was ready to attack this older fellow, "Who are you, and what do you want!"

"I am Loopty Goopty! Dastardly inventor of all things loopy and loopiiiiiish!"

"Loopy Goopty?" You asked Millie, the two of you snickering.

"Coulda just used the door, dude. Doesn't need to be this whole thing." Loona acknowledge.

"Ugh! This old fuck reeks of the living world. Did you just die?" Blitz crossed his arms.

"Yes! Moments ago, in fact! Which is what brought me here!"

"Just sayin'... the front door would've gotten you here fine." Loona pulled out her phone and started typing.

"Shut up, dear furry!"

You couldn't contain your laughter, Loona growled and pointed at you. "Hey! You're going to clean this shit up so I don't know why you're laughing!"

Loopy showed Blitz the man that he wants them to kill, "Not even a shit's length of time in Hell and already plotting revenge. I can respect a man with that sort of passion! I'm Blitzo, the "O" is silent."

"What O?"

"Aww thank you, now what's the tea, sis?"

During their interaction, Moxxie was shouting for help in which nobody helped him. You looked around and sighed, walking over to Moxxie and tried picking up the debris. You obviously struggled to get it off.

"You can use your strength to fight a fish but not to pick up a wall?"

You slumped your shoulders.

"Sorry, I can tell I hit a nerve there."

You didn't say anything and finally lifted up the debris with a grunt.

"Alright Y/n, you're coming with us to kill this guy!" Blitz pulled you away.

"Blitz-"

He pulled you closer to him and whispered, "I don't want you to do drugs so I'm forcing you to go," He gritted.

~~~

The four imps put on some shitty disguises and found their way to Lyle's mansion.

"Gee! I wonder whose house this is." Moxxie said with sarcasm.

"Let's do this, gang!" Blitz demanded.

The three imps was spying on him through the window, (you on the other hand wasn’t even looking out the window, you didn’t even wanna be here).

"That machine really did a number on him." Moxxie acknowledged.

Lyle tied the tubes that were connected to him into a noose before putting it around his neck.

"Oh, fantastic! He's gonna do our job for us!" Blitz rejoiced, looking over at you, whose back was against the wall, not looking in.

"Don't want to see him kill himself?" He joked.

"Not really, no."

A blast of light blinded the main four. "What the fuck?" You uncovered your eyes.

"Who the fuck are they?" Blitz coughed.

"Oh no, they're-"

"Cherubs, Mr. Lyle!" They interrupted Moxxie.

"I hate filthy orphan children!"

"We're here to convince you not to kill yourself sir!"

Blitz angrily stood up and made his way into the house, "Oh, HEEEELL no!"

Moxxie and Millie followed Blitz. You didn't care about this whole thing, you just wanted to leave. You're not even pissed that you can't get stimulants, pissed that you have to be here trying to kill someone. Not because of your morals, you don't give a fuck about killing, but it's because you think you're not capable of doing so without stimulants.

The 3 imps and the 3 cherubs rolled Lyle's bed outside to see nature. Blitz realized that you weren't with them.

"Y/n!" He yelled.

You groaned and walked over to the others, "Here, dad."

"Hey now, we both agreed for you to call me that on the full moon."

Everyone turned their heads and stared at you two with horror on their faces.

"What? Fucking prudes." Blitz scoffed.

"Look around, Lyle. God's gift of nature is a wonder to behold, regardless of age!" One of the Cherubs beamed.

"Mm-hm. You're gonna buy that load of shit from a baby and the sheep it fucks?" Blitz laughed.

Keenie gasped, "That is so inappropriate!"

"Aaaanyway, take it from me, a fellow genius. Nature is no picnic up close." Blitz pulled out binoculars and handed it to Lyle. There was some animals gnawing at one another. The Cherubs was trying to take it away from him but he won't budge.

"I can't stop! I never wanted to die more than ever now!"

The Cherubs try to keep convincing Lyle to not kill himself by taking him to the mall and Lovers Lookout, but the imps (other than you) were trying to point out all of the bad things about these places.

Blitz caught on soon enough, Millie and Moxxie don't know what's going on between the two of you. Neither Blitz nor you has mentioned the drug addictions and what happened during Spring Break. The only thing Millie and Moxxie know was that you were in rehab.

They all ended up watching an opera. You were actually pretty relaxed about this opera, you enjoy them oddly enough.

"So... how do we make this bad?" Millie questioned.

"We can't. There's literally nothing bad about opera. That's fact."

"I actually agree with you, Mox." You spoke.

He gasped, "You like operas!"

"I do."

"Enough of the chit chatter, I have an idea on how to make it bad." Blitz said mischievously.

Blitz kept messing with the light and the opera singer, before you know it, it ended up falling and crushing the poor woman. Your's and Moxxie's jaws dropped.

The Cherubs angrily fly up to the imps. "That's it! I have had it! We're just trying to do our jobs!"

"And so are we!" Moxxie yelled.

"Enough!" He drew a golden bow and arrow, "We are saving that shitty old man's life, whether he wants it or not!"

"Well, someone wants that fucker dead, m'kay? And he paid in advance, and I spent it all on this jewelry, so he's gotta go!" Blitz yelled back.

The Cherubs started to fight the main three. You felt like you needed to help since you haven't done jack shit today. A wooden rod caught your eye, deciding to use that to possibly hit one of the Cherubs.

You stood on the rail of the catwalk and saw Cleatus in the air, getting ready to fight Blitz. You took a deep breath and jumped off, swinging the wooden rod directly to his face. The Cherub screamed as he flew across.

Oh shit I haven't thought this through. Gravity pushed you down and right before you fell onto the bloodied up stage somebody grabbed your leg.

"Way to go, Y/n!" Blitz shouted. He used his momentum to swing back onto the catwalk and hoisted you up.

Blitz lost his balanced and dropped you directly on top of him. "I know you like to be on top but can you get up?" He teased.

"Right, sorry." You stood up, reaching your hand to help him up but he didn't take it.

The two got off of the crosswalk and saw Lyle lying dead.

"Guess the Cherubs did the job for us." You laughed.

"You know...you should seriously become an assassin with us."

"I don't know Blitz...I barely did anything. Just wack 'em with a broom."

"We can teach you, I can teach you." He placed his hands on your shoulders.

"I need the strength, Blitz. I need the stamina, the energy."

Blitz knew what you were getting at. "Y/n...you don't need stimulants. I saw you jump and swung the hell out of that fucker. I believe in you." He reassured, lips curling into a soft smile.

You slowly nodded your head to agree. "Thanks, Blitz."

You partially agree with him, you may not need stimulants, but you believe that you'll be better if you do them.

~~~

"Welp, the old man wanted to live again and we didn't kill him, so we failed. Thanks to those fuckin' cherubs, he's probably up in Heaven now, so... It's a shame. All our client wanted was eternal revenge on his business partner. And now the two are forever separated, and now we gotta face the fire of fuckin' up." He sighed.

"Sir... when are you going to tell the client?" Moxxie asked.

Blitz held up his phone, "Oh, I already sent him a text, and... we're in good hands, 'cause texts don't make people angry."

Everyone heard yelling in the distance. A metal escalator crashed into a different part of the wall. The debris falling on top of Moxxie again with Lyle Lipton stepping out.

"Lyle Lipton?" Millie and Blitz yelled.

"I don't understand. We thought you went to Heaven." Millie raised her eyebrow.

"Heaven?! You don't make millions in technological advances in robotics by NOT experimenting on the poor!" Lyle laughed.

"Oh, you no-good, HEARTLESS son of a BITCH" Loopty turned to Blitz, "Thank you for reuniting me with my best friend!"

"The only question now is what do two old genius robotic inventors do now that we're in Hell?" Lyle questioned.

Wally crashes through the ceiling, and the two robotic (possibly lovers) had smiles that reached ear to ear.

"Everyone, STOP FUCKIN' UP MY WALLS! Moxxie's gonna have to fix all this shit!"

"Me? Y/n is the janitor!"

"Not anymore, Mox! This bitch got promoted!"

"I guess... you can say, you say, you have a... holey operation here, Blitzo!" Wally pointed to the open wall and laughed.

"Get out." Blitz deadpanned.

Wally and the two possibly robotic lovers exchanged looks.

"No, I'm serious. Get the FUCK OUT!"

The three left, damaging another wall.

"Y/n got promoted?" Millie cheered. "Since when?"

"Since today! Y/n, you're our new assassin!" Blitz gave you a drawn certificate that is filled with horse drawings and says, "Cumgrats."

"Sir, does Y/n know how to fight?"

"Nope! But she sure can wack the hell out of things." He ruffled your hair.

"Please stop messing with my hair."

#helluva boss #cross posted on wattpad #blitz x reader #blitzo x reader #blitzø x reader #tw drugs

47 notes · View notes

daydream-believin · 7 months ago

Text

Like a Boiled Frog (you don't even scream) [Ch. 5]

[Start Here] + [Next Chapter]

Chapter Summary: Test out fun things like ball pits and claw machines. Meet your fellow members of the Fazbear Family. Realize you've made yourself like, the platonic ideal of a potential cold case homicide. Oops.

Warnings: swearing. animal death? neither of the animals that die are animals. and neither of them actually die...

Word count: 4602

A/n: sorry it took me a little longer but, it's longer now. happy thanksgiving break!

Taglist: @spirit-of-the-hollow

You rest your head against the newly painted wall. The other employees flitted around, but you didn’t care. It’s your break and you’re gonna rest, goddamnit.

“Bloody hell. This holiday rush might shut us down before we even get a proper go at it,”

You had no idea when Michael sidled up next to you, but you didn’t even startle at the sound of his voice. You were too damn tired to care.

“Not gonna lie, kinda worried about when those two go home in half an hour and it’s just going to be me, you, and the trash gang,” you gestured to the dining room in front of you, “Because this clearly isn’t calming down anytime soon,”

“Yeah, I really underestimated just how many people would want pizza at 10 o’clock at night. Lucky for us, we just ran out of dough,”

“Oh goody. So we get to go home?”

Relief wasn’t even the word to describe it.

“Well,” Michael rubbed the back of his neck,

“Not exactly…”

Last night had been so fun! Now that Helpy was up, y’all got to finishing testing out all the games in the arcade. Which wasn’t much, since most of the cabinets were still out of working order, but beside the air hockey table there were a few claw machines. And a ‘ball pit’…

That goddamn cardboard box of balls. You hated ball pits normally. Ball pits, foam pits, pillow pits, any type of pit children hurl themselves into like lemmings, really. But this thing put Dashcon to shame. You wouldn’t be surprised if someone had somehow pissed in it even though it was brand new and hadn’t been exposed to the public yet. This thing’s aura just felt that horrible.

So of course Michael thought it a grand idea to throw Helpy into it.

In his defense, the robot had practically begged him. Even though the little guy couldn’t speak as much as just make noises, he was very persuasive. To be honest, it was pretty cute watching Helpy get so excited at the prospect of doing exactly what he was made to do, help. And he was the only person in the room who feasibly could test the ball pit. So after watching him wade around in there for a bit, you thought nothing of the bear climbing back into Michael’s arms and miming to ask to be tossed back in.

“You wanna jump? Okay, one, two—“ the little bear looked determined as Michael wound up to throw him, “THREE!”

Helpy flew through the air, eyes wide and squeaking in glee.

And then,

CRACK.

You just stood there with your mouth open, staring in disbelief at the sight before you. Beside you Michael whispered a small, “Oh shit…”

Neither of you said a word as you stared at Helpy’s now limp and lifeless body. You could hear your heartbeat.

RIP Helpy, alive for an hour before he broke his little neck. He died doing what he loved: being hurled into ball pits.

Initial shock over with, this was actually pretty funny, and you were trying so very hard not to bust out into laughter. You know, considering this meant another headache for Mike as he would have to fix the robot now. He might not appreciate your entertainment in this situation.

Michael deeply sighed. A bloody shame. And more work.

“NOOooo, little guy!” You approached the little robot, shaking your head as you stared down at him.

You reached a hand down to start picking him up off the floor when Helpy jolted back to life, a loud cartoon ding! playing, promptly giving you a heart attack.

As you clutched at your chest, Helpy got back to his feet and dusted himself off. He looked up to chirp at you and Mike, giving a thumbs-up with another silly little sound effect to assure you he was all good.

Well, at least you can breathe again at this point. Some Looney Tunes ass shit that Mike’s programmed here. Geez.

Michael gave Helpy a quick check-up to see what he broke but the little robot had only sustained a few scratches and a loose wire here and there, nothing major thanks to Mike’s excellent craftsmanship. Helpy was just as chipper as ever. No harm no foul.

The claw machine tests were a lot less eventful.

Well, no, that’s a lie. After the initial tests proved all four of the machines worked, it quickly became a competition to see which of you could actually win without maintenance-mode turned on.

Spoiler alert. It was Michael. The lucky bastard.

He not only won, either, he got multiple wins as you continued to try, determined to show him you could at least get one. If you were using actual money and not just Fazcoins that Mikey had a bucket of, you’d have already spent a highschool kid’s hard-earned part-timer paycheck. Good thing this is fake and the stakes are so low. But this was about honor at this point.

He leaned against the glass of the machine, smugly watching as you struggled. He had his arms crossed with that cocky smirk you noticed he had whenever you played the arcade games together. You know, in the all-of-two instances that’s happened. The colorful lights of the machine bounced off his features, giving him a bit of a glow as he snickered when you failed once again. Kinda distracting, in combination with the annoying ass carnival music the machine played. It’s kinda cheating. Yeah.

As the loud “you lose” tone played once again, Mikey laughed full-bellied, shoulders shaking, “C’mon, mate. Give up. I don’t think you’re going to do it tonight,”

“No. You shut up,” you childishly stuck your tongue out at him, “I’m going to get it this time, new strategy,”

Michael rolled his eyes, “Sure,”

He’d already won three times, so getting this one wasn’t going to win you the little war you two had. There was technically no point. But you still really really wanted to win at least once. Some kind of driving factor here. Maybe you wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face. Maybe you were trying to impress him. Who knows.

What you did know, however, was that by some miracle, the claw was actually working for you. You stared in disbelief as it dragged the stuffed animal across the air and didn’t drop it this time. You didn’t even realize you had been holding your breath until the “you win!” jingle was loudly blaring from the machine.

“…I did it?” you turned to Michael, “I did it!”

You held up your hand for a high five. He laughed and shook his head in disbelief as he met your hand with his.

“Well I’ll be,” that sounded strange coming from his accent. Mike came around to pat you on the shoulder, “you actually won,”

“You better watch out, I’ll start practicing and give you a run for your money soon,”

“Oh sure,” He bent to pick up the stuffed animal from the prize cubby to put in back in the machine, “I’m SO scare—“

In his hands lied good ol’ psychic friend Fredbear.

Oh. You kinda forgot all about him, busy with Michael. Whoops.

“…I think we should call it a night,” Michael’s voice was now devoid of all playfulness as he turned the plushy around in his hands.

“… Yeah.” you answered dumbly.

Michael started walking off, expecting you to follow. Which you did, of course. Damn. Already in some sort of routine here.

You two made your way to the restaurant’s office, of which you remembered from earlier today when Mike told you it was off-limits and you should never go in there without him. Ominous.

When he opened the door, it just got stranger. It looked like any ordinary run-of-the-mill office. As long as you looked straight forward. If you looked to either side of the room, however, there were GIGANTIC FUCKING VENTILATION OPENINGS?? Like a fully grown adult person could get in there easily without having to crawl on their belly like a snake. An elementary schooler could get in there and run around.

“What in hell—“

“Don’t ask. Explaining it would take way too much time and energy,”

“That’s cryptid as fuck but okay,” you’d pick a different battle than this.

Michael gently placed the Fredbear plushy down on top of the printer, “You comfy Fredbear?”

The stuffed bear did not answer.

“That’s great! Goodnight buddy,”

Michael pushed past you to leave but you stayed there in the doorway, transfixed on the doll. Its eyes bore into you, just like they always did. You really should bring Fredbear home with y—

“Come on!” Michael called to you from the front door.

You shook your head, trance broken, “Yeah!”

You shut the door tightly behind you, even though you knew it wouldn’t make a difference if the haunted plush wanted to be somewhere else. It was more for you than anything.

You almost ran through the door Michael was holding open for you.

Ah, but once in the car, you couldn’t help but be curious and get on Mike’s nerves. As you do.

You turned down the radio to talk, “So. You don’t want your dead baby brother’s bear in the house?”

“Absolutely not. Once you invite them in, they won’t leave you alone,”

Well, that was in fact the deal with ghosts, so you could see it, but,

“You don’t want to be haunted by your own dead brother?”

He sighed, “Look, I’ve already been there, okay? He doesn’t even— and that other little freak’s probably with him too so— I don’t— It’s not like a fun family bonding experience, Y/n,”

You could give him that. And truth be told, you were tired of living in haunted houses. At least Michael’s place seemed to only be haunted by one singular ghoul, himself. You could handle that. You weren’t sure you could handle more though, so maybe he’s right.

Maybe he’s really right. Why were you even arguing against this? Hoo boy. This godforsaken town is making you crazier already.

Speaking of more ghosts, did he say ‘that other little freak’? There’s two? Did Evan’s ghost have a friend? Strange, you had gotten the impression that the spirit was lonely, like you. And like, that’s why he’s haunting you, right? It was all just more to the mystery. And you didn’t want to be dealing with that mystery 24/7. You and Michael aren’t the Scooby-Doo gang.

“…You’re right.”

Michael sighed and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. Reaching over, he turned the radio back up.

You wanted to ask him more about the supposed second ghost, but he looked so tense, his knuckles gripping the steering wheel so tightly. Eyes locked forward. It’s probably a conversation that can be had later. It’s not like you’ll be able to forget about it.

The rest of the ride home was silent.

—

You padded out of the bathroom, now in your official “Fazbear uniform” (Just a red button up with the black jeans you had already been wearing when you rolled into town. You technically didn’t work there so it’s not like you had a uniform shirt or a nametag or any of that) and ready to start your first day at the pizzeria. The pizzeria’s first day at the pizzeria too. Excited wasn’t really the word, but you sure were feeling ready for the onslaught of opening day.

As you made your way into the kitchen, you were met with the sight of one zombie man reading the news on his laptop at the table. Dressed very nicely for the occasion, Michael had on a muted cyan button down with the addition of a gold vest and a navy tie. Dark grey slacks. You know the outfit. Hoo boy. Men in vests. Damn you wish you could wolf whistle.

“Whew-ee, someone’s looking spiffy,” you smirked as you made your way to the table, “we need to take a picture to commemorate the moment, chh-ch,” you mimed taking a snapshot.

“Stop. I look fine,” he grumbled, continuing to read the article about the zoo’s latest baby otter so he didn’t have to look at you.

You noticed that along with his name tag, which said “Manager Mike”, he also had a few vintage looking buttons displaying the faces of the characters pinned to his lapel. Cute.

You hefted yourself onto the tabletop to sit, now looking down at him, “I know. That’s what I said. You look fine,”

Mike finally pulled his attention away from the news to look up at you. He just stared, so after a while you raised your eyebrows in question. He broke away, shaking his head a bit.

“I’m sorry. I—“, he suddenly got very interested in the floor tiles, “I guess I’m just not used to compliments, genuine ones, at least,”

Dammit. You really wish Michael had a working circulatory system. What you wouldn’t give to see this man blush.

But. That’s also really sad. What’s been going on in this poor zombie man’s personal life all these years. You had a sneaking suspicion you knew, with a reaction like that. It was all too familiar.

“That’s okay.. Uh, me—me neither,” you checked your watch to avoid having to look at him this time, “Oh, we need to go. Like right now. We’ll be late,”

Michael stood up at your words, clearly eager to leave this awkward conversation, and offered you a hand to help you get down. Which you didn’t need, because like, you just had to slide off the table and onto your feet. Easy.

But that’s an excuse to hold your hand, isn’t it?

Eh. You might just be making mountains out of molehills here…

——

On the short drive to the pizzeria, Michael almost hit a dog.

Or at least. You hope it was a dog. It had to be a dog… The way it dragged its limp body away into a bush.. So unnaturally… You shivered at the thought…

Well, nevermind all that!

Things were pretty normal before the employees arrived. Just you and Mike doing some last-minute cleaning, such as vacuuming up all the gypsum flecks that had made its way to the dining room floor during reno. Once the kids did get there, though, then things got a little funny. Henry had made up a mask to help Michael blend in more with the aforementioned not-dead people. Although, you personally thought a silly white bear mask made him stick out more. But whatever works.

Oh you needed to see him interact with Helpy when he had the mask on, actually. It would be adorable.

So, about those not-dead people.

You finally got to meet Vanessa and Travis. Turns out they were real after all. Silly you for doubting.

Vanessa was a sweet girl, and very excited to start her first job because it made her feel “all grown up” as she told you while you helped her put all the chairs down in the dining room.

Apart from the regular Fazbear uniform, she had a gajillion kandi bracelets on her wrists over a pair of long fingerless gloves. Like Mike, she also had a bunch of Fazbear character buttons, but these looked much newer. Maybe she got them from her older siblings or just a goodwill in the area. Who knows. To top off the look, her fluffy blond hair had some raccoon rainbow highlights, just so her friends will think she’s dynamite~. Or something.

Travis was. Definitely a guy. Look up “white guy stock image” and then put a red Fazbear uniform shirt onto him. There you go. That’s Travis. Mike had him prepping in the kitchen, so you didn’t see much of him. And he’s probably not important, so let’s skip over him.

One person you had been waiting to meet, however, was not there. The ever-mysterious Uncle Henry. Elusive too, it seemed. You don’t know what you were picturing. Not an older Michael, since you knew Henry was the stepdad. The dad who stepped up. Maybe a humanized Freddy? Guess it’ll remain a mystery.

Right after the clock struck 10:00am, just an hour before opening, Michael came out of his office, keys in hand, muttering to himself. You watched him turn about the room to get his bearings, secretly entertained at how silly he looked in that bear mask. Once he spotted you and Vanessa, he made his way for the dining room to talk to y’all, hanging in the doorway,

“Vanessa, you’re in charge while I’m out,”

Vanessa quickly put up her hand in salute, promising that she wouldn’t let him down.

Well. Okay then. That kinda stung. He trusted this teenager more than you? Fine then y—

“Y/n, c’mon let’s go,” he waved his hand towards the door, expecting you to leave with him.

Oh. Okay… Alright. You could vibe with that. Cool mystery errand time. Hopefully it’s not something insane like hiding a body, but hey, if it was, then that means Mike extra trusts you.

Thankfully he took off that stupid bear mask while in the car. Probably way too hot to keep it on, but you liked to think that he just felt comfortable as himself around you. That being said, you get the feeling that if you had met him a little later than you did, when he was wearing the mask, he probably wouldn’t be as confident. Maybe even terrified of letting you see him like this…

Thankfully, none of that mattered.

It wasn’t too long, just about fifteen minutes, before you were pulling into the driveway of some random house in a more rural part of town. The house was pretty big and looked like it was probably fancy too once upon a time. But time had taken its toll on the place by now. A flipper would have a field day turning this thing into a soulless modern home.

Michael visibly tensed up as he pulled into the driveway. You put a hand on his shoulder, attached to the arm still strangling the steering wheel. His eyes darted to yours as you made contact, and he looked about ready to go into fight or flight, so you didn’t break it.

“Hey,” you moved your thumb slowly along his bicep, trying to calm him down, “I don’t know what’s in there, but at least you’ve got backup.”

He continued to stare you down.

You pointed to your chest, “Me. I’m the backup,”

He broke away from eye contact, shaking his head in exasperation, “Yes, I know... This— This is just a lot… I try to stay away from here as much as humanly possible,”

You rubbed his shoulder gently, as you didn’t quite know what would hurt him at this point, or at least accidentally break his skin. He had to be pretty fragile. Pretty easy to rip apart. In fact you weren’t entirely sure how he was even being held together in the first place. Magic, you guessed… or dismissed, more like it.

“I can go, uh, do whatever you need to do, so you don’t have to—,” you began.

“No,” he cut you off, “He won’t open the door for you, might try to shoot you, even. He doesn’t know you,”

“Ah, yeah, you’re right I…” you rubbed the back of your neck, “I keep forgetting none of this is any of my business… Wait, I’m sorry he might what?”

Mike let out a pained chuckle, “It’s fine,” he rubbed the bridge of his nose, “it’s not like he’s going to open the door for me either,”

Well, apparently Michael isn’t too worried about the “the person inside has a gun” part. So it’s probably fine, like he said. Probably…

Man, you’ve been putting a lot of trust in a zombie you met like three days ago.

Hmmm. Well. It’s not like you have anything to lose here. At least when you die it can be on Buzzfeed Unsolved.

Michael knocked very loudly and deliberately on the door, and then rang the doorbell in what could be presumed was a pattern, but maybe it was just random bell spam because he was angry. No one came to open the door, but you heard a lot of scuffling about from behind it.

Mike pulled out his cell phone and started calling. It apparently took too long for the other person to pick up, as he rolled his eyes in impatience.

“Yes, it’s really me. Open the bloody door.”

He aggressively pressed [End Call]. You could tell this man missed having a physical receiver to slam the phone into.

“Did you just have to Two-Factor Authentication this motherfucking door?”

Michael’s deep sigh gave you all the information you needed. Okay, so maybe you are doing an Insane Errand.

The door swung open swiftly, revealing a dark room beyond it. Kinda reminded you of the spring-loaded quickness of the entrance to a possum trap. You actually didn’t want to go in there, you know because of the threatening aura, but Michael boldly walked right in, unbothered. You followed, disciple that you are at this point.

The first thing you noticed was the smell. It was reminiscent of Mike’s place, dust and motor oil and smoke and stale beer. And thus, like Mike’s place, there was a sense of nostalgia to it.

Second, it was pretty dark, but what you did see of the furniture was dated. It was like this place was a time capsule. The living room looked as if it were imported straight from the 70’s. And just like Mike’s place it was covered in various mechanical parts and half-assed machines. Prototypes, as they were called in proper English.

And then you noticed the feral old man holding a whole ass crossbow. At least it wasn’t pointed at you but. Damn. Perhaps Mr. Henry Emily? Considering Mike told you he doesn’t have that large of a social circle. Still. This could be a dealer. You never know.

This heavily armed senior citizen was disheveled, with oil stains on his clothes. The way he stood, ready to flee or pounce at any sudden movement, reminded you of a cat. One of those big fluffy cats that could use a good brushing.

Michael sighed, “I suppose it’s stupid to ask but do you think you could work the restaurant for the weekend? We’re short-staffed and I need all the help I can get.”

Mr. crossbow left a pregnant pause with an icy glare, “… I think we both know why that’s a bad idea, Michael,” he gestured towards you, “Besides, you’ve got an extra hand with Mx. L/n here,”

Okay. So context clues here are really pointing towards Henry. At least you hoped. Although, this wasn’t exactly the cordial man you had been picturing. The kinda man who walks around in a yellow bear suit and talks to kids in a goofy voice. That man was not present at the moment. Even as you stood in his dark and dusty bear cave. It's like that with bears, you guess. You linger too long, or hurt their cubs, or just for the hell of it and suddenly, you were dead. But-- no. Even now, Henry Emily didn't look like the kind of man to kill for the hell of it. Not a polar bear, then.

“A person with a single day of training will be nowhere near as useful as you would,” Michael shot you an apologetic look in an afterthought, “No offense Y/n,”

“None taken!” you weren’t gonna pretend like you were a hot new player in the pizzeria game.

Michael ran an exhausted hand through his hair, “It would just be a lot less stressful if you were there, just briefly. Just through the rushes.”

“Those are the worst times. Think of the foot traffic.” Mr. Crossbow crossed his arms. He looked pretty cross. (ouchie stop throwing stuff at me I’ll stop okay)

Mike took a calming breath with his hands clasped tight in front of him, and yeah, you couldn’t blame him. That was quite literally a ‘yes that’s the whole point’ statement.

“Look, you can work the kitchen the entire time, that way you only have to interact with a few people,” he pleaded.

Henry grumbled, “You know Jeremy never complained when he was short-staffed.”

“Jeremy’s MISSING HIS FRONTAL LOBE,”

Uh. Hopefully that’s unrelated to his position as a Fazbear employee. But you know it’s not. Not even a ‘deep down you knew’ nah the shallowest part of you knows.

You glanced over at Michael again, all undead and stuff. Shit…

“You know what? FINE.” Mike announced as he stalked off towards the kitchen, “where are the damn tapes?” which was perhaps a rhetorical question as he clearly knew they were in the kitchen.

And this left you alone with Henry. Or at least, you thought it was Henry. Probably should ask. You know, like a real person does.

“Henry Emily, I presume?” you held out your hand.

He eyed you suspiciously. Shit. If this ain’t him that’s awkward. At least he shook your hand.

“You would be correct, Y/n L/n,” oh thank God.

“I’m crashing at Mike’s place for a bit,”

“So I’ve heard,” he looked you up and down, like he was taking measurements for your coffin, “… Y/n M/n L/n. twenty-[X]-year-old runaway, far from home. 15-year-old car, not running a tab at any motel. You don’t have a cell phone on you, do you?”

“Um, no?”

“No one knows where you are.” A statement, not a question.

“Uhh—” this was starting to get creepier.

“There was only five, right?” Oh blessed Michael the angel here to rescue you.

“That’s all of them.” Henry replied shortly like he wasn’t just listing out all the reasons they could bury you in the backyard tomorrow without drawing any suspicion whatsoever.

You held out your hands to take some of the tapes Mike was carrying. They didn’t look heavy or anything, but you really needed something to do with your hands. And you needed to feel useful right now. For some unknown reason. He passed a couple to you, sensing this.

“Alright, c’mon Y/n, let’s go,”

You freed up a hand to wave to Henry, “It was nice meeting you, sir,” you lied.

“Likewise,”

“Yeah, bye Henry,” Michael didn’t look back as he shepherded you towards the door.

How much of that did he hear, you wonder. Probably all of it. It wasn’t that big of a house.

“I’m sorry about that,”

Yeah, Mikey heard.

“Um,” you didn’t know how to phrase this politely, “He wasn’t like, threatening me, right?”

Michael made a noncommittal gesture, “Honestly? He could totally have been. But he also just talks like that normally. So who knows,”

“I would like to know,”

He playfully shook his head, “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably fine.”

“Probably isn’t—sigh. Okay,” again, at least you’ll wind up on Buzzfeed Unsolved, “Well, do you think he liked me at all?”

“That I also have no clue about,”

“Then I choose to believe that he thought I was the coolest person in his dark cave of a living room,”

Michael chuckled and rolled his eyes, “Oh, I’m sure that’s true. In those exact words too,”

The pizzeria came in view. Still in one piece and not on fire. So far so good. No immediate disaster. Vanessa did a good job as acting manager. In the all-of-forty-five minutes she was in charge—

Uh. Perhaps you jinxed her, because as soon as you two walked through the door, Vanessa came running into the room like the world’s most nervous cheetah. And that’s saying something, cheetahs are naturally nervous. Her blonde hair was in disarray, little rainbow sprigs sticking out here and there.

“Oh good! You guys are back!”

Her cheerful tone died, “Please help us.”

#michael afton x reader #fnaf x reader #michael afton x male reader #michael afton #fnaf #fnaf fanfic #my writing #five nights at freddy's #mike shmidt x reader

24 notes · View notes

randomthefox · 5 months ago

Text

If I were to have for example

An evil bento boy

I would base him off of Infinite x3

Edgy bratty masked boy

The evil bento boy being a bratty masked preyboy

Causing fucking trouble

Tantalizing preds into doing stuff for him and whatever

pred gangs are the pred end of the food chain imbalance spectrum, Infinite Bento Boy would be the prey end of the food chain power imbalance

Evil Bento Boy 👀

like a chronic tease, never letting the pred swallow them

Blue bellying guttease

Fucking stringing them along and leading them on and then letting them go hungry

Making the hangry problem even worse

Evil Bento Boys being all fucking selfish n shit in direct contrast to the good Bento Boys

"All you're doing is making things better for predators! Feeding them with our Bento magic. Making them happy. But that isn't doing jack squat for all those prey in the city who are going uneaten you know! Isn't it true that before you became a Bento Boy, you had never been eaten once? It's like that for plenty of prey, either they go uneaten or they just get enslaved by greedy thug preds. How's anything you're doing helping THEM? Why the hell should we be making preds lives better and neglecting our fellow prey? >=/ "

I also had a funny idea that the boss fight against the evil Bento Boy would have a funny "first attempt" comedy bit where they go "wait, our usual methods of placating preds isn't going to work on him because he's not a pred >.> " "Yeah you're right... Guess we should just beat him up =o "

And the first menu option would change to "combat" instead of what it usually is lol. And then after the first attack the Bento boy would be like "owww what the fuck did you just punch me in the face?! Fine then I guess I'll have to punch you back!"

And then the actual boss fight would start lol

And all that would be skipped on repeat attempts x3

Cuz I imagine him as like an optional secret boss

Just like, the one fight where everyone is collectively throwing hands instead of being magical boys

Zoom out and it's just four sissy boys slap fighting

#bento boys #bento boy #mochi mouse #hazel #magical boy oc #discussing vore #v0re #soft vore #magical boys #magical boy

10 notes · View notes

margowritesthings · 2 years ago

Text

Fate: A Word Meaning Destiny

PART I

PART II BY @cowboydisaster COMING SOON

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!readersummary: you're a ranch-hand, when your home is attacked by bandits. a mysterious stranger comes to save your life, but who is he? word count: 11.9k words warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING, I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION, violence, murder, attempted sexual assault, sexual relations, fingering (r receiving), penetration, loss of virginity, mentions of virginity, talk of trauma a/n: here it is!! finally!! this is the longest piece I've ever written, and I'm so fuckin proud of it!! It is a collaboration with the incredible @cowboydisaster, who will be releasing part 2 when it's ready!! I worked so hard on this, so I hope you love it!! <3

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @beea-nie @cloudynoiire@punctillous @missvanderlinde @twola @pine4pple-b0i @alice-vanderlinde @photo1030

The day started and progressed like any other, with absolutely no indication that your life would be changed forever until it did. Free time slipped through the cracks in your packed schedule of chores while the sun rose and fell again, casting brilliant orange and pink hues across the sky you now sit in awe of on the porch of your lodgings. Your muscles ache from a full day's work, but it’s a satisfying sensation, one begat from happy horses, milked cows, and a fence fixed by your own hand. Sure, your work earned a mere grumble from Mr. Varner, but throughout the 6 months you’ve worked on the ranch, he has never once had a conversation not directed at your breasts, so you’re not too upset to not have received praise tonight.

Honestly, you’re just glad to be able to relax. The ranch hands rarely speak to one another outside of work, and there isn’t a damn thing to do around here, but it’s better than shovelling shit in the sweltering heat. You’ve even got a glass of fresh apple juice, a rare delicacy to celebrate the end of the week.

Every so often, when the breeze dies down and each animal agrees to quiet, there is an almost absolute silence surrounding you, and you close your eyes to bask in it. This moment would be the perfect time for a feeling or an intuition that everything is about to change, but it doesn’t come. You feel nothing but peace. Years from now, when you look back to this night, you’ll be grateful that the sense of foreboding didn’t hit you until it was too late, knowing these are the very last moments of the life you once knew.

The first sense that something is wrong doesn’t come until the gunshots dart through the darkening coral sky and scatter the birds out into it. Your brows pull together, eyes squinting to search for the origin of the disruption to your peace. They’re distant, for now, but the silhouette against the horizon is unmistakably coming closer to the ranch, rifles and pistols pointed to the heavens by a group of men whooping and cheering as they ride straight towards you.

Everything seems to slow but your racing heart, and it feels like hours between your drink leaving your grasp and the glass shattering all over the porch. Shards disperse over the wood, along with the golden liquid pooled at your feet. In the mere seconds you spend glancing at the floor, the group has advanced and the time you have to figure out what the hell you’re going to do has quickly declined. You’ve heard of gangs hitting up ranches for supplies, heard stories of outlaws on benders pillaging and hunting people simply because they can, but it never crossed your mind to be worried about it. Whenever your momma told you all about the criminals hiding just past the horizon, you’d roll your eyes, chalking it up to a cautionary tale to get you to stay close to the house. Now, your heart hammers against your chest as you realise that if you don’t act now, you’ll become one of those stories, passed down to worry children into obedience. I knew a girl once, shot by bandits for taking too long to hide…

Not today.

The fear of becoming folklore finally overtakes the fear that has paralysed you for what feels like hours and hours, letting you stand and rush into your cabin, shutting the door behind you. Shaking hands reach for the wooden chair by the tiny kitchen, sliding it across the floorboards and hooking it underneath the handle to barricade the door. It won’t keep anybody out for long, but will at least warn you if someone is trying to get in.

Your cabin is small, made up of only one room, and while you’ve always thought it was cozy, right now it feels claustrophobic. The gunshots and laughter are getting louder and you’re scared. Your Momma spent so long teaching you how to stay away from outlaws, but she never told you what to do when they found you. You have nothing but a kitchen knife, which you clutch close to your chest as your eyes frantically dart around your room, searching for anything else you can use to protect yourself. There is nothing, thanks to a minimalism forced upon you by a barely livable wage. You can afford to feed yourself, just about, but life saving luxuries like weaponry or a heavy bookshelf are out of the question, so here you are, back against the log wall, a measly blade normally used for bread gripped close to your body.

Hooves pound against the dirt outside and you swear the ground shakes beneath you. You can hear everything so clearly: spurs clicking against stirrups, heavy boots on the earth, sneering men reloading their guns and thankfully walking towards the main house instead of the smaller cabins you and the other ranch hands reside in. Back pressed against the wall, you wait until the voices dwindle, before you peer out of the little window to get a better view. Some of the fences are already smashed in, including the one you’d just fixed, and somebody has opened all the gates, letting cows and chickens and horses run free amongst the chaos. They’ve reached Mr. Varner’s door, kicking it down with a thud that echoes around the whole ranch. Two of the outlaws go inside, emerging after only a few seconds with Varner’s collar firmly in their grasp. They throw him to the floor and he falls to his knees, and even though you’re at the other side of the ranch, you can see the absolute terror in his eyes. He’s vibrating with fear and you’re not much better, especially when the supposed leader of the group begins to reload his pistol.

You can’t hear his pleas, and even the people who can hear them aren’t listening. The leader lifts his arm, finger resting on the trigger. You’ve heard gunshots before, but none that shake the Earth quite so much as this one.

You don’t hear Mr Varner’s last words, and the aftermath of his murder couldn’t possibly outmatch the ringing in your ears as your chest heaves with pure panic. They killed him. They killed him, and there is absolutely nothing stopping them from coming for you next.

“No… no no no no- fuck!” you whisper to yourself, to any deity out there who might be listening, hoping that they don’t mind the colourful language. You have to get out of here, lest this ranch become your grave. Tears prick at your eyes while your brain works ten thousand miles a second. You’ve retreated back to the floor, not wanting to be spotted by wandering eyes while the outlaws start to ransack Varner’s house.

Your eyes wander desperately around the room, finding only the small window above your bed. It leads out back, so they wouldn’t be able to see you escape, and if you’re stealthy enough you might just be able to make it to the barn. If you’re not, they will find you and surely kill you, but at least the choice of where you’ll die would be in your hands. A small dignity, but a dignity nonetheless that you grasp to with all your might. Most of the horses have fled after the shock of the gunshot that killed your employer, but if you’ve counted correctly there should still be a couple in the barn that you could escape on.

It takes exactly six deep breaths to quell the shaking of your joints enough to stand, stash your knife in your boot and make your way over to your former bed. From the corner of the room, you take a second to look upon your home, knowing it’ll be the last time you see it whether you live or die here. There really isn’t much, but a sad fondness lingers. Everything looks rosier through the lens of somebody being forced out of their home for fear of death.

The window sticks to its frame like it’s covered in treacle, and for one awful second you fear that it won’t budge open, but a desperate push manages to force it just enough to fit you through. Your boots hit the ground with a soft thud and you peer around the corner to find the gang still pulling any valuables they can find from the main house. It’s enough distraction for you to run as swiftly and quietly as you can, tunnel vision stopping anything but your destination from infiltrating your thoughts. With the way the ranch is laid out, you can’t get in through the door without being seen, but you can get to the back of the wooden structure and in through another window, where you will hopefully have more options for getting out of this alive.

When you reach your destination, you don’t even think twice about using your elbow to smash the window in on itself when you realise there’s no hinge. The crack of glass is loud, but nowhere near loud enough to beat the hollering and whooping of the gang. Shards slice through your shirt and skin, crimson quickly pouring from fresh cuts but you hardly notice. It’s pure adrenaline that drags you through the freshly made entrance, and you land on a pile of hay that is quickly decorated with splatters of your own blood.

You’re in.

And you’re alone.

It feels like your fate becomes sealed, shut up with a lock and key you can no longer reach. There are no horses here. There’s no way in hell you can outrun a bullet, nor any man with a horse of their own, so you’re faced with the only option left: hoping they don’t notice you. There’s a chance they’ll go for the cabins over the barn, going after the other ranch hands and their measly belongings instead of piles upon piles of hay. It’s not a chance you’d like to bet your life on, but you no longer seem to have the luxury choice. Your frame fits into a gap in the hay, hidden by a ladder and some crates. For the first time in your life, you’re grateful for your messy colleagues not cleaning up properly. You curl into as small a ball as you can, wrapping your limbs around each other as if it will protect you. You won’t let yourself cry, even after more gunshots start to shatter the air around you. It sounds like they’re getting louder, and you can almost picture a great big flashing percentage chance you’ll survive this decline by the second right above your head.

Your chest tightens to the point that breath can no longer move around in it when the large barn doors creak open, the streak of light cast on the dusty floor almost bright red in hue now. The skies are on fire, your equilibrium in flames as two of the bandits saunter into your makeshift sanctuary.

“See, I told you. Just a buncha’ hay, ain’t even no horses.”

“Just shut up and search over there, bastard could’a kept his stash anywhere.”

You’d snort if you weren’t so debilitatingly terrified, if it wouldn’t be the very act that had you murdered. Varner could barely scrape enough money together to pay you on time and still have his nightly whiskey, there was no way in hell he’d leave a stash of cash lying around in here. But they weren’t to know that, how could they? Who knows what he told them to try and save his own skin.

Spurs scrape across the floor, creating a noise that makes your skin crawl, getting louder and louder as one of the men approaches. You hold your breath until your vision blurs in the corner and you can feel your struggling pulse in your temple, but it is futile. You see his boots first, and somehow force yourself to drag your eyes up his body, finding poorly patched up jeans, an empty holster hanging by his hip, a deep green waistcoat clasped close with a silver chain, long, greasy, graying hair, and an expression you’re sure will burned into your darkest nightmares for the rest of your life. His grin feels as though somebody is pouring acid over your back. Neither shivers nor chills truly justify whatever happens to your skin when the stranger lifts his ivory pistol to you.

Because you refuse to let the tears pooled in your eyes fall, they tremble in droplets along your waterline, your sight flicking between straight down the barrel and back to its wielder.

“Ain’t no stash, but I sure caught me a pretty treasure…”

Logically, it could only have been a second of silence, but time hasn’t worked right for you since you were on that porch, far away from danger. To you, there’s hours. Hours of watching a monster reach for you in slow motion, claws digging into the flesh of your arm with a bruising force. It feels like he tears your skin apart, and if you didn’t know your wounds had come from the shattered window you’d believe the deep gashes were his doing. You scream loudly, half from the sheer panic, half in agony as your blood coats his hands and he drags you across the floor by your injured arm. It doesn’t phase him, at least it doesn’t seem to. Your scream is a droplet in an ocean of pain and terror inflicted by him, it simply joins the chorus of victims you hope haunts him when he’s alone at night.

You kick and claw, but it serves little but to amuse the bastard, who chuckles lowly at your writhing, waving his equally greasy companion over with his pistol.

“Hey, Timmy! Look here what I got!”

It doesn’t take Timmy long to walk over, sneering at you while you try your hardest to do nothing but glare. Your knife feels all too present tucked in your boot, but you know if you tried to grab it now they’d shoot you dead.

“Ain’t she a purty thing, Ace?”

“W-What do you want from me?” You ask, swallowing the rock forming in your throat down, “I ain’t got no money- I-I ain’t got nothin’, just let me go.”

“Oh, you’ve got somethin’, pretty little thing you are…”

No…

The smirk Timmy and Ace share tells you everything you need to know. It feels like your chest is about to crack open from the way your heart pounds against it, longing for release from your body just as much as you are right now. There is nobody to scream for help, no way out, and even if you did escape the barn there’s at least ten more outlaws waiting outside with just as much intention on you as the ones looking at you like a meal in here.

You will never forget your own scream when Ace lunges for you. The taste of cigarette ash and gunpowder on your lips when he clamps his hand over your mouth will be ingrained in your senses forever. The tears finally fall down your cheeks, mixing in with your own blood from your arm as you try and claw at Ace’s arm. It’s fruitless, as even if you could match his strength, Timmy is right there behind him to grasp your arm and pull it painfully behind your head.

“Who’s goin’ first then? I reckon she’s a wriggler, one of us’ll have to hold her.”

“Quit squealin’, I can’t hear myself think!” Ace demands, landing a swift punch to your gut that really doesn’t help the nausea. You can barely feel the pain of anything, so consumed in your panic that you could probably have been shot and wouldn’t notice. Hell, you’d prefer getting shot to having these men’s hands on your body for a second longer. His hand isn’t enough of a barrier to stop the ear splitting noises completely, only dull them a little, but they still don’t deter either man.

“You don’t ever think, what’s the difference?” “Shut up, dumbass, and hold her down proper!”

Their teasing would have floored you, if you weren’t already pinned there. They speak as if mocking each other in the saloon, as if it’s another day, while they hold your life in their hands. If you live to see the end of today, you’ll never forget it. This trauma is one to be carried until the end of your days, and they act like it is merely just another Thursday.

Vehement screams intensify when one set of hands, you don’t know which, begin to pull at your shirt, exposing your shoulders more with each seam that rips. Your eyes are screwed shut, wanting to close off as many senses as you can as the tears freely fall down your cheeks. Their touch feels like acid, bubbling and burning on your skin. You try to bite down, but Ace’s grip is too tight. You try to kick at him, but from his vantage point it is easy to swerve. It seems your fate is sealed, and your heart breaks in a way that can never be truly fixed, a way that changes the course of the remainder of your life. You’ll think back, eventually, and wonder if it would have been different had he arrived just minutes earlier, but he didn’t. He doesn’t. He arrives now, emerging from the fiery sunset like an angel disguised as a demon.

You don’t spot him until Ace falls to the floor, clubbed over the head with the handle of the peacemaker held by the mysterious stranger. You don’t know what to do, who to be scared of and who to be grateful for, he could well just want you all to himself. But when he spots you, covered in blood, sweat and tears, that petrified look in your eyes, the surprise is evident in his features. There’s only a split second for the two of you to exchange confused glances, before Timmy lets go of your arms to grab his own pistol and point it at your saviour. You’re not the only one this man’s intense presence is affecting, it seems, with the way Timmy’s sweaty hands start to shake.

“H-Hey! She’s ours, mister. Get your own!”

That seems to piss him off, a low growl emitting from deep in his chest.

“She ain’t nobody’s. Let her go. Can’t get your own ladies without forcin’ yourself on one, huh? Makes sense I guess, lookin’ at you two…”

There isn’t anything holding you down anymore, but you’re frozen to the spot, pinned down to the floor by the sheer energy of this stranger with the chiselled jaw and the most striking ocean coloured eyes you’ve ever seen in your life peering out from under his gambler’s hat. His face is cast in shadows from the brim, but you can tell he’s handsome, right down to the rugged scar on his chin. You have no idea who he is, but something tells you to trust him.

You’re so lost in him that you don’t notice Ace waking up from his brief stint of unconsciousness, grasping at a handful of your hair to pull your body flush against his on the floor, craning your neck to fit his pistol under your chin. All you can do is claw at his wrist, leaving rosy scratches on his skin that don’t appear to bother him in the least. There’s a sharp pain shooting from your neck down your spine thanks to the strain he is forcing on your vertebrae, which forces a whimper from you. You’re truly stuck in the crossfires, with Timmy’s gun pointing at the stranger, who is pointing his barrel at Ace, who has his pistol right up against your chin, leaving indents of the metalwork in your skin from the pressure of it.

“You drop that gun, or I’ll blow her pretty little head off, ya hear? Drop it!” Ace demands, shoving the weapon even further into your flesh to prove his point. You can’t help the tear that escapes when he does so, this awful reminder of your mortality prodding oh so painfully into your jaw. The stranger only thinks about it for a fraction of a second, holding one hand out in a surrender, while the other leans down to place his peacemaker on the floor slowly.

“Alright, easy.” His tone is much calmer than before, his eyes never leaving yours despite everything going on around the two of you. You’re terrified, and he knows it, but even though you’ve never met before this moment, the way he looks at you soothes you, almost like you’re conversing with no words spoken at all, “We can all put our weapons down and talk, huh?”

Ace seems to relax at the sight of the stranger disarming himself, which you can tell by the way his grip on your hair slackens a little. It’s still mighty uncomfortable, and having his clammy hands all over you makes you want to cut your skin off with a-

Kitchen knife.

The metal of the weapon you’re just remembering burns into the skin of your ankle, glowing like the bright white light to freedom. If you play this right, it could be. There’s always the chance you could mess up and get blown to pieces, but if the choice is that or more of having to breathe the same air as these scum bandits, you’re willing to take your chances.

The good lord seems to smile down on you for the first time today when He wills both Ace and Timmy to reach for the discarded peacemaker at the same time, leaving them distracted enough for you to throw your weight into elbowing Ace in the gut and grab the knife from its makeshift holster.

Time slows again, the next few seconds playing out like confusing hours, the four of you a mess of limbs as everyone attempts their separate feats. Timmy goes for the gun, while Ace recovers his breath enough to try and wrestle the blade out of your hand. The mystery man boots Timmy in the face, knocking him out cold and out of the way, and he manages to kick the peacemaker out of anybody's reach too. You don’t see what happens next, as Ace pins you to the ground, slapping you hard across the face. The shock causes you to drop the knife, which he swiftly recovers, raising it high above your head with a maniac, unhinged grin on his face. For a moment, you’re almost glad of the fate you see sealing before you, as you’re sure that image would have haunted you for the rest of your days anyway.

They say that life is supposed to flash before your eyes in your final moments, a speedrun of your best and worst moments laid out before you while you take your final breaths, but it isn’t your past you see when you realise that this is how your story is going to end, your own damn kitchen knife about to be plunged into your chest. No, you don’t see what has happened, you see everything that could no longer be. You see the ranch you’ll never own for yourself one day, the children you’ll never get the chance to bear, the wedding you’ll never attend… You let your dreams go in that moment, watching them fly further than you ever will again.

You shut your eyes tight, determined to block out the horrendous last view you think you’ll ever have, so you don’t actually see your knight in dusty leather throw his body into your attacker. His weight is no match for scrawny Ace, who hits the floor with a thud. The stranger grapples at Ace’s throat while he splutters helplessly. When you see him lift the knife, after managing to sit yourself up and slide out of the way, you shout out, but it is too late. Ace impales the man in the shoulder and he cries out, though it comes out as more of a growl. You wince at the sight of it as the stranger pulls together all the adrenaline from being stabbed to punch Ace in the nose. The crack seems to echo in the chaos, followed by a quiet just not possible when the two bandits were conscious.

The fire in your lungs burns hot, your chest struggling to contain the breaths you’d resigned yourself to never take again as your mind starts to attempt to catch up. It is just you and this man now, both wounded and covered in blood, neither knowing what exactly to say next. You pray your intuition to trust this man is right, though with the way he looks at you, you’re sure he couldn’t mean harm to you even at gunpoint.

You look like a deer caught by a rifle, wide eyed and unable to move save for the frantic shaking you can’t seem to stop. The man winces as he removes the knife from out of his shoulder, but you’re so desensitised to everything right now that the sight of blood running down his arm and pooling through his shirt doesn’t bother you.

“It’s alright now, Miss. They won’t wake up for a while yet, you’re safe.” He speaks while reaching for his gun, worried, tired eyes never leaving you, “They hurt you?”

The shock has paralysed your tongue and slammed your jaw shut, your molars grinding together near painfully, but you manage to shake your head. They did manage to get a few hits in, but besides a slightly winded feeling in your gut and a slinging where you were slapped, the wounds they left are far more intangible. Spiritual.

He watches the trauma immobilize you, and you see his heart break for you, right in the crease between his eyebrows and the way his features soften, “Hey, sweetheart, it’s alright. It’s gonna be alright, I promise.” He approaches you, slowly, holding his empty hands out in an act of surrender to you. When you don’t flinch or move away after his first step towards you, he continues his journey to you, good arm gently wrapping around your frame, careful not to bleed on you or harm your own wounds, “Shh, you’re safe. I’ve got you’.”

The comedown comes hard, the sobs erupting from your lips nearly the second you feel his touch on you. It all becomes real, hitting you, body and soul, like a freight train, crushing your bones and spirit like they’re nothing.

“They-they-” “I know, I know… it’s okay. I’ll get you outta here, I promise. You got someplace else to go?”

You shake your head, sniffling to attempt to gain control over the sobs wracking your body. Using the circles this man is rubbing into your back and his soothing words as a compass, you find your way back to him.

“It’s alright, miss. I’ll get us outta here. You okay to ride on my horse for a while?”

You nod, starting to feel the true sting that smashing a window with your bare hand should incite without adrenaline numbing your senses. The tears wet your cheeks, mixing in with god knows whose blood splattered across your features like crimson freckles. You feel a warm, calloused thumb pad rub a tear track away, before the stranger stands and extends his hand out to you. Both of you have injured your left side, so interlink your right hand fingers so he can help you to your feet. Standing is hard when it feels like your bones igniting and shattering through your flesh, but you manage with the help of this man’s strength.

“I took care of those guys outside, but the law could be here any minute. Boadicea’s just outside- don’t let her size fool you, she’s friendly enough. We’ll get you somewhere safe, alright? Figure out what to do next…” He guides you outside with an arm around your shoulder, whistling a stunning chestnut Hungarian half-bred over to you. He mounts the mare, patting her on the neck and murmuring “Good girl,” into her ear.

On a better day, you’re more than capable enough to mount a horse by yourself, but you just can’t bring yourself to deny the man when holds an arm out to you. You fit perfectly behind him, your chest moulding against his hard back, wrapping one arm around his waist. Despite the whirring in your mind of everything that just transpired, you manage to pick out that he smells like a wonderful mix of whiskey and tobacco. Normally, you can’t stand either of them, far too strong and smoky for your tastes, but somehow it suits this man. You cling to him while he kicks Boadicea into a gallop, inhaling in his scent and letting it soothe you. The wind whips your skin and you shiver, glancing back only once at your former life, watching the flames lick at Varner’s house as it crumbles to the ground. It’s spreading fast, and you can’t imagine Timmy and Ace will wake in time to escape before the barn is taken. Ironic, that their demise will come from their own destruction.

It’s a near silent ride, where all your energies have to be put into not breaking down all over again. You know that if you start to cry, you just won’t stop. Everyone you know is dead, you’ve lost your job, your home, and almost had a part of yourself stolen that you’ve never freely given to anybody before. It’s too much, but you force yourself to focus on anything but. You think about the feel of this man’s shirt on your cheek, the way the muscles of his back ripple beneath your supple chest each time he moves to ride Boadicea. You hear the occasional wince, especially until he senses you’re far enough away from the ranch to slow down a little. He’s hurt, clearly an outlaw in his own right, and you struggle to understand why exactly he’s helping you instead of protecting his own back and leaving you there in the flames. But you’re too tired to be skeptical, running completely on empty.

Boadicea carries the two of you into the woods. It’s getting dark, and you’re surprised at how well she navigates the trees and branches, following the winding path until you reach a clearing.

“Here alright?” Your saviour asks, glancing over his good shoulder at you. You nod wordlessly, still clutching right onto his waist despite the fact you’re now stationary.

He dismounts first, holding both arms out to you despite the clear pain written across his face. You dismount Boadicea, the front of your body sliding down the mystery man’s thanks to how close he’s standing. Your legs still feel like jelly, but you somehow manage to stay standing.

“I’ll set up a tent. You know how to make a fire, sweetheart?” He asks, starting to rifle through a satchel he wears across his body. You nod again and take the flint and steel he’s offering out to you. Your hands brush, sending a shiver down your arm.

While he uses just one hand to hammer some tall branches into the ground to hang the canvas from, you set up the fire, finding enough dry wood around to not have to wander far at all. It isn’t long before you’re both sitting beside the fire, a makeshift roof over your head while the stranger plucks some items from his satchel.

Your wounds appear to have stopped bleeding, leaving dark pools of a near maroon hue seeping through your shirt around gashes that wind around your flesh like ivy. You didn’t get the chance to properly look before, too engulfed in panic to notice how deep they are.

In the glow of the firelight, the lines etched into your saviour's face seem harsher, telling the tales of the pain he’s in and betraying the heroic facade he’s so clearly trying to put on for you. You know it all too well right now as your arm throbs, a stinging, aching mess of sensation that scrunches your nose up as you try to flex your fingers.

“You’re hurt.” He states, watching you intently as your hand shakes from the strain,

“I’m okay.” You manage, the very first words you’ve spoken since being back at the ranch, “I had to smash a window in to get to the barn. Figured there’d be something in there to help me, but…” you trail off as he nods knowingly.

“Can I help you with your arm? I ain’t no doctor, but I’ve had enough scrapes through the years to know what to do.” He offers and you nod, trusting him more than you have the sense to. You don’t even know his name.

The man moves slowly over to sit beside you, the heat of the flames and the closeness between you setting your cheeks alight. You don’t really understand it, you just got assaulted by bandits, and yet all you want to do is shuffle closer and bury yourself into this one, letting everything melt away while he tells you it’s gonna be alright.

His hands are upturned to the stars, awaiting your arm which you give him without question. There’s a tugging need to trust him deep down in your gut that allows you to do whatever he asks of you.

When he looks over the torn, stained fabric of your shirt, his brows pull together. The mud and paint from the ranch is barely noticeable for all the blood, but neither of you can really see the cuts to your skin.

“Shall I take it off?” you offer, not particularly eager to undress but smart enough to know he can’t help you without.

“‘Fraid you might have to, miss. You can trust me, I ain’t nothin’ like them men, I promise.”

“I trust you.”

Your words are spoken so quickly, barely audible, but they still echo around the tiny space the pair of you occupy. You start at the bottom button, knowing that it will start to hurt when you reach the halfway mark because you need to bend your arm. He notices your discomfort, probably in the way your bottom lip slips between your teeth and your jaw flutters when you grind your teeth together to have another sensation to focus on.

“Let me.” he mumbles, a hint of a growl catching his low voice. You let your hand drop back to a comfortable position to do as he says. It feels as though your breath gets stuck in your chest when the hardened skin of his hand brushes over your belly and the contact burns through your chemise. The tension in the air is palpable, both suffocating you and keeping you breathing just so you can experience whatever is to come.

You’re both silent as he works the buttons through their tiny holes, looking like a giant manoeuvring something so delicate. You can easily get the shirt off one shoulder, but he has to help with the other, his hand sliding down your arm with the pooling fabric before he can carefully peel the shirt away from you and discard it to the floor.

The air chills your skin, leaving goose pimples scattered all over you. You feel exposed, but somehow not uncomfortable. Your chemise is a simple one, with a bodice that clings to each curve unseen by another. And yet here you sit, in front of a nameless man who swallows thickly as he tries to keep his eyes trained on your injuries.

“You got a name, mister?” You manage, watching him rip up a bandana he found in his satchel and dousing it in water from a flask. He seems to hesitate, before eventually answering without meeting your eye.

“Call me Callahan, for now.”

For now?

“That a first name or a last name?”

It looks as though he hesitates for a moment, before he starts to clean your wounds and the blood begins to flake off your skin.

“S’just a name.”

Strange answer. Evasive answer, but if he truly is an outlaw going round town rescuing strangers from bandits, it makes sense to not go around advertising who you are.

You wince at a particularly deep cut and Callahan apologises, renewing his efforts to clean your arm as if restoring an antique painting that could tear apart at any moment. It stings, but you handle it. It’s nothing compared to what you’ve already experienced today.

“How ‘bout you, miss?”

You pause, for the first time in your life not quite knowing how to answer such a simple question. Of course you have a name, but it feels wrong to twist your tongue to say it. It no longer fits you, like a jacket worn long before you truly grew into yourself. Your name belongs to a woman who lives on a ranch and loves nothing more than a fresh painted fence and a glass of ice cold apple juice… but she doesn’t exist anymore. She died in the barn, along with that fierce naïveté you’ve held so close to your chest for your whole life, the one that believes in the world and the kindness in it, the one that thinks you work hard in life to earn your place and that goodness will be rewarded. It’s all gone, replaced with the images of Varner’s skull shattered across his own land, his life's work up in flames at the hands of men who refuse to follow the right path.

In the end, you give him your name, knowing deep down that it will be the last time you ever use it. Every single person who knew it, your family, employer, friends… they’re all dead anyway. And now so are you. To the world, the young girl they knew perished in the barn fire.

“S’a pretty name.” he mumbles, seemingly pulled into the focus needed to not hurt you again. He’s good, really good at patching up wounds, you notice, despite his calloused hands being so huge. With the concentration etched across his face, and him sitting so close to you, you can finally get a proper look at him. Those ocean eyes you noticed back in the barn are just as stunning without being the last thing you think you’ll ever see, framed with little crows feet at the corners of his lids. His face is tanned, scattered with light freckles you don’t think you would have noticed if not for the privilege of being so close to him. He has sandy hair and stubble that covers his whole jawline, save for that little scar on his chin. He is without doubt the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, body and soul, and you feel your heart fluttering against your ribcage and your skin tingling at his contact.

He expertly ties strips of the bandanna around your arm, and while the pressure stings, it also feels a lot less like your flesh is being pulled apart.

“I think you’re gonna be alright, miss. Might scar, they’re mighty deep, but they’ll heal well enough with time.”

“T-Thank you.” You stutter, holding your arm out to survey his handiwork.

“Don’t mention it.” He dismisses, though you notice he doesn’t move any further away from you. You’re glad for it.

“No, not just this… everything. Thank you. I didn’t get the chance to say it back there, but… I think you saved my life. And saved me from a far worse fate than death, I… I’ll never be able to thank you enough.” You mean every word spilling from your lips, and suddenly, with your hand still placed in his, fitting more perfectly than anything personally made for you ever could, you watch your fate seal. You know what you want, and after the most prominent life lesson you’ll ever receive that life can be cut short at any moment, you know you have to get it.

“It’s what any man would do, sweetheart… I ain’t a good man, believe me… but I couldn’t stand by while those bastards took advantage of ya’.”

The reminder (not that you needed it, with Ace’s unhinged grin permanently burnt into your eyelids) pulls your brows together as sadness etches across your face. Callahan notices, giving your hand the gentlest of squeezes you might have missed if your body weren’t in hyperdrive around him, every slight brush setting you alight. Your fingers entangle together, and you don’t quite know who initiated it, but it feels right. Comforting. Everything.

When your gaze roams from your entwined hands to his face, you stop at his shoulder, suddenly feeling foolish for letting him patch you up while he has an open stab wound.

“I can help with your shoulder, if you like.” You nod towards his injury, trying not to think about what it was like watching the blade be plunged into his flesh. He doesn’t hesitate to nod, managing to undo his buttons and take off his shirt without aid. At first, your eyes fly to the stars, before realising there’s no escaping looking when you’ll have to clean him up.

When you look back, it takes everything to not audibly gasp. What is clearly a lifetime's worth of hard and manual labour has sculpted him into something beautiful, with thick arms, wide shoulders, and a defined chest adorned with a trail of hair leading right down to…

You clear your throat to drag yourself out of that train of thought, a somewhat strangled sound that leaves a flush of pink on your cheeks. You can hardly be to blame: for the first time seeing a semi-naked man, you pretty much hit the jackpot.

The glow of the fire is just enough for you to see what you need to, though you shuffle just that bit closer to Callahan until your knees brush against his and it feels like embers scatter over your skin. Years of being the careful one means you’re no stranger to cleaning up injuries, but they pale in comparison to being stabbed with a kitchen knife. Luckily, it doesn’t look too deep, but you’ll still need to clean it and it’ll hurt.

You use a fresh piece of fabric to wash off the blood. Callahan sucks in a pained breath, but the curses you expect to fly from him don’t come. From the way his cheek hollows, it looks as though he’s biting into it to keep restrained.

“Sorry. This might hurt a little.” You admit, feeling his muscles twitch and flex under your touch.

“S’alright, I’ve survived worse.”

Another elusive answer, one that has you fighting a strange urge to ask him all about all the times he’s been hurt, all the adventures he’s been on. Up close, you can see hints of a life well lived, from each scar to the battered black hat he’s wearing that looks older than you. Everything about him seems to tell a different tale, each more intriguing than the last.

A comfortable silence settles around you, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional pained hiss from Callahan. The wound doesn’t seem as bad without the copious amounts of blood framing it, but it still looks rather painful.

Attempting to clean a particularly deep section of the cut has you leaning up close, so much so you’re all but sitting on Callahan’s lap. You’re so engrossed in trying to help him that you almost miss the way his heart pounds when your breath tickles his skin, how he tenses at your touch, feeling a fire of his very own burning through him.

With the angle you’re leaning into Callahan’s body, it is all too easy for a stray piece of hair to escape from behind your ear, the end of it brushing against his chest. You go to push it back, but he beats you to it, hand remaining by your cheek firmly as your gazes lock into each other's. The air changes. You don’t understand it, but it does. It gets thicker and thinner all at once, the world melting away around the two of you. The cogs in your mind begin to whir frantically.

You’ve never lain with anyone before. Not for some religious reason or personal rule, you just never found anyone who felt special enough to share the intimacy with. Honestly, it felt like too big of a moment to share with any of the boys you knew back home or on the ranch. But in those moments in the barn, with Ace and Timmy’s hands all over your body, you regretted it. You wanted to make the choice of who and when, not some low lives with just about enough IQ points to reload a gun. You felt powerless in that moment, when you thought they’d take whatever they wanted from you, and the second survival became a possibility you swore to yourself you’d take that power back for yourself. You grasp it, hold it close to your chest. You’re never going to relinquish it again.

Callahan watches you intently, watches you process everything with his hand on your cheek, his skin on yours, and you suddenly know exactly what you want to do with your power of choice.

“Will you kiss me?”

The words fall out of you before you can even really consider them. You’re tired of considering, tired of being the good little girl who spent her life hiding from danger only for it to find her anyway. What is this fight for safety and survival, if you’re not going to live anyway?

Callahan’s surprise is evident in the creases in his forehead and the way his crows' feet disappear as his eyes widen. His lips part, stutters spilling from them. Your heart falls for what feels like forever when he takes his hand from your cheek to take off his hat and run a hand through his dirty blonde hair.

“Christ, sweetheart, I-I… I dunno if that’s the best idea.”

A heat unrelated to the fire before you bursts across your face as the rejection stabs you hard in the chest. You thought you’d figured it out. The way his eyes lingered on your every move, the way his hand stayed on your hip just that second too long when he helped you dismount Boadicea, the spark… you couldn’t be the only one who felt it. It was unspoken, ethereal, but just as real as the cuts on your skin or the boots on his feet. You were sure of it, even if there was nothing else in your history to compare it to.

“You don’t want to?” You don’t mean for it to sound desperate, or desperately sad, but it might just have come out that way. He notices the way your fingers anxiously pick at one another and grasps your hand again, electricity shooting out from the point of contact all over your body.

“No, no it ain’t that- I-I do. Very much so, but… you just went through somethin’ real traumatic, darlin’. I don’t wanna take advantage of you.”

You understand, thinking about how pathetic you must look right now. He rescued you, patched you up while all you could do was try not to cry. In the exceptionally short time he’s known you, he’s done nothing but save you. How could he see you as anything but the damsel in distress you so feel like right now?

“You wouldn’t be. You couldn’t- I…” You take a breath, knowing just how crazy you must sound to this man, this stranger, “I ain’t ever slept with anyone before. And when those men came… I thought my first time was going to be stolen from me. It terrified me, Callahan. I never want to feel that way again, that powerless... I want to choose. I want to choose you. And I ain’t gonna go all crazy on you and cling to you and make ya’ marry me, this doesn’t have to mean anything, I swear it. I just… I want my power back. I don’t want that choice ever made for me, any choice ever made for me again. I want to do this.”

Your words process across the cowboy’s features, your heart quickening with each inch he leans in towards you. His hand feels cool against your burning cheek when he cups your face, the ocean from his eyes washing over you as he studies each and every minuscule detail of your beautiful face.

“Are ya’ sure, sweetheart? Cause if I kiss you, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself…”

“I’m sure. I’ve never been so damn sure. This is what I want. Please.” You plead, shuffling forwards so your legs are tangled together by the fireside.

“Well, who am I to deny a lady so beautiful as you?”

When you were young, before caution sunk his possessive claws into your mind and made you too sensible for your own good, you got stuck in a rope swing, suspended over a pond by your ankle. You only spent a few minutes in the air, mere inches from being plunged into the cool water on that sticky, hot summer's day, but it felt like hours until the twine snapped and you fell in. Those few seconds come right back to you in those moments between Callahan moving towards you and the pair of you falling into the cool water together. His lips connect with yours, and the relief of no longer hanging on the precipice of the unknown washes over you, with it the euphoria of your choices.

Your lips fit together like long lost puzzle pieces, drawn together by a thread weaved in fate itself. It tugs you closer, until your chests are flush against each other and your uninjured arm is reaching to tangle your digits in Callahan’s hair. You feel his muscles stiffen for a moment, thanks to the stab wound in his shoulder, but he still manages to wind his hand around your waist, resting on the small of your back. When your lips part, his tongue delves into your mouth, eliciting a soft moan from you. He tastes like everything you’ve always been too sensible to do, just how you imagined when his smoke and whiskey infiltrated your senses back when you were riding with him.

Of course you’ve been kissed before, but never like this, and you’re surprised at how quickly you pick it up from him, teasing your own tongue into his mouth. He growls, God help you, a hint of a not-so-honourable outlaw hiding under the caring cowboy shell he’s treated you with since you met. You feel something coiling tighter deep in your core that hints at what is to come, a seed of desperation fed and watered with each movement, sound or touch Callahan makes.

When his lips retreat, the loss is so prominent you have to hold back a whimper.

“Christ, darlin’… I-“

But you don’t let him finish, grasping onto his neck with both hands and dragging him back into you. A hunger burns in you, shown in the way you nip at Callahan’s bottom lip with your teeth, pulling out another growl from him. It’s a silent plea to not treat you like you’re breakable, one that he responds to by pressing his lips more firmly against yours until you have no choice but to lean into his hold and let him carry some of your weight. He wraps both arms around you, his skin so warm against yours it fans the flames of whatever is burning inside you. He feels so safe, despite every piece of common sense telling you he’s a stranger, who really shouldn't feel safe.

You don’t speak, neither one of you wanting to stop kissing the other for even a second, but you can follow his wordless instruction as he pulls you onto his lap. You straddle him, winding your legs around his waist. An ineffable wave of something you’ve never experienced before ripples through you, starting between your legs, where you feel Callahan’s hard bulge prodding against your core. You can’t help but arch your back, dragging your hips over Callahan in the process. The pleasure shoots through you and you can’t stop the gasp that parts your lips from his, your eyes flying open.

The sight you look upon is one you’ll never forget. Callahan’s eyes are tight shut, his features twisted in a look of bliss. His jaw is so tense you see the muscle fluttering. He’s so beautiful it takes your breath away. His finger’s clutch onto the flesh just above your hips, and you can feel the tension of the restraint he’s forced to employ to not hurt you or push you too fast. This huge, muscular man, who saved your life tonight, is falling apart beneath you.

You can’t help but reach to his mouth, running your thumb so faintly over his bottom lip, still wet from your kisses. He looks to you, eyes locking onto yours as you drown in his seas.

He speaks so softly, “If you wanna stop, or we’re goin’ too fast, you just say the word and we’ll-”

“I don’t want to stop. I want you, please.”

He growls again, and you squeak as he scoops you up with him when he stands. Your legs are wrapped around his waist tight, your core brushing his member every time he makes a step towards the makeshift tent he put up earlier. He carries you with such an ease, kneeling down to lay you on the bedroll laid out on the floor. Even with his injury, he puts all his weight into his arms so as to not crush you, pressing more kisses to your lips as you writhe beneath him.

“God, you’re so beautiful…” He whispers, his kisses reaching the corner of your lip and travelling down to your neck, “From the second I saw you, I thought you were so beautiful…”

Your heart aches with his words, and you’re sure at this moment it beats only for him, your saviour, your knight in shining denim. The hours you’ve known him stretch into a lifetime, tears welling in your eyes from the purest of emotions.

You mean to reply, but when his lips latch onto the pulse point in the crook of your neck, you melt into the earth. It feels nothing short of heavenly, and you can’t imagine what is to come if this man makes you feel these things from simple kisses. You’re purring for him, the heat pooling between your legs becoming near torturous, coiling every one of your nerves into a messy bundle inside you.

There’s a moment where Callahan looks to you, a silent question of permission as his hand hovers over the strap to your chemise. You nod, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth so hard you’re scared it might break skin. The tingles from Callahan’s touch ripple from your shoulder as he pushes the fabric down, exposing both breasts to the cool night air. He wastes no time in taking one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling oh so lightly and pulling a moan from your lips. He laps you up, your back arching against the wool of the bedroll to give as much of yourself to him as you can. His hands work your pants, impressively considering his attention is elsewhere on your body, unbuttoning them with ease and sliding them down your legs as far as he can reach without leaving your contact. You manage to kick your boots off and slide the jeans off completely, leaving just a layer of cotton covering you.

Your fingers entangle in Callahan’s locks, scratching at his scalp as he licks and nips at you.

“God, please,” you moan, feeling that coil inside you tightening to impossible levels,

He’s quick to look up, a lust burning in those irises, “What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“Everything.”

Your patience is hanging on by a thread, your need for him growing and your heart pounding faster with every passing second. When he takes his hands to the fastenings on your undergarments, you could sob from the relief. With one slow pull at a ribbon, the chemise falls from your body, and Callahan opens it up like a present at Christmas. His eyes roam over you, and while you always thought you’d feel exposed when you were first bare to a man, nothing could feel more natural than being naked underneath him, to have his skin on yours as he rubs his thumbs over your nipples, before dragging a hand gently over your stomach, hovering just above your weeping cunt.

“Can I touch you, darlin’?” His voice is gruff, threatening to crack from the restraint he’s deploying by not taking you with the urgency tearing him apart right now.

“Yes. Yes, please, I… I feel so…”

“I know, I know… Let me take care of you, alright beautiful?”

Your back flies off the bedroll when you feel two fingers plunge into your cunt, curling upwards slightly. It feels incredible, in spite of a strange stretching sensation that quickly ebbs away. He starts slow, sliding his fingers out and back in, dragging against your walls deliciously. You cry out, eyes shut tight and face contorted in pleasure. You don’t see how he watches you, smile tugging on his features as he remarks to himself how beautiful you look like this, but know that it happens.

Sweet moans fall from your lips in time to the thrusts of Callahan’s fingers, your body singing for him. You’re climbing, higher and higher to a destination you don’t even truly understand. It is then that Callahan presses a thumb to your sensitive bundle of nerves and a gasp is ripped from deep inside you, your eyes flying open.

“Oh, God, I-”

“I know, baby, easy… I got you, let go, angel.”

And you do.

Without even knowing where exactly he’s leading you, you follow, falling over an uncharted precipice into ecstasy. It ripples throughout your entire being, doubling your vision. Callahan leans back down to you, heat and want radiating from his bare skin like a burning flame.

“That’s it, sweetheart, good girl.”

He closes the gap between you, catching wanton moans in his mouth and swallowing them gratefully, needily. It feels like forever lasts in just that moment, waves upon waves of a pleasure unlike anything you’ve experienced crashing over your body and curling your toes.

The waves turn to ripples, which dissipate into a pleasant tingle that buzzes more intensely wherever Callahan’s skin is on yours. Your legs are entwined together, and you’re not sure when he removed his pants, but you can feel his warm skin against yours everywhere. It’s dizzying, the heat of him and the size of him stretching over your body. Your eyelashes flutter up at him and you reach to run a hand over his cheek.

“Wow…” You breathe, “That was…”

“Was? Oh, I’m not done with you yet, darlin’...”

Your cheeks flush, a melodic giggle escaping you. This whole experience is so much more comfortable than you could have ever imagined your first time would be, with laughter and looks of such adoration you forget you’ve only known this man a few hours.

“I wanna show you more…” He whispers into your skin, pressing soft kisses wherever he can,

“There’s more?” You joke, knowing full well what happens next but wanting so badly to make him chuckle again. You’re addicted to the sound, and he supplies it, shaking his head ever so slightly,

“Are you ready, beautiful?” “Please, I need you, Callahan. Take me.”

He doesn’t make you wait long. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Nerves take over, but only for a second, numbed quickly by more kisses pressed on your forehead and nose. You haven’t actually seen his member, almost too shy to look, but God can you feel it when he slowly slides in. It’s a stretch, and you hold your breath until the pinching feeling falters. Callahan waits there, deep inside you, until you nod your head to wordlessly reassure him you’re okay.

“Good girl…” another kiss, “you beautiful,” and another, “good girl.”

His praises wash over you, relaxing your muscles to the point where there is no pain, only the intense pleasure of you gripping and rippling around his cock.

“O-Oh… Feels… So good.” You manage, scratching your nails into his back and pushing at him to move. Ever the gentleman, he obliges, slowly retreating and pushing back into you. Your eyes roll back into your head as you get filled so wonderfully it’s hard to breathe.

Callahan’s arms shake around you and you watch him grasp on his composure. It’s taking him everything he has in him to not slam into you and fuck you senseless, but he clearly wants to make sure you feel safe. It swells your heart and piques your curiosity all at once, wondering what would happen if he let go in a way you know he won’t right now.

“Y-Yeah? You feel alright, sweetheart?” He stutters, hips spluttering slowly as he thrusts gently in and out. You’re already coiling, reaching that blissful state, but you want him to feel the same. He’s growling and groaning and it’s music to your ears, but you want more, you need all of him, every last unrestrained molecule of this man.

“I feel wonderful… Please don’t hold back. I’m not breakable, I need you, please.”

How could he refuse? Hearing such sweet pleas and begs, he’s putty in your hands.

“Baby girl, a-are you sure? I don’t wanna hurt you, and you feel so damn good, I-I don’t know if I can hold back…”

“Please, Callahan.”

It doesn’t escape your notice, how he winces whenever you say his name, but you can’t think straight about it right now, not when you feel his cock reaching every last inch of you and prodding that sweet spot he seems to have a map to. You’re delirious with pleasure, even when he’s holding back.

When he lets go, you scream, tears of pure intensity forming in the corners of your eyes. Callahan pulls back, completely out of you, before diving back in. The tears fall down quick tracks on your skin, and he kisses them away, growling deep in his chest. His pace picks up, and now you’re used to it it doesn’t hurt a bit. It’s heavenly, it’s ecstasy.

“F-Fuck, angel, what am I gonna do with you?” he asks, his lips pressed against your collarbone to muffle the words. His teeth scrape against your skin, leaving white hot trails that will be burned into you forever, you’re sure.

“T-Touch me, p-please- oh!” Your pleas are interrupted by a particularly wonderful movement and Callahan grins at you, loving watching you fall apart like this for him.

He can’t say no to you, would never want to when you ask him oh so nicely. He snakes a hand down between your two bodies, tickling your clit with the pad of one finger in slow, delirious circles. In response, you involuntarily squeeze around his shaft and he moans loudly in your ear. It might have just become your favourite sound in the whole world.

“Christ, darlin’, I-I’m so fuckin’ close I can’t last much longer, baby.”

You respond with a kiss, a passionate, almost loving kiss, where your tongue licks up the roof of Callahan’s mouth to chase his taste. You catch his desperate groans, feeling how the rhythm of his hips falters the closer to losing it he gets. His fingers get sloppy, rubbing in an indescribable pattern and bringing you right where he is, whimpering and writing beneath his body.

You cum together, your cunt constricting around Callahan’s cock, feeling every vein pump and twitch as he too comes apart. He parts his lips from yours, only to breathlessly moan your name into your ear, his hot breath tickling your lobe and scattering an inexpressible feeling over your skin. He’s pounding into you and it hurts a little, but you feel far too good right now to care. Your pulse hammers for him, over every inch of you, blood rushing around your body carrying something magical with it. Callahan groans loudly, almost fully retreating his length before thrusting a final time, deep inside you. His lips connect with yours again, the tear tracks on your cheeks wetting his own skin from how close you are. You feel his cock pulsing as he releases the last of his spend into you, with no care in your mind for the consequences.

When you open your eyes, still coming back to earth, he’s there for you, looking down with an expression you could only describe as blissful.

“You are… somethin’ else…” He whispers, reaching to push a stray piece of hair from your face.

═══════☆═══════

In all your years, there has never been such a comfortable silence as the one you and Callahan are existing in now, disturbed only by the gentle thrumming of his heart against your ear. There’s no awkwardness, wasn’t when he slid out of you and helped you get cleaned up either. The moment is peace, especially when you feel your own heart beating to the exact same rhythm. If it weren’t for this man, it might not have been, and now you’re synchronised to him.

A clean shirt from his saddle bag is wrapped around your shoulders, while Callahan’s fingers gently run over your hair. You want to thank him again, but the silence hanging around you both seems too precious for you to break.

Your anxious mind is kind to you, allowing you a few more minutes of complete peace in this heavenly sanctuary, before everything comes crashing back down to Earth, dragging you with it.

“... God, what am I gonna do now?”

Callahan doesn’t hesitate.

“You could stay with me.”

You freeze, leaning up on your good arm to look him in the eye, hair cascading over your face once more. As always, he pushes it back, though there’s something in his expression that tells you he’s surprised those words left his mouth so freely.

“Stay with you? Where?”

“Well… I run with some others, folk like you who have nowhere to go. We keep a camp together, keep eachother safe and fed. I… I’m sure they’d welcome you.”

“You’re outlaws, right?”

The great unspoken question. It lingers between you for a moment, and Callahan swallows hard.

“Yeah, outlaws. But we ain’t as bad as those others, we… we try n’ help people, where we can. I could talk to Dutch, get you somewhere to sleep ‘till you get back up on your feet.”

Your mind races, setting itself off faster than a spooked horse spotting a snake. Outlaws killed Varner, outlaws tried to rape you, and would have surely killed you had they had the chance… Outlaws were bad news, everything you’ve ever been warned about in your life…

And you slept with one, and now had a standing invitation to join them??

He must sense the turmoil twisting your previously calm features, and quickly goes back to that soothing motion across your hair.

“Hey, just think on it, alright? You’ve had a pretty damn rough day, ain’t no use doin’ anything but restin’ now. We can stay here tonight, talk about it in the morning.” “A-Alright…”

For now, you let his words wash over you, his gruff voice trying to pull you back to that tranquil state. It works, and you rest your head back on his chest, careful to avoid the makeshift bandages you tied around his shoulder.

You shut your eyes, intertwined with your saviour while the moon watches over you both.

“Thank you, Callahan…” you mumble, sleep already grasping you with its tempting claws.

You’re the first to drift, while Callahan stays awake as long as he can to make sure you’re alright. He watches you sleep, watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way your lashes flutter every so often.

“It’s Arthur, by the way…”

═══════☆═══════

You’re pulled out of the realms of sleep when an owl hoots nearby. For a second, you panic, expecting all the comforts of your own bed and finding the open air. It comes crashing back all too soon, the bandits, Varner, Callahan…

He’s right where you left him, arm wrapped around your frame to keep you safe from the elements and otherwise. His handsome features are illuminated by a moon glowing high in the sky, fast asleep, and you know it’s now or never.

You’re not sure when you make your decision, whether it was when he first asked you, or some wider wisdom from a dream you can’t remember influenced you. You’ll regret it a hundred times over and thensome, but you know that even when you’re doing it.

You allow yourself a kiss, just one soft kiss on his sleeping lips, before somehow managing to slide out of his embrace without disturbing him. He stirs, and you freeze, but a tiny snore later and he returns to complete slumber.

There are tears welling in your eyes when you approach Boadicea. She looks at you solemnly, as if she knows exactly what you’re doing, but she lets you do it anyway. Every movement pains you in a way you’ve never experienced before, your heart aching more violently than any mortal flesh wound ever could.

Boadicea stays still while you look through her saddle bag, picking out a couple of tins of food and one of the opened tonics, though you leave most of the provisions. It feels wrong, stealing from him, but you know you have to to survive. You’re on your own now.

Just when you’re about to wrap everything up to go, you spot a book in the back pocket of the bag, a stick of charcoal poking through the pages. Glancing at Callahan’s sleeping body, even for the fraction of a second you do so, hurts so much you can barely breathe.

You pick the book out, flicking over stunning sketches of landscapes, animals, and a few portraits. You’re careful not to read the words, fearful that knowing any more of his soul could change your mind in an instant. The charcoal scratches at the paper as you write, more grateful than ever that you learnt how to in your free time on the ranch.

I can’t. I’m sorry.

Each step out of the woods pulls at that tether, the one you noticed before when you first kissed him that resides deep in your heart, the one that feels like fate. But you’ve met her before, and she scares you. Fate means destiny, yes, but she also brings doom. And that is no longer a risk you can afford to take.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan red dead #arthur morgan x f!reader #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 x reader

167 notes · View notes

dentiststoothfairy · 2 years ago

Note

HOII IM PURPLE BUNNY ANON!!

anyway could you do a reader x pico school gang (Pico,Nene and Darnell*) if someone killed the reader?? It's ok if you don't wanna!!

TW: implications of SH, school shootings, and general Pico's School content.

𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐎'𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫!

"Hey, 'Nell. You heard from Y/N yet?" Pico's accent laced the question in the air like a ribbon as the other male raised his head from his lighter. His shoulder blades rolled back as he reached behind the couch, attempting to lazily reach back to his phone.

A lack of important notification caused him to furrow his eyebrows together.

".. Nah. Not yet, anyways." He swiped left, typing in his password after a failed fingerprint identification.

Nene in the kitchen (who was left alone foolishly) trotted to most surely put her input on whatever the boys were talking about this time.

"They've been out all day. I told you that it's dangerous for someone like them to walk in Philly alone. But no, lets not listen to Nene!" She scoffed lightly. Her miniskirt swaying playfully with each step, she took an upright seat next to Pico. Only for her true motive to be revealed as she stole a grape out of his bowl.

"Oh-.shit. Hold on guys." Darnell attempted shut up his friends, mainly Nene, by shushing them as his phone illuminated with an incoming call. The ringtone was silenced as he raised his phone up to his ear.

"Darnell." He spoke flatly, pretending not to notice Pico slap Nene's hand away from HIS grapes.

"Hello, we're calling from the Saint Edward Philadelphia Hospital."

Those words made his square features contort with confusion, he sat up slightly as his eyes met with the duo's.

The pair were now watching him with curiousity.

"... You were listed in Y/N L/N's contacts.

... There's been an incident."

.....

🔫𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐨🔫:

God. Fuck. How to even begin Pico's reaction to if someone killed Y/n in an attack. I don't even have the words.

Honestly? It'd trigger his trauma pretty badly. Being unable to save the life of all of his friends back.. There...

At first, he's silent. A thousand yard stare out the window of the car as Darnell drove the three of them to the hospital.

His fist is clutched shut, so tight that it's literally trembling. His teeth are grinded against each other with a stone expression on his face.

Haunting memories dashing past his eyes, memories that changed him.

His chest physically hurt. It was practically impossible to breathe. This familar, yet unwelcomed suffocating feeling across every atom of his body.

Fuck.

🔪𝐍𝐞𝐧𝐞🔪:

She's straight in denial.

"Y/N's fine."

Despite that. Her hand is trembling in her lap. Her knee is bouncing and her glossed bottom lip has been chewed beyond her beloved perfection.

It felt as if her neck was closing in on itself.

Subconsciously scratching at her arms and thighs to keep her hands from shaking.

She knew better. She should've stayed with you. You were far from defensiveless, but.. Philly could be dangerous especially if you were alone.

No.

No no. You were fine.

She had been in and out of that hospital like it was a second home.

You were fine.

💣🔥𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐥🔥💣:

He's mad. he's really fucking mad.

Who the hell?

When the hell?

Why the hell?

He's the one driving everyone to the hospital, because the other two certainly can't. But he barely could anyways.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck.

Who did this? Who fucking did this to you?

Unlike the denial of Nene and the haunted response from Pico. Darnell wasn't there when.. It. Happened.

When all of their lives swapped. He was in the hospital, medication.

Fuck. He failed to protect them.

He failed to protect you.

He was the worst fucking. Friend. Ever.

...

I can't exactly describe to you what they did after the funeral.

But it's a lucky thing you weren't there to see what happened, the sight would've made anyone sick.

On an unrelated note: Pico's gang came out from retirement.

#anon #anon ask #picos school #fnf pico #nene picos school #pico imagines #darnell picos school #darnell picos schools #darnell fnf #pico fnf #nene fnf #platonic y/n

76 notes · View notes

urauntiefaye · 1 year ago

Text

To Be Kidnapped Teaser

A/N: Title will be changed just haven't figured it out yet,

CW: Mafia &Team, mentions of Enhypen Kidnapping, mentions of alcohol and partying this is x an OC of mine

WC: 701

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I wasn’t supposed to be tied up in some ass room being interrogated by one of the most dangerous gangs. But here we are, being tied but in a very uncomfortable chair with rope burn on my wrist and a pounding headache. Now you’re probably wondering “how the fuck did you get in this situation Ariella?”. So I’ll recap a little. I, a broke, depressed, and anxiety ridden college student, decided to say fuck it and went to a club with my friends instead of studying for my finals.

As I went to said club I ended up bumping into a fairly attractive man (I know what you’re thinking, I should’ve seen the red flags with just that sentence, but I was drunk and honestly didn’t give two shits at the time). He was pretty tall, probably around 6’1, with dark brown hair. We flirted throughout the night and if I was actually dumb I would’ve gone home with him. But I am not, and I know stranger danger. So once it got pretty late I excused myself and attempted to make my way home. Until the next thing I know I was fucking ATTACKED and thrown into an expensive ass car. Which I wasn’t really upset about, because if I’m getting kidnaped at least it’s in a boujee way.

And yeah, that’s how I got here. Minus the place being absolutely filthy, and cold, it was also dark. But hey, what am I supposed to expect in this situation?. I let out a huff and tried to get into a comfortable potion. Well, as comfortable as I could get. I tried to make out what the rest of the room looked like, but it was too dark to see anything. I deadass don’t even know what to do right now, I could attempt to run, but the rope is too tight and the bastard who kidnapped me is right in front of me along with another man, this shorter than him but definitely more muscular. You could definitely tell he was one of those gym rats. “Now, I will ask this question one more time. What do you know about Mr. Kim? And what is his plan with our boss’s sister?”. I rolled my eyes and groaned. “And again, I don’t FUCKING know, dude I don’t even know who the hell this Mr. Kim is. And I have no fucking idea who your boss’s sister is”. The blonde sighs and steps forward to me and croches down to my level. He was one centimeters away from me. Mans was so close I could feel his breath. “Fuck dude, a mint would do you some justic”.

I really should’ve listened to my friends, especially Jay. God I can already imagine it, him looking at me with a disappointed look that I thought only my mom was capable of. I can practically hear him sighing and saying “I told you not to go out tonight Ariella”. I love Jay but I swear he’s more like my mom than my actual mom sometimes. A harsh slap went acrossy cheek, my skin cringing in pain. “Fuck dude!” I screamed loudly, as the taller one grip his first in my hair pulling it back. “If only you'd play nice then we'd be easier on you” he said. The shorter one put his hand on the others shoulder. “Chill dude, we don't need her passing out.

Seriously though, who the fuck where these guys. And where's Jay when you fucking need him.

#auntiefaye🧚🏻‍♀️#enhypen reactions #enhypen smut #jake sim #sim jaeyun #&team hard hours #&team smut #&team imagines #&team mafia #mafia enhypen

32 notes · View notes

loopspoop · 11 months ago

Text

Hello Chapter 5! Things have taken a turn! The gang has their hands pretty full now!

TW: assumed character death, panic attacks

Lupin opened his eyes slightly, tiredly scanning the room. Something felt off…light was coming through the curtains so he had definitely slept through the night, his gun was still on the nightstand so nobody had moved that…adjusting his hold on the samurai in his arms, Lupin hesitated.

He was ice cold.

Sitting up quickly, Lupin looked the other man over anxiously. His lips were blue again, dark circles present under his eyes. His body wasn’t its usual tense, Goemon was always tense, even when he slept. Now, his body was slack, and his chest..wasn’t moving.

Goemon wasn’t b r e a t h i n g.

Breathing picking up, Lupin grasped Goemon’s hand tightly as tears welled up in his eyes. He had been better…they talked last night…Goemon had talked to him and he seemed better! How could this happen if he was supposed to be better now?!

“You were supposed to be better!” Lupin shouted, hands shaking as tears ran down his face. “Goemon! Goemon, damnit, how could you-?!” He sobbed, holding the samurais hand tighter.

“Lupin-?! What the hell’s-?” Jigen came up the stairs, hesitating slightly at the scene in front of him. “Shit…”

Lupin knew Jigen knew what a body looked like. Looking toward the gunman desperately, Lupin pulled Goemon close to his chest. Logically he knew that someone this cold was beyond help but..it was Goemon!

“Jigen…Jigen, please…!” Lupin pleaded through hiccuping sobs as he held Goemon desperately. There had to be something..

Jigen frowned sadly, removing his hat silently. He had been in this game too long to know when someone was beyond help..and that was what Goemon was. He didn’t seem that bad but..maybe Goemon just treated himself like an old dog, you never know how bad it is until they slip away.

Positively wailing at Jigen’s reaction, Lupin buried his face in Goemon’s shoulder and sobbed. He had tried so hard and still failed..he never got to make it up to Goemon for causing him this much trouble..He had fucked up and got poor Goemon killed…

“…Lupin…?”

Hesitating, Lupin pulled back slightly. Crying out when he saw Goemon’s eyes open and looking at him in confusion and concern, Lupin broke down further as he pulled the other man closer and practically wrapped himself around him.

“You’re alive!!” Lupin wailed, nuzzling Goemon’s neck as he clung to him.

“What the hell?! You looked- holy fuck, what the hell happened to your eyes?!” Jigen looked at him worriedly, popping his hat back on as he walked over.

“My- what? What is going on?” Goemon frowned, hesitantly patting Lupin’s back as he looked between the two thieves.

“They’re fuckin’ blue!” Jigen swept back Goemon’s bangs, looking at the samurais eyes in confusion. “Can you see?”

“Of course I can.” Goemon frowned, nodding as he looked down at Lupin. “And my eyes are brown. Are you color blind, by chance?”

“‘Am I’-? Why, you-! Y’know what? Wait right here.” Jigen huffed, walking back downstairs.

Goemon watched before looking back at Lupin. “What happened?”

“Y-You weren’t- you w-weren’t breathing-“ Lupin bit his lip hard, looking up at Goemon anxiously. “A-And you were all limp and cold! I-I thought..”

Goemon frowned quietly, nodding a bit as he looked down at Lupin gently. “I’m alright, see? Take a breath.”

Lupin bit his lip harder, taking a couple shaky breaths as he looked Goemon over quietly. He seemed okay…still cold and he still had the dark circles under his eyes. Which…were a very piercing ice blue? They weren’t like that last night…

“Goemon, your eyes…” Lupin frowned, cupping the samurais face as he leaned in to get a closer look.

Goemon flinched slightly, blushing furiously as he leaned back. “P-Personal space, please-!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Lupin backed off, frowning. “They really are blue..” he mumbled, raising an eyebrow.

“You too? They are brown!” Goemon frowned, crossing his arms. This wasn’t very funny.

“No they aren’t! Look!” Jigen called, coming back upstairs with a handheld mirror.

~~~~~

“No they aren’t! Look!” Jigen called, coming back upstairs with a handheld mirror.

Goemon sighed, rolling his eyes as he took it. “I told you both already, they’re-“ He looked down at the mirror, hesitating. “Blue?!”

“I told you!” Jigen crossed his arms, frowning. “I’m not color blind.”

“This is not funny. It looks awful! So- so undo whatever it is you did right now!” Goemon frowned more, waving his hand in front of the mirror as he bit his lip.

“We didn’t do anything, Goemon..” Lupin frowned, watching worriedly. “They looked normal last night when we talked.”

Goemon stared into the mirror, hands shaking slightly. What had happened to him? This looked awful! If they weren’t messing with him then how did this happen? Doing his best to make sure this wasn’t some sort of illusion, Goemon grew more anxious with each attempt.

What? Don’t like it? I find it lovely. Of course, your friends seem to be pretty disgusted~

Goemon paled, frowning as he glanced between Jigen and Lupin. They didn’t seem disgusted…but was he wrong? Was he mistaking their disgust for concern?

Maybe Lupin had some colored contacts to try to cover it up. I’m sure he has enough to worry about without trying to figure out what’s wrong with his favorite tool.

Wrong.

W r o n g.

~~~~~~~

Lupin jumped when the mirror smashed into the wall behind him, looking from a shocked Jigen to an agitated looking Goemon. He frowned, moving to comfort the samurai before he hesitated. It…felt like the room temperature had just somehow dropped 30 degrees…? Looking around curiously, Lupin’s eyes widened when he saw the windows.

Frost. Frost was creeping across the glass on their windows.

How the fresh hell was there frost spreading across their windows in the middle of summer in Perth? Glancing at Jigen, who he could tell noticed as well, Lupin turned back to Goemon. He could see the shivering starting back up again, the way the samurais eyes swept the room anxiously before he ultimately got up and wordlessly went into the bathroom and shut the door.

“What the hell…?” Jigen frowned, rubbing his hands up and down his arms in attempt to get warm.

“No idea.” Lupin frowned, walking to the bathroom door.

~~~~~~

Goemon sat on the ground against the bathtub, gripping his chest as he tried to keep his breathing steady. Frost covered the mirror and began to trail across the floor from under him and toward the walls. What was happening to him? What was this?

It’s me, obviously. Of course, now it’s us.

“I-I don’t want this..” Goemon panted, hands shaking more when he noticed he could see his own breath in the air.

But, don’t you? Aren’t you sick of it all?

“S-Stop-“ Goemon pressed his hands over his ears, pulling his knees to his chest as he felt his breathing catch slightly.

Always so perfect. Always so controlled. Don’t you just want to watch it all f r e e z e?

“No-!” Goemon gasped, cringing as he felt the ice climb up his arms, shivering increasing as the cold ebbed deep into his skin.

Then why aren’t you stopping it? You must want it, deep down. After all, I know everything you’re thinking, samurai.

Goemon tried to scratch the ice off of his skin, closing his eyes tightly as he struggled to get a controlled breath. He felt like he was drowning again. He felt like everything was falling apart around him while simultaneously building up in a way he couldn’t control. He didn’t know what to do. Why couldn’t he stop this? Why couldn’t he control this? He was failing all over again-

“Goemon-!”

~~~~~~

Lupin nearly slipped getting into the bathroom, a firm grip on Zantetsuken as he fell onto his ass clumsily beside the samurai. He knew a panic attack when he saw one, though seeing Goemon have one was new. Frowning at the ice climbing basically every surface in the room, including Goemon, Lupin gently pressed Zantetsuken into his shaking hands.

“Breathe, Goe, breathe. Everything’s alright.” Lupin frowned, sitting beside him gently. “I’m with you. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Frowning at the lack of response, Lupin changed position so he was right in front of him. Goemon was white knuckle gripping Zantetsuken, ice spreading around the sword from under Goemon’s hands. So this was all from Goemon? It seemed physically impossible but…he knew well enough by now that nothing ever truly was.

“Breathe with me, Goemon.” Lupin frowned, taking a breath for Goemon to try to follow.

Goemon took a shaky breath, the breath catching as he doubled over coughing. Lupin grabbed Goemon’s shoulder to steady him, wincing at the freezing temperature of the samurais body. His eyes widened when he saw flurries landing on the tile, falling from the samurais lips as he whined low in this throat as he shivered more. That was terrifying frankly. Was his whole body just creating ice and snow on its own? He’d have to sort that out later when Goemon wasn’t in the middle of panicking.

“It’s alright, it’s okay. I’m going to have Jigen come help, alright? Just keep breathing.” Lupin tried to keep his tone calm, leaning back toward the door. “Jigen!”

Jigen appeared at the door moments later, hesitating at the overall icy state of the room. “Shit..”

“Shush.” Lupin gave him a look, glaring. “Help me get Goemon outside, yeah?”

Goemon shook his head quickly, cringing at the motion. Lupin frowned, gently taking his hands in his own despite the creeping frost. He looked at the samurai gently, trying his best to stay as open and reassuring as possible.

“Goemon. I promise it’ll be okay. We’ll be right there with you, we won’t let anything happen. Trust me.” Lupin squeezed his hands gently, watching him for a response.

Goemon hesitated, looking between Lupin and Jigen before finally nodding and gripping Lupin’s hand tightly. The thief smiled reassuringly, helping Goemon out of the bathroom and through the apartment. Jigen followed behind them, opening a couple windows to stave off the trail of ice following the samurai through the apartment. Lupin led them out the back door and into the back garden.

“Better?” Lupin looked at Goemon, smiling a bit when he noticed the ice ebbing away a bit with the addition of the heat from outside.

Goemon shivered, laying down in the grass as he took a few shaky breaths. Lupin carefully laid down beside him, glancing at him before looking up quietly. He could see Jigen in his peripheral vision sit down on Goemon’s other side. Looking up at the clouds, Lupin watched the sky quietly.

“That cloud looks like an elephant.” Lupin glanced at Goemon, watching the samurais eyes flick up at the sky and study it quietly.

Lupin smiled a bit when he noticed more of the ice and frost melt away as Goemon scanned the sky quietly. Deciding to keep with it, Lupin looked back up at the clouds for a distraction.

“That one looks like…actually that one really looks like Pops-“ Lupin snorted, glancing at Goemon and Jigen. “See it? Hat and everything.”

“Really? I thought it looked more like a squash…” Jigen mumbled, glancing out from under his hat as he squinted a bit.

“HA!” Lupin snorted, glancing at Goemon hopefully.

His breathing seemed more even..and he wasn’t gripping Zantetsuken like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He noticed Goemon had even taken to rubbing the hilt with his thumb, a noted self soothing technique he had seen Goemon do unconsciously for years. These were good signs!

“What’re you seeing, Goemon?” Lupin asked carefully, watching the clouds move across the sky.

“….teapot…” Goemon mumbled, glancing over at the thief.

“Oh, yeah! I see what you mean, that’s actually really shaped like one, wow..” Lupin mumbled, watching the cloud before glancing at Goemon. “Feeling better?”

Goemon glanced away, nodding faintly. Lupin could tell he felt like he had burdened them with panicking, but he disagreed. Goemon never burdened them and he could understand why he was so worked up. The ice though…was something he would have to think about when Goemon wasn’t around..or at least not around and panicked.

“It’s alright. Let’s stay out here for a bit, yeah? Just relax.” Lupin assured gently, glancing at Jigen. “Right?”

Jigen hummed, pulling out a cigarette before passing one to Lupin. “Nice day for it.” He laid back, pulling his hand over his eyes more as he quietly smoked.

“Mhm!” Lupin smiled, gently taking Goemon’s hand as he looked back at the sky. “We’ll stay here until you’re feeling 100% again.”

Goemon nodded faintly, holding onto the thief’s hand quietly as he closed his eyes. Lupin knew he just needed time to recuperate and ground himself again and we was willing to let Goemon have that no matter what else was going on. The ice gave him more questions than he had before, though…

#lupin iii #lupin the 3rd #goemon ishikawa xiii #goemon #lupin the third #jigen daisuke #fujiko mine #zenigata #jigen lupin the third #jigen #lupin polygang #lupin polycule #jiglupgoe #lupgoe #it’s mostly lupgoe ngl #TW assumed character death #tw panic attack #Snowmon AU

15 notes · View notes