#anyways BACK FROM THE DEAD WITH THIS PIECE

[fishinsuits]

emergency contact

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: you're at your lowest, convinced that frank is gone for good. until you end up in the hospital, and he comes to rescue you and help you pick up the pieces.

warnings: swearing, absolute horrid angst, reader is depressed and having suicidal thoughts, mentions of starvation, talks about different ways to unalive yourself (if you are not comfortable, do not read. it's okay), going to the hospital for fun stuff, gendered words used like "ma'am" and frank says "doll" a couple times.

a/n: didn't know i could pull 2.5k words outta my ass like that but i proved myself wrong. inspired by "ceilings" by lizzy mcalpine, but i got so into this one it really isn't relevant at this point lol.

you didn't think you'd stared at your bedroom ceiling more than in the past six weeks. it was all you could do lately, there was nothing else for you to do. not since he left.

you didn't remember the last time you got out of bed. logically, it was probably a couple days ago, but lately everything had been blurring together so easily. your mind was numb, not a single thought provoked. there was nothing to think about, you'd realized that a couple weeks ago. nothing mattered at this stage, it was all pointless to try and rationalize. there was nothing left for you.

so you began rotting in bed, day after meaningless day. the most you would get up was to use the bathroom or get a drink of water; not that this was too frequently though, seeing as the less you ate or drank, the less you had to use the toilet. if you had any roommates, they would've questioned your behavior or noted how skinny you were becoming. but you didn't. and there was no one to check up on you or worry about you. you only ever had him, and now he's gone.

none of your friends questioned your disappearance--not that you knew of. your phone went dead weeks ago after your lack of activity, and you usually stayed home anyways for the most part, so there was nothing to question. you also worked from home for the most part, well, when you actually had a job. right before he left, mere days before, you got fired for lack of productivity and inconsistent hours. you were alright with it though, you didn't really care for your old job anyways. your "inconsistent hours" were due to rescuing him and taking care of him constantly, and you couldn't keep up with your job load. if you were any normal person, you would've taken this opportunity of "downtime" to search for new jobs, but seeing as you weren't exactly in a normal situation--so you couldn't quite be considered normal--you didn't. instead, you decided to bed rot and avoid the world for the rest of your time.

at this rate, that wouldn't be much longer. you constantly felt weak (when or if you paid attention to how you felt), and if you even tried to get out of bed at this point, it wouldn't end well. you weren't exactly in the best shape to try getting your life back together. you were set on letting yourself finish out this life the way you wanted to--peacefully, in your sleep. it would be best, you'd convinced yourself.

surely, if you wanted to kill yourself, you would have by now. you had the resources: intense painkillers, a good length of rope in your garage, a nice sharp razor or kitchen knife. and let's not forget the handgun he gave you--"so you can defend yourself in case i'm not here."--which you've never had to use, thankfully. it's not like you were defenseless, you could have. if you really had the energy early on, you would have done something. probably. only if you were absolutely certain he wasn't ever coming back. but, you weren't, so here you are.

half empty coffee mugs littered your nightstand, taking up every inch of surface area available. your phone was somewhere on the ground where you threw it when it died, amongst the chaotic mess on your bedroom floor where you tossed your clothes, due to your lack of energy or effort. you were sure you reeked, but at this point it didn't matter. you hadn't showered in at the very least a week or two, hadn't brushed your hair or teeth in longer. it was hideous, and if you were in the right mind to snap yourself out of it, you would've by now. usually, you were so put together, but this was a completely different scenario. this was gut-wrenching, live-altering. to you, at least. you weren't exactly in shock, just too numb to believe it, i guess.

with your mind foggy and your energy too low to pay attention to anything but what was important (nothing), you hadn't heard anyone pounding on your front door. hadn't noticed until they broke through the door and multiple pairs of footsteps began exploring your house. you paid no mind to it, and if anything, you would've been glad. you would've hoped it was a gang or something breaking into your house, stealing your shit and killing you off. you would've hoped so.

instead, two cops stood at the doorway of your room. "ma'am? this is a wellness check, did you hear us come in?" one of the cops, a younger man, inquired as he stepped further into the room. "ma'am, are you alright?" he asked clearly, shaking your shoulder gently. your eyes slowly opened and closed, unfocused but staring at his face above you. "ma'am?"

the other cop came up behind him. "she conscious?" she asked the man. she was older and more experienced than him, as if she was training him.

the man nodded. "eyes are responsive, but she's not speaking."

the woman stepped closer to look at you, her eyes darting around quickly. "pale and thin, looks like she's been starved. that explains her low energy levels and fatigue. go ahead and call for an ambulance." she ordered, and he nodded and walked away, talking into his radio as he did so. she turned back towards you, brushing your hair out of your face. "what happened to you?" she whispered softly, almost as if to herself.

paramedics soon arrived and lifted you onto a stretcher, taking you out of your apartment and into the back of an ambulance. they placed an oxygen mask over your face and stuck an iv in your arm, with what you could only assume was fluids. it was logical, seeing as you hadn't left your house in weeks, let alone opened the front door in a month, and you were severely malnourished. god only knows how long you would've lasted after that if they hadn't come sooner.

"found her in her apartment, conscious but unresponsive, gcs of 8. heart rate is thready, hovering around 50. bp was 83/54. oxygen is at about 85. gave her fluids in the ambo." the paramedic told the doctors as they brought you into the emergency room. bright fluorescent lights shined all around you as they rolled you into a smaller room, lifting you into a hospital bed. they secured the iv above you and began doing more tests.

"she have any id on her?"

"no, the cops found her lying in her bed during a wellness check."

"go talk to them and see if we can get a name or someone to contact..."

they made sure the iv was flowing steady before they left the room, and suddenly it was quiet. besides the monitor beeping next to you, it was silent. the chaos of the situation finally simmered down, and your eyes felt heavier than they had before. you were out cold before the nurse even came to check up on you.

an uncertain amount of time had passed since you fell asleep. although, it was mostly all the same. you heard the consistent beeping of your heartrate displayed on the monitor, the steady sounds of the hospital continuing on outside of your room. the chatter of nurses and doctors as they rushed past in the hallway. the uproar of horns blaring on the street nearby. it was all familiar to when you first got here.

except now, the bright fluorescents were instead dimmer than they previously were, you could tell this much without even opening your eyes. and even with the consistent ruckus of the hospital, it made you believe it was night. your eyes slowly fluttered open, squinting nonetheless after being closed for who knows how long. the light was dim, making the room appear much warmer than it had when you arrived in the midst of the chaos.

you turned your head to the right to look out the window, to prove your theory, and you were right. the sky had turned dark with the passing time, the twinkling lights of the buildings around you visible from your room a few stories up. this was the first time you'd looked around your recovery room, and you were surprised by how spacious it actually was. there were a few comfier chairs to your right while all the medical equipment was cramped in the area to your left. and it was then that you noticed a figure slumped in one of the comfy chairs by the window. kept his distance but had the chair facing your bed. so he could keep his eye on you without you immediately noticing, which worked surprisingly well.

to add to this revelation, you were shocked to find his eyes were closed, his arms crossed in his slouched position. the longer you looked, the more you saw his chest steadily rise and fall at a slow pace. was he actually.. asleep? it almost made you laugh. frank castle--ex-marine, vigilante, doesn't take shit from no one, keeps his guard up 24/7--was dead asleep in your hospital room. it made you question everything you thought you knew about him. sure, you two had even shared a bed before, but frank always fell asleep after you and woke up before you. did he really think he was safe enough here to actually sleep while you were knocked out in a hospital bed?

as you went to sit up, you noted your sore muscles from your regular position and groaned. god, how long had it been since you sat up or walked around. you felt like you'd walked twenty miles from how tender you were.

that did the trick for frank though, because the moment you made a sound he was at your bedside, cradling your hand in his. "hey, hey, easy there." he soothed as he helped you to a sitting position. he kinda just stared at you, taking everything in.

you went to say something but all that came out was a crackle in your throat. you cleared your throat and frank briefly left your side to grab a cup of water from a nearby table. "here." he tipped the cup forward onto your lips and you swallowed every drop, your tongue aching for more. "good, that's it." he praised softly.

you cleared your throat again before looking up at him. "you were asleep." was all you said.

it made frank's lips tug upwards before his shoulders were jiggling as he shook his head at you. "goddamn, first chance you get to talk to me in months and this is how you act?"

you shrugged weakly. "you were. you were dead asleep when i woke up. that's a first." your voice was crackly from your lack of talking the past few weeks.

"yeah. yeah, i guess so.." his hand found yours again and gave it a squeeze. he glanced down at your interlocked fingers, his thumb brushing over your palm slowly. "i was.. worried, y'know?" he mumbled, almost reluctantly. "they called me sayin' you were in the hospital and every different scenario was runnin' through my head of what coulda happened an-"

"you're my contact." i stammered, trying to explain, bashfully.

"hm?"

"my emergency contact. i-i hadn't changed it yet." i leaned back in bed. "hadn't really wanted to.."

his dark eyes roamed me as i explained the situation, his hand coming up to cup my cheek tenderly. "had no idea what happened to you, doll. they told me they found you in your house an' you weren't talking and you're- fuck, look at you..." he leaned in closer. "what the hell were you thinkin'? were you tryna kill yourself? you're so.." frank looked down, not wanting to finish his sentence. "when's the last time you ate somethin', baby?"

the pet names broke you. it was the fact that he could just come back and continue on like he hadn't left for six weeks without explaining why he was leaving for good. because he knew that's exactly what you needed, not some crummy excuse for an apology that you'd never get because you'd be too busy beating yourself up over his decision, not anything you ever did.

his thumb wiped away a stray tear falling down your cheek before he pressed his lips to your forehead. "it's okay, i'm gonna get you outta here. i'm comin' back for good now, okay? i'm gonna take care of you, i promise." he kissed you again, and you believed him this time.

the hospital kept you for another week after that, just for monitoring and to make sure you were back up to a healthy weight. it took a little while, mostly because every time they gave you anything to eat, your body would reject it, and you'd end up puking it all up in the bathroom attached to your room. it made you feel extremely weak and shaky afterwards, so the only solution was to feed you nutrients through an iv for the mean time. eventually, after the sixth day, you were finally able to keep everything you ate down, and they deemed you ready to be discharged. frank was waiting outside next to his van when they wheeled you out of there.

"can you stand?" he asked patiently as he helped you up out of the wheelchair, then guided you into the passenger seat before going over to his side and getting it. he pulled out of there quickly, one hand on your thigh the whole time as he drove to your apartment. he could see the noticeable difference in your appearance since the first time he'd seen you a week ago. your face looked fuller, your cheekbones less visible and your skin brighter. you filled out your clothes better than when you first came into the emergency room, and you had a lot more energy. you talked more, smiled more, and laughed more. it made frank beam as he looked at you.

"what?" you chuckled as you saw the look he was giving you. it was the most you'd seen frank smile in a long time.

he shook his head dismissively. "nothin'. just happy."

your hand met his on your leg. "why's that?"

as frank pulled up to a red light, he turned to you fully. "because you're happy, and you look amazing." he cupped your face and gingerly planted a kiss on your cheek.

you giggled. "i just got out of the hospital, i look far from amazing right now."

"yeah, sure, but you look better than before." the light changed and frank took off again. "i don't wanna ever see you like that again, you got that, doll? i'm gonna make sure of it, makin' sure you're always taken care of." he looked at you tenderly again. "i wanna be there for you, hun. i wanna do this right this time around."

and frank castle did it right this time.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hi i love ypur work in both one piece and dmc but id like to get vergil from dmc and how he'd react to finding out from Dante that you got badly hurt? Thank you!

The moment that Dante had told Vergil that you had gotten badly hurt from a recent mission, Vergil thought it the cruelest prank his brother could’ve ever pulled in his pathetic life but the look of concern and seriousness within his younger brother’s eyes told him that this was far from a prank and much closer to reality then he’d like to admit.

The words must’ve felt like heavy sandpaper upon his brother’s tongue to come and tell him such a thing, yet Vergil’s hand was gripping tightly to the grip of the Yamato, so hard that his skin was that of a ghostly white and his knucklebones might as well had been visible to the eye. His jaw was clenched and his failed attempts to keep his breathing even, and his mind from wandering too far off into the dark cervices there failed him, he didn’t have much of a temper as he use to but the fire within his veins spoke in a completely different language: one that was of a more demonic nature.

‘Take me to them.’ Vergil would say, no, demanded through gritted teeth and a last ditch effort in reigning in his anger and frustration.

‘You sure? They’re not-‘

Quicker then light the bitingly cold blade of Yamato was mere inches away from Dante’s neck and Vergil’s eyes were practically aglow with his demon side peering through now, hatred filled his body at the idea that you -his beloved partner- had been injured when he was unaware, wanting nothing more then to destroy and dismantle whatever and whomever had hurt you in a manner that went against everything he stood for.

‘Take me to them.’ He repeated, leaving Dante with not an ounce of room to speak against him into not doing so, but his brother spoke regardless but more so out of a need to understand where his brother’s mind was at before he saw the state you were in; it wasn’t pretty and he knew that if Vergil saw you as you were now, he’d tear the city apart with his bare hands with a thirst to see a good deal of demons dead at his feet before they could blink.

‘I’ll take you, but I need to know if you’ll be able to handle it.’

Vergil glared at Dante as though what he was saying was an insult, his demon side having become more and more to the surface, and pushing aside logic and reason aside in the wake of the idea that you were in a worse off state. He wasn’t in the mood for a mental check up when you were most likely writhing in pain in a bed somewhere beyond his reach.

‘Yes, now take me to them.’ He practically spat and was soon following his brother in matching strides down the hallway until he was at the doorway of your room, finally seeing the damage dealt to you with his own two eyes and it wasn’t pretty in the slightest, with the amount of blood you lost and how you comprised of more bloodied gauze then he’s ever seen in his life.

It didn’t do anything to satiate the need to tear things apart with his bare hands, it only enhanced it to unspeakable levels, but for the sake of not having Dante drag him back out to the hallway and away from you for even a split second, he composed himself for a moment to ask his brother a simple question: ‘what happened.’

‘They were lured by a demon into a trap, what was meant to be an easy mission became a lot harder, the bastards got them good.’ Was all Dante says in response before patting Vergil on the shoulder. ‘If you wanna give them hell, give them hell like they’ve never seen.’ He essentially was given his brother the go ahead to go ballistic, something Vergil didn’t need as he was going to do so anyways, but felt the similarities between him and his brother in this moment of vulnerability; the need to protect and defend what they care for deeply.

‘I intend to, not that I need your blessing to indulge in bloodshed.’ Vergil told him sharply, as he gripped Yamato somehow even tighter. ‘But I must ask that you watch over them while I’m gone, guard them with your life Dante.’ He adds, not liking the idea of leaving you alone but felt it a grave injustice in letting those who’ve harmed you live another second, so he entrusted your safety to his brother as he moved to open himself a portal, hellbent on letting out some frustration with no indication that he’d be holding back.

They didn’t hold back with you, so why should he?

[chrizzmaster]

it’s all fun and games for the dateables in your dead houseowner idea, until the stalker breaks into the house while the reader is actually in class then the resulting house destruction results in the reader just giving up on the house, and leaving the destruction as is, since the dateables already pushed them away enough. the reader has to worry about their life outside of the home now so they’d rather move elsewhere than stay in a home where they already were starting to feel unsafe

oh they would feel so guilty but then roll their eyes are would think of course you pissed someone off to the point where you have some rando following after you and trashing your place

well, they think it’s all ‘whatever’ until said stalker started smashing your plates and stab your couch- carving your initials and the stalker’s into the cushions with a knife; it doesn’t just stop there. your house was falling apart as the stalker started punching the weak walls and doing everything and anything to ruin your house as if the house itself had offended them- and yes, they did. this house was the reason you moved out from the dorm- you were supposed to be their roommate!

the dateables gradually understood from the intruder’s mumbles and cursing that this person didn’t hate you- they were madly in love with you.

being apart of the house- when the stalker smashed a plate, daisuke felt his skin being cut with shards; when the stalker carved the couch, koa could feel the excruciating pain as the knife carved onto the cushion, writing your initial on it- the words were carved on him in real time- slow and painful. his screams traveled inside the house as the other tensed in fear of their turn.

coming back to the trashed house- you decided to just sell it. immediately contacting a real estate agent and discussed about selling it immediately.

of course, you had to make sure the place was decent before showing the real estate agent your house so you carefully fix them up.

you stitched koa up with such gentleness and collected the plate shards up- wincing at how your delicate kitchenware was completely in piece, you think to yourself, much like you.

as you fixed all your objects and cleaned up the place- they thought you differently. they hated you, they treated you with such malice and yet- here you were, cleaning them up and caring for them with such kindness. in truth, you js wanted to clean up so u cld sell the house

they thought back to all the times they have mistreated you and finally understood their wrongs but it was too late.

the remaining days of your stay- you found out there was a shift during the house. everything was… normal. fine even. but you remained persistent in selling the house. you didn’t even feel safe before your stalker roommate broke in, this was the final nail to the coffin.

when the real estate agent came to your house- they panicked. what..? you were leaving? without even saying goodbye?! the others asked phoenicia and mac instantly- mac didn’t had a clue so phoenicia definitely did! phoenicia simply shrugged, “You guys hated them. Why bother with this pretense?” she said it with such smugness because anywhere you go- she went with. volt was just about to electrocute her but before a fight could break out, celia chimed in. it was true. they- well, some wanted you out so what was this change of tune? too late though, you packed some clothes and the rest remained. a big fully furnished house but you sold it for cheap, there wasn’t anything worthy in the house anyways.

SRRY I JS WORD VOMIT ALL THIS OUT I FORGOT U SAID THAT THE HOUSEOWNER REMAINED THE DISTRUCTION 😭 but i was thkn of the houseowner selling it so it had to remain presentable 💔💔💔 BUT WHAT DO U THINK OF THE ANGST I HOPE U LIKED THIS LIL IDEA!!

btw guys u can js write anything in my ‘ask anything’ and i’ll reply smthg similar to this CS TRULY idk how to even start with my dead houseowner fic so im lit js gna word vomit it and supply a lil idea thingy like this CS EVERYONE HAVE SO MANY IDEAS i wanna write everything but erm… thats js not rrly possible 🥀 so js send some ideas my way and i’ll write a lil idea thingy like this!!

[brittscafe]

𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬

Pairing: Shunsui Kyoraku x reader.

Summary: hurt/comfort headcanons after Shunsui's injury in TYBW.

Request: Can I request some hurt/comfort/fluff headcanons for Shunsui? :) Like how reader comforts and assures him that the changes in his appearance (his eye patch and the new scars) don't change her affection/attraction towards him?

A/n: Of courseeee! Also, helloooo back from the dead again, please forgive meee. I've been busy with work and handling some things in my personal life. My pet mouse is doing good, he's such a cutie, but he does have a bit of an upset stomach right now. my poor baby 😭 anyways please enjoy this piece.

Content: SFW. Angsty fluff.

At first, Shunsui puts up such a wall when it comes to his eye and the new scars littered across him.

You make sure to always stay by his side for the first few weeks of him dealing with his new eye injury...even if Shunsui is quite closed off but is still trying to act normal.

He doesn't want you to worry about him, so he acts like nothing has changed and he's fine.

He doesn't let you see him without his eye patch for the longest time and is always making excuses or rushing off.

It breaks your heart that Shunsui is putting distance between the two of you because of his eye.

You can see the sadness in his face and how much it truly affects him.

It starts to feel like there is nothing you can do to make Shunsui feel even the slightest bit better.

Slowly Shunsui starts to realize that his eye injury doesn't change the way you see him.

You make sure to always reassure him about his eye and show love to it and him.

Shunsui doesn't really believe you at first, thinking that your attraction has changed towards him.

So, you show more affection and really use your actions and words to show how much you appreciate him.

Shunsui starts to slowly believe you when he finally notices you've never changed the way you look at him or how you smile at him.

It takes awhile but Shunsui starts to let you see him without the eye patch and even lets you clean around his injury.

It's very sensitive, so you make sure to be as careful as you can be.

Your touch is tender and so soft, almost afraid you'll hurt Shunsui even though you two of you know, you never would.

He's got his arms wrapped around your waist as you clean around his eye.

He notices how focused you are on cleaning his eye, making sure to be cautious.

You'll have your hands occupied with the cleaning supplies, but every once in a while, you'll cup his cheeks and smile warmly at him, pressing a kiss beside his injured eye.

He stifles a chuckle and just squeezes your waist.

Shunsui is such a big baby though at the end of the day and acts so dramatic.

He'll soak up any moment that his eye bothers him in order to get attention from you.

You can hear him wincing from the other room and will teleport by his side, eyes full of concern and voice soft as you examine his face.

Shunsui doesn't mind being the little spoon but after his injury, it becomes more a of common thing in the house.

Shunsui will have rough days where he's insecure about his eye and comes home to you and collapses in your arms.

He adores it when you hold his face in your hands and your thumbs brushes over his stubble.

Shunsui will lowkey crush you underneath his weight, but it's all worth it to see him melt in your arms and feel so safe.

[luciemggio]

Lipstick & Leather

Pairing: Austin Butler x Makeup!Artist!f’Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: A clumsy makeup artist on The Bikeriders set catches Austin Butler’s eye. Her chaos and depth draw him in—ending in a slow-burn romance and a kiss under golden light.

The New Orleans heat clung to everything—the air, the trailers, the leather jackets, and especially to you as you fumbled with a compact of powder and dropped it right at Austin Butler’s feet.

“Shit. Shit, I’m sorry,” you muttered, crouching down to gather the shattered pieces, smudging some beige dust onto your already-stained jeans.

A low laugh vibrated from above you. “You know this is the third time this week you’ve dropped something on me?”

You looked up from your knees, squinting into the late-afternoon sun. Austin stood in full 1960s biker glory—slicked-back hair, tight jeans, leather jacket slung halfway over his shoulder. There was a lightness to his face now, something teasing in his eyes that hadn’t been there the first few weeks of shooting.

“That can’t be true.”

“I’m counting your brush, your water bottle, and now… your entire compact.” He crouched beside you, carefully gathering the pieces, dusting powder off his boots. “Not that I mind. I kinda like when you crash into me.”

You scoffed, embarrassed, cheeks going hot. “It’s because I’m always rushing. There’s not enough time to get your damn cheekbone right, and it’s too symmetrical, and that messes me up.”

“My cheekbone messes you up?” His lips twitched.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I didn’t. You just did.” He grinned and stood. “C’mon, let’s get you a new compact. I’ll walk you to the trailer before they call me back.”

You blinked, thrown. Austin Butler—Elvis, Denny from The Bikeriders, king of cool—was offering to walk you back like it was nothing.

“Uh—right, yeah. I need new powder anyway.”

As you started toward the row of trailers, he matched your pace. Your hands were smudged with beige and your ponytail was falling out, a pencil stuck behind your ear and a smudge of lipstick on your wrist.

“You always this chaotic?” he asked lightly.

“Define ‘chaotic.’”

“Tripping over cables, misplacing brushes, quoting Sylvia Plath while touching up my eyeliner?”

You looked at him sideways. “You remembered that?”

“Of course. I remember weird things. You said, ‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,’ and I thought, ‘Who the hell is doing my makeup and reciting poetry while she’s poking my eyeball?’”

You let out a laugh. “That’s not even the full quote. It’s ‘I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I lift my lids and all is born again.’ It’s from Mad Girl’s Love Song. It’s Plath—but not the depressing part.”

Austin stopped at the steps of your trailer and leaned on the railing, facing you. “You do that a lot.”

“What?”

“Say interesting things and assume no one’s listening.”

You looked at him, powder forgotten. “Most people aren’t.”

“I am.” He shrugged. “You say stuff that makes me curious. Half the crew just talks about weekend plans and protein powder. You talk about dead poets and old French films.”

“I also spilled coffee on your boot.”

He looked down at his worn black boot like he was checking for damage. “That only made me more intrigued.”

You were suddenly aware of how close he was, how the late golden light caught on the curve of his jaw, the creases at the corners of his eyes, the faint smudge of fake grease you’d applied to his temple earlier.

“So, what’s the verdict?” he asked.

“Verdict?”

“On me. You’ve spent more time staring at my face than anyone else on this set.”

You laughed, trying to hide the sudden tightness in your throat. “You’re alright. A solid eight out of ten.”

“Only eight?” He raised a brow.

“Docked a point for being smug. Another for quoting me back at myself.”

“You said I was symmetrical. That’s practically Shakespearean praise coming from you.”

You reached for the trailer door. “I’ve got powder to replace and brushes to clean.”

“And I’ve got a fake bar fight scene to shoot. But—hey.” He paused, suddenly less performative. “You wanna grab a coffee after? Or…whatever chaotic makeup artists do to unwind.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You’re asking me out? With lipstick on your collar and fake blood on your hands?”

He smirked. “Very method of me, right?”

You hesitated. “Yeah. Okay. I mean—yes.”

“Good. I’ll find you after wrap.”

Later That Night

The shoot ran long. Dust clung to the humid air, and Austin walked off set with a limp from the stunt choreography, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, bruises painted on. You were already outside his trailer, leaning against a folding chair, sipping an iced tea and re-reading Just Kids by Patti Smith.

He stopped, taking in the sight of you in the yellow light of the trailer sconces, your eyeliner slightly smeared, a forgotten smudge of blush on your chin.

“I like this look on you,” he said, stepping closer. “Post-wreck glamour.”

“I aim for ‘slightly unraveling but artistic.’”

“You nail it.”

You smiled as he fell into step beside you. “Still want that coffee?”

He shook his head. “Change of plans. I know a diner ten minutes from here. It’s got bad pie and great neon.”

“Sounds perfect.”

The Diner

You sat across from him in a booth lit by flickering pink neon. The fake blood was gone, but a shadow of his character remained in his voice, his posture, the intensity behind his eyes as he listened to you talk about why you got into makeup in the first place.

“Everyone thinks it’s about glam,” you said, sipping your milkshake. “But it’s not. It’s about transformation. Becoming someone else. For a few hours, you can look like someone braver or messier or completely out of your own world.”

He stirred his coffee. “So you’re the one pulling the strings.”

You laughed. “I’m just the magician’s assistant. I hand over the mask. You guys decide whether to wear it.”

He leaned in. “You ever wear one?”

You held his gaze. “Sometimes I think I never took mine off.”

He didn’t speak for a second. Then: “You know, every day I sit in your chair, and I wonder what’s behind your eyes.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“It’s not. It’s just rare. People look at me, but you see me. And that scares me more than any scene.”

The silence between you turned warm. Charged.

“Can I ask you something?” you said finally.

“Sure.”

“Is this… a one-time coffee? Or something else?”

He smiled slowly. “Depends. Do you always drop things on the people you like?”

Your cheeks went hot. “Maybe.”

“Then I hope you drop a lot more.”

He reached across the table and gently brushed a streak of blush from your cheek with his thumb.

“Still got some of your magic on you,” he murmured.

You grinned. “Good. Maybe it’ll keep you coming back.”

“I already am.”

A few days later, the sun was beginning its descent, drenching the set in that glowing amber you always wished you could bottle. Everyone was wrapping up for the day, slowly drifting off toward trailers, cars, craft services. The air was still thick with summer, the kind of heat that softened the world’s edges.

You were lingering near the wardrobe truck, organizing a half-tangled mess of brushes and smudged palettes. You told yourself you were being productive, but the truth was, you were waiting. You hadn’t seen him yet. Not since he walked past you on set that morning with a knowing glance and a quiet “Hey, trouble.”

Then came his voice again. Low. Familiar. Right behind you.

“Need a hand with those?”

You turned too quickly and nearly dropped an eyeshadow pan—but caught it just in time.

Austin smirked. “Still keeping your streak alive, I see.”

“You jinx me.”

“I inspire you,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

He stepped closer, not touching you, just hovering in that space he’d claimed over the past few weeks—the in-between of flirting and something deeper, something you couldn’t name yet.

You gave him a side-glance. “You’re not even in costume anymore. Why are you loitering around the makeup truck?”

“Looking for you.”

You blinked.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You ever think about how weird this is? Me… standing around waiting for a girl with lipstick on her knuckles and a brush behind her ear?”

You crossed your arms. “Weird?”

“In a good way.” He stepped closer. “Like I walked into a scene I didn’t know I’d been cast in.”

You swallowed hard. His eyes were so blue in the dying light it made your stomach tighten.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said softly.

You tried to keep it light. “You think about everyone who pokes at your face five times a day?”

“You’re not everyone.” His voice had gone quiet now. “You rush around like your thoughts are five steps ahead of your body. You recite poems without knowing it. You talk to yourself when you concentrate. You hold your breath when you blend.”

Your breath hitched at that.

“And I—” he exhaled, smiling like he couldn’t believe it himself, “I watch you. More than I should.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Why?”

He leaned in, nose nearly brushing yours. “Because you’re the only real thing on this set.”

The silence between you crackled. You could smell the faint leather still clinging to his skin, the warmth of his cologne buried under hours of heat and dust and him.

You said, “They’ll be looking for you.”

“I don’t care.”

You stared at him, caught. And then his hand moved, slow, steady—he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your skin like he was memorizing it.

“You have powder on your jaw,” he said, voice low, teasing.

“You’re the one who made me drop the brush,” you whispered.

His smile faded as he leaned in, eyes flicking to your lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

So he kissed you.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he’d been waiting to exhale for weeks. His hand settled at your jaw, thumb brushing the hollow of your cheek, and your fingers found his collar, holding on like the moment might slip away if you didn’t anchor yourself to him.

The world was suddenly quiet. No buzzing crew radios. No call sheets. Just the sound of your breaths syncing and the soft creak of leather under his shirt as he leaned in closer, deepening the kiss just slightly—enough to make your heart stutter.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you looked up at him. He was watching you like you’d cracked something open in him.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“You kissed me.”

He grinned. “You didn’t stop me.”

You laughed, dazed. “What now?”

He glanced around the empty lot. “We go get dinner. You drop something on me again. I say something stupid to make you roll your eyes. And tomorrow, you’ll be touching up my bruises and pretending your hands aren’t shaking.”

You arched a brow. “You think I’ll be that flustered?”

“I hope you are.”

You punched his arm playfully. “Smug.”

He caught your hand. “Falling.”

The words hung there. Raw. Unexpected.

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t let go.

[justallihere]

foreshadowing, hints, and lines i wrote simply for my own amusement. enjoy!!

chapter 1

He paused for the briefest of seconds. - not exactly foreshadowing, but that pause as xaden sees the dental records is him realizing exactly how fucked he could be, especially with violet the one working the case

chapter 3

Slowly, Riorson said, "You think he was killed by a cat?" - he's just being a little bitch here 1. because he can and 2. framing cat just got a WHOLE lot easier if the tauris already suspect her

"A temper," Riorson repeated in a low, dangerous voice. "Did he hit you?" - plotting IMMEDIATELY

he's really just sowing seeds with violet (and everyone else too) this whole chapter, leading her to think that the whole tauri family is suspicious and that halden is a viable suspect

chapter 4

"We found where he was buried." - "we" lolololol ok xaden liarson. he may have picked a “random” location to go looking in and gotten reallyyyyy lucky

"These are all the bones you found?" "Yeah. You want more?" Riorson raised an eyebrow at her. - again! he knows where the rest of them are!

There's a fracture here, too, on the right radius, and to the phalanges and metacarpals. Defensive wounds. He fought his killer." Tavis tilted his head. "Left-handed attacker?" - i don't think i've ever said it, and it's not written into this fic, but i headcanon xaden as left-handed (not sure if it’s ever actually stated in canon?), so this is more just a lol for me personally

chapter 7

His laughter cut her off. "You wouldn't let yourself be kidnapped and murdered. And you wouldn't be worth the hassle anyway." - he certainly knows what's worth the hassle to murder someone ☺️

chapter 8

"You don't need to worry about him. I can handle Halden Tauri," Xaden said. - just. nothing to say.

"Then get me somebody," he said. "Something. If anyone can do it, Violence, it's you. But I think it's him." - gaslight gatekeep girlboss the love of your life into thinking her ex killed his own brother before you go kill him too

chapter 11

"I couldn't give you the line. I couldn't come to you and say that I was sorry for your loss, sorry if it was hard for you to hear, sorry if you were grieving. I would've told you I was glad that the piece of shit who put his hands on you was dead, and the only thing I was sorry about was that I didn't get to see the light leave his eyes." - i really thought this was going to be the one!!!! i really thought you guys would read this chapter and go "oh he's SUCH a bitch he totally did it and now he's just fucking with her" because he did and he was. this, technically, is not a lie in that when he slit halden's throat he was standing behind him and so did not get to see the light leave his eyes

chapter 12

He was still crouched in front of the flowerbed, several feet down from where he'd started, in front of a particularly beautiful clump of violets. He'd kept scooping the top layer of gravel back, revealing the ones at the very bottom, and the dirt beneath. It was all stained the undeniable rust red of dried, congealed blood. - another one i really expected a bunch of people to comment on if the chapter before didn't do it. halden's blood was in cat's VIOLETS

also, cat's shock in this chapter was genuine! she wasn't expecting they'd find anything

BONUS: "It's almost four o'clock. I have dinner plans. Can we hurry this up? You two can flirt or fight or fuck or whatever it is you do later." - ridoc's referencing his first date with sawyer here!

chapter 13

"Tip of a knife, as far I can tell." His gaze sharpened with interest, - he's thinking "oh good she found the present i left her"

chapter 14

He stepped in close and offered her the bouquet he held—violets, of course - this ties into the next chapter, but there are violets over alic's grave, and yes xaden did go back to the burial site before their date to dig it up enough that the forecasted rain would do the rest of the work, and left some violet petals there as another hint for vi

chapter 15

"Lots of debris," he noted. "Sticks, dirt, flower petals, the like. Mostly dahlias and violets and goldenrod petals, but there's some fern leaves. Probably just stuff that ended up on it from the rain, and when the remains got unearthed this morning." - more violets, more hints

chapter 16

"We have a lot to learn about each other, Violence." - at this point he's just telling her without telling her

chapter 17

"You're a thief," she accused. "I'm much worse than that." - and, for my own amusement, i could not resist one last moment of him telling her before she puts the pieces together on her own

[milatiny-xx]

pistol whipped | s.mg

⊹₊⟡⋆ Westeez Series | Part 3 of 8 ⊹₊⟡⋆

pairing: outlaw!mingi x fem!reader summary: He's dangerous and deadly. Lethal. Unforgiving. Heartless. He has no right to want you the way he does. tags: cowboy/wild west AU, period-typical sexism, gun violence, depictions of blood/bleeding/other cowboy activities, dubious morals, reader is kinda insane and masochistic?? oops wc: 7.1k a/n: i need someone to acknowledge how punny i am for this title pls!! also slay minki for wearing a cowboy hat and looking sexy af at the nashville show a few days ago like he knew i was writing this xx

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

PROLOGUE

You sit in the parlor after dinner, half-finished needlepoint resting in your lap. Your mother has nagged you to complete it three times already, but you're much more interested in the conversation she's having with your grandmother.

"He says there are lots of opportunities for work in Texas," your mother is saying. "And that there's plenty of unclaimed land for us to build a nice, new big house on."

Your grandmother presses her wrinkled lips together.

"Regardless of your husband's opinions, I disapprove of this move. Even if there is ample work and housing, both will be obsolete if someone doesn't get those bandits under control."

"Bandits? Whatever are you talking about?"

"Oh, didn't you hear? It was all the rage at the ladies' sewing circle last week. Henrietta's son went down there to visit a school chum of his and wound up half-dead at some godforsaken infirmary. If one could even call it that."

"What happened to him?" you burst, unable to contain yourself.

Your mother's lips purse as she glares at you disapprovingly. You shrink back into your seat, fingers drifting to the needlepoint in your lap.

"He was attacked by one of those so-called cowboys, you know those men who herd all the cattle. Anyway, they're more like criminals from the sound of it—running amok, robbing trains, kidnapping young women, acting as they please with virtually no consequences. It's abhorrent."

You lean forward, engrossed in what your grandmother is saying. It's hard to even visualize those things; nothing like that has ever happened to you before.

"Do they really do all that? The kidnapping and the robbing? Oh! They sound just like how the dime novels describe them! Big hats, boots, horses, guns slung on their hips. Wild and lawless and free an-"

"That will be enough from you tonight," your mother snaps, giving you her signature glare. "Upstairs. Go to bed. It's late, and we have an early train to catch in the morning."

You open your mouth to retort, but she raises her eyebrows angrily. You surrender, placing the needlepoint on the table beside your chair and bidding your grandmother a goodnight.

As you leave, you hear her say, "Watch that little girl of yours. I've heard stories. Those cowboys lure in sweet, innocent girls like that with wild promises and, before you know it, they're running off together into heaven knows what kind of life.”

As you ready yourself for bed, you can't help but replay your grandmother's words in your head over and over. You remember all the daring tales and beautiful illustrations in the dime stories you've read. Cowboys are always so wild and free in those pictures.

God, how you wish for a life with that kind of independence. Go where you want and do what you want, when you want and how you want.

Sleep eventually drags you under, drowning you in dreams of freedom.

You wake with a start, sweat dripping down your spine and beading at your temples. You gulp through panting breaths and crawl out of bed. As you splash your face with water from the basin on your nightstand, you try to recall the dream that you were having.

Suddenly, it all flashes back, piece by piece. Some of the finer details are missing, but you remember him. You can't see his face clearly or recall his name, but, somehow, your gut just knows he's handsome. A cowboy, no doubt about it, with a wide-brimmed black hat and long unruly brown hair underneath. And you remember the shiny silver pistol peeking out from the holster on his hip.

From the back of a tall black horse, he stretches out his hand. It's impossibly big. The fingers are too slender and long to be real. You don't remember how your dream ends, but you can still feel the stinging rush of adrenaline in your chest. You can still feel the desire to accept his hand.

You know it's just a dream, a fleeting moment that will be forgotten tomorrow. It doesn't matter whether you took his hand or not—it isn't real.

But some restless part of you still lies in that dream, waiting for him to offer it again.

PART ONE

You sigh again as your gaze drifts out the window. Still nothing to see. Just dust and dirt and the occasional plant or bush or weed. It's been the same way for the past 200 miles. You desperately hope there'll be something more interesting to look at in Texas.

"Your father says he's met a handful of wonderful, eligible young men..."

Your focus floats in and out of your mother's one-sided conversation. She's been talking about marrying you off for the past 150 miles, at least. Practically nonstop since the train left the station.

You couldn't care less.

"...and the best part is that he'll be taking over the bank after his father..."

You're praying that your father will be your ally once you finally arrive and settle into society. Unfortunately, from what your mother has to say, it sounds like he's already been working hard to find you a proper, wealthy husband.

You squirm in your seat, pulling at the string to your bonnet. Your forehead is starting to sweat underneath the brim of cotton fabric. Your skin feels itchy all over. Your clothes are hot and heavy. Images of a nice, warm, lavender-scented bath sail through your mind until your mother's shrill voice breaks through once again.

"Are you even listening to me?" she snaps, tone sharp and lips pursed.

You open your mouth to respond, but you don't get the chance. Before you can say anything, a horrible cracking noise interrupts you.

On instinct, you and your mother both duck your heads. Several other people on the train scream. After a moment of silence passes, you raise your head and turn to see a small hole in one of the windows. The glass around it is cracked, like a snowflake imprinted on the window.

Another crash sounds, and something flies through the air. It pierces another one of the windows on the train. The small metal object lands just a few inches from where you sit. Now, people are shrieking and wailing. Some of them are taking cover by their seats, others are shielding their children, and still others are fleeing for the exits. Amongst the chaos, you peer around your mother's shaking body to get a closer look at the object. You recognize it, clear as day.

A bullet.

Your attention is captured by a fast-moving figure—a middle-aged man, nicely dressed, with glasses who is sprinting toward the exit. Suddenly, the front entrance to the train car is flung open. The fleeing man falls backward, whether from the force of the door or the sheer shock of it being opened, you aren't sure. He collapses onto the floor of the train. His glasses are knocked loose, and you watch them slide across the aisle.

The sound of heavy footsteps drags your attention up toward the door, where two figures enter.

Cowboys. Guns held in the air, barrels pointed upward, bandanas concealing their faces, hats tipped low. They saunter in like they own the train.

You know you should be terrified. But...you're not. You feel like a monster as the thrill and excitement bubble in your chest. These men are criminals, probably murders and God knows what else. But something about them...it's awfully intriguing.

One of the cowboys, tall and slender with a black bandana tied around his face, slowly lowers his gun to point it at the man in the aisle. The way he moves is so fluid and confident. It's almost beautiful. It exudes raw power and control. Two things you could never imagine possessing as a woman of your station. You find it absolutely breathtaking.

"Everybody back in your seats," he says, voice low and gruff.

The man in the aisle cowers, shaking terribly as he picks up his glasses and returns to his seat. The woman seated beside him, probably his wife, whimpers as she fusses over him.

An elderly, well-dressed gentleman stands and steps into the aisle.

"Just who exactly do you think you are?" he shouts. "You can't jus-"

He doesn't finish. He can't. On account of the fact that a bullet slices clean through his mouth before he can finish. Your mother and several others scream as blood sprays along the green velvet seats and the dark wooden floor.

You know you should cower, too. That's what everyone else is doing. That's what a sane person would do.

But you're not.

All you can do is watch in surprise and...something else as the cowboy snaps open the chamber and loads two more bullets. The other cowboy cackles through his red bandana. The kind of laugh only an insane person could muster—shrill and sharp and somehow evil.

The train is silent, aside from the soft cries and the insane cowboy's laughter. Everyone is still. It feels like standing in a cemetery full of statues. The click of the gun chamber locking back into place is as loud as an avalanche in the quiet.

Your mother's soft whimper draws your attention. You glance at her and then track her gaze to the floor, where you see dark red liquid sliding across the wooden boards.

Blood.

Your mouth pops open as you watch it brush the edge of your white skirt. It tickles the hem and then begins to crawl upward, fracturing into jagged patterns as the moisture stains the fabric. It erases the tiny blue flowers and washes everything in deep crimson red.

Your head snaps back up as the cowboy with the black bandana moves. The spurs on his boots click as he steps forward, slow, calculated. Your eyes track him, wide and focused. He abruptly lurches to the side, hands fisting the sleeve of a woman's dress. She yelps as he drags her into the aisle and presses the gun to the side of her head.

"Now, why don't we all behave?" he says, voice booming. "Don't want nobody else to get hurt, do we? We gonna get along a lot better if y'all just do what I say. Everyone on this train is gonna empty their pockets and hand over their wallets."

"Yeah, yeah, empty ya pockets," Red Bandana adds. He tilts his head, pressing his pistol to his own head, eyes bulging. "Or everybody fuckin' dies. Just. Like. Him."

Everyone on the train collectively lowers their gaze as Red Bandana gestures toward the murdered man on the floor.

"Oh, and ladies," Black Bandana purrs, sweeping his gaze across the car, "your jewelry, too. Thank you kindly."

He winks. Despite yourself, your traitorous heart flutters.

The train remains mostly silent as the cowboys walk along the rows with open potato sacks. The men hand over their wallets and watches, the women frantically remove their earrings and necklaces and rings.

Your mother trembles beside you as she does the same. You don't move at first. You feel frozen, mesmerized. Your eyes are so focused on Black Bandana that you hardly hear your mother hissing your name in your ear repeatedly. When she pulls at your sleeve, you finally look over at her. A crisp click makes your spine go rigid. You shift your gaze.

"Jewelry, girl," Red Bandana's nasally voice catches your attention. "Off ya body, in the bag. Now."

Your mother follows obediently, dropping her pieces in the bag. They land with a clink. You don't move. You know you should be afraid, but you're simply not. You don't know why or what's wrong with you.

After a moment, Red Bandana leans forward, angling the gun at your head.

"In the fuckin' bag!" he shouts.

"Please," your mother cries, tugging at you, "Y/N, just do what he says. For the love of god please."

A tinge of fear finally bubbles in your gut. You recoil just slightly, your mother's fingers white-knuckled on your sleeve. She's shaking so hard, you can feel it on the seat underneath you.

"You wanna die, bitch?" Red Bandana shouts again, tilting his head and widening his eyes. "I'll shoot your pretty ass right fuckin' now."

Your mother wails.

"That's enough, Cleetus."

Your vision is pulled to the other aisle at the sound of Black Bandana's firm voice. Your gazes lock, and you feel your breath sucked from your lungs. His eyes seem so...familiar somehow. You aren't sure where you've seen them before. He holds your stare as he crosses the aisle and comes to stand next to Red Bandana.

"B-b-but she's not-" Red Bandana stutters, waving his pistol around carelessly.

Black Bandana simply holds up a hand. He tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your figure. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and your gut swims in circles. Your lips pop open, breath escaping in uneasy gasps.

"You're far too pretty to be flirtin' with death like this, little one," he purrs, voice impossibly raspy and deep.

You feel the corner of your mouth quirk up, just a fraction of a second, but long enough that he notices, too. His eyebrows raise, and he lifts his head. After a moment, he raises his own pistol. You're frozen, eyes trained up on his face. He presses the barrel to your forehead. Your breath catches in your throat. Your whole body feels like it's vibrating.

Is it fear? Desire? Something worse? Maybe both.

His power...the way he commands the train with a single pistol...you can't describe why but you feel addicted to it. You feel reckless. Stupid. Free. Something deep and sadistic and perverted in you wants this man. Desperately.

He holds the pistol to your head for just a moment before a bitter laugh escapes his chest. Then, he pulls it back, holstering it and turning away.

"C'mon, Cleetus. We're done here," he says.

Red Bandana—Cleetus, apparently—whines and glares at you for a second but falls into line behind his boss. You watch them retreat to the front of the train and swing open the door. The car is flooded with hot wind and the rushing sound of the train eating up ground and clacking across the tracks. Black Bandana turns.

"Thank y'all for your cooperation," he says. "It was an absolute pleasure doin' business with ya. Y'all enjoy the rest of your train ride, now. Gentleman. Ladies."

He tips his hat, purring the last word. His eyes drift to you, linger for a moment, and then he's gone.

PART TWO

You feel frozen for a second. You can't hear anything outside of the muffled pounding of your heart in your ears. You feel dazed, outside of yourself, outside of your body.

Then, you stand, bracing yourself on the wooden back of the bench in front of you. Your mother pulls harshly at the sleeve of your dress, calling your name and begging you to sit back down. You glance at her for a brief moment—her cheeks are tear-stained, eyes bloodshot, knuckles white.

And you know in that moment, you never want to be like her.

You bolt into the aisle. A sharp ripping sound follows, and you look down to see a gash in the side of your skirts. Your mother is holding a shred of fabric between her fingers. She says your name again, pleading this time, almost begging.

It's...pathetic. It makes you sick to your stomach. You feel evil, like a devil child, thinking this way. But you have to get out. You have to get out before that becomes you.

You dash for the exit, ignoring your mother's shouts and screams after you among the din of the crowd. You swing open the door and brace yourself on either side of it. The train sways. You watch the track as it disappears below the wheels, the rhythmic click-clack of the metal like the beat of a war drum.

As carefully as you can, you step from the small platform on your car across the coupler and onto the matching platform of the next car over. The heel of your boot catches on the edge, and you gasp and clutch onto the doorframe with all of your strength. Your foot teeters on the edge for just a moment before you recover your balance.

You force a deep breath and then swing open the door. You burst into the cargo car, uncoordinated and off-balance, clutching onto a nearby supply box to keep from falling.

Voices. You hear voices for just a moment before they abruptly stop. You lift your head and lock eyes with Black Bandana.

Except, the bandana is around his neck now. You can see his face. You can watch how the surprised expression melts immediately into something dark—a smirk that makes your skin crawl and goosebumps spread over your body.

"Well, well, well," he says, boots clicking in time with each word as he approaches. He crouches down, head tilting patronizingly. "What do we got here?"

Your eyes trace his features. Surprisingly delicate for how he carries himself. His face is full of sharp lines, high bones carved into hollow cheeks. Hooded, unreadable eyes. Angular, strong, straight nose. Plush lips set against a hard jaw. Something about him is strangely beautiful.

Cleetus's shrill laugh snaps you back to reality. Your eyes flick over to him for a brief moment, and you watch him lick the barrel of his gun. Your stomach turns. So, it has nothing to do with cowboys. But everything to do with this specific man in front of you. Cleetus makes you sick. But this one...

You peer up at him again.

"T-take me with you," you breathe. For a second, you aren't sure if you've said it out loud.

But the flicker of surprise that flashes across Black Bandana's face solves the mystery. He raises his eyebrows and laughs, bitter, cold. Cleetus starts blabbering in the corner about something—complaining about you by the sound of it. You can't listen to him. All you can do is gaze up at this perfect man and wonder what he tastes like.

"Now, what the hell you sayin' shit like that for, princess?" he replies, voice low. "You get hit in the head or somethin'?"

You shake your head vigorously.

"No. I want...I want to come with you."

You lunge, wrapping your hands around his bicep. You have no idea what's happening to you. You feel like a ghost, watching from the ether in horror as this sack of skin and bones moves without your consent.

He flinches, anger settling on his features.

"The hell?" he yells. "You outta your damn mind?"

You feel insane. You're suddenly aware of how wide your eyes are.

"Please, I can't stay here. I have to get out. Be free," you blabber, fingers curling around his bicep so hard you can feel him flexing underneath your touch. It only spurs you on.

His eyebrows furrow for a moment. He holds his arm out, a safe distance away from him, as if you were a leper hanging on. Then, his gaze drops down and up your figure. Once, twice. His expression changes again—this time returning to the smug, controlled face he'd boasted in while robbing the passengers blind.

"Cleetus," he says without dropping your gaze. "Get outta here."

"Nah, but Mingi, I-" Cleetus scoffs, clomping over to argue, but Black Bandana holds a hand up.

So simple. Just one unwavering hand. He'd done it before in the train car. The power, so raw and unquestioned. You wonder how it feels. You crave it.

"Go on," Black Bandana repeats.

With one final groan, Cleetus grabs the two sacks of the bandits' stolen goods and disappears onto the platform at the back of the train.

Your heart is beating out of your chest, but it feels strangely good. Black Bandana studies you for a few moments, not saying anything. But you can feel his eyes drinking in every inch of you.

"You crazy?" he finally says. "Or just dumb."

You blink at him.

"Neither."

He nods, pressing his lips into a fine line, as if your answer had told him everything he needs to know about you. He pries your fingers off of his arm.

"Pretty little girls don't belong out here. You'd better run back to mommy 'fore you get yourself in real trouble, little one."

He stands to leave, but you lunge again, capturing his arm between your palms. Within seconds, he has you pinned against the wall. You wince as your spine hits the unforgiving hardness of the wood. One of his hands is flattened against the wall beside your head.

His other hand is curled around his pistol. The barrel rests snugly against your chest, nestled between your breasts. You release a shaky breath as he towers over you. A smirk tugs your cheeks upward, the sinister smile spreading across your face. You watch in satisfaction as obvious confusion flickers through his gaze. He cocks his head like a curious puppy.

His hand moves from the wall to your jaw. You gasp when his fingertips close around the bones. His grip is harsh, a little painful.

You want more.

"Why ain't you afraid, little one?" he wonders aloud.

"Just not."

"You should be." He cocks the gun, the click sending a sinful shock of electricity through your spine. "I could kill you. Right now. It'd be too easy."

He pushes the gun harder against you. Your spine arches uncontrollably, and a whimper escapes your lips. His eyes widen.

"And I bet you wouldn't even try to stop me, would ya?" he continues.

Your gaze wavers for a moment, dropping down to the bandana and then back up to his gorgeous face.

"You look more like a gentleman than a cowboy," you quip. "You're quite...pretty. Is that why you wear that mask on your face? To make yourself look scarier?"

For a moment you think he's going to explode and probably shoot you. But, to your surprise, he bursts out laughing. You smirk again, far too satisfied with yourself. He spins he pistol on a finger and then shoves it into the holster at his side.

"You ain't too bad yourself, princess."

His eyes drop to your lips. He traps his tongue between his teeth as his thumb swipes over your bottom lip. Your stomach flips over and over. Your breath comes in short pants.

God, what is this man—this criminal—doing to you?

"Now what on earth could make you wanna run away with me so bad?" he continues. "Surely I ain't that pretty."

"Free," you breathe shakily. "I want to be free. From this, from all of this. I don't want my mother to control me anymore. Me or my future."

Your fingers curl into the lace detailing on your bodice, tugging at it. You reach up and fumble to untangle the tie of your bonnet and rip it from your head. It falls onto the floor in a silent heap. You feel lighter already.

His eyebrows twitch, just slightly. His eyes flick between yours. He's considering you so carefully—you wonder what's going through his head. Then, he moves.

His hand returns to its previous position beside your head, fingers spread wide. He leans close and angles his head. You lift your chin. Your eyes flick down to his lips. Your eyelids feel heavy. You can feel his breath on your face. Your own breath catches in your throat as you watch in real time while his gaze darkens like storm clouds crowding the sky. He captures your jaw again.

When his mouth crashes onto yours, your eyes shut tightly. He kisses you hard, rough, hungry. His lips are relentless. They close around yours again and again and again. He opens wide to kiss you deep and wet. It's sloppy and unrestrained. You can barely breathe.

You can't help the whimpered moan that flies from your throat when he tugs on your bottom lip with his teeth. He drags his hot mouth across your cheek, your jaw. His fingertips tighten on your bones, forcing your head to the side.

Your back arches the second his teeth close around your throat. He pulls your skin and then flattens his tongue on the hurt. Your hands tangle into the loops of his belt as he sucks harshly on your neck. You moan again when your finger gently brushes against the cool metal of the pistol and the warm leather of its holster on his hip.

When he finally pulls away, you nearly slide down the wall. Your knees feel weak. Your breath escapes shallow and uneven. Your eyes are probably blown impossibly wide. He smirks, rolling his head back. You bite your lip at the way his lips glisten with your kiss in the sunlight streaming through the wooden boards of the train car. He runs his thumb over your swollen mouth once more.

You blink slowly, eyelids sticking together. Then, without breaking eye contact, you dip your head forward and take his thumb into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the pad, tasting salt. His eyes go wide, eyebrows raised, for a split second before melting into satisfaction.

"You ain't what you seem, are you, princess?" he mumbles.

You wince when his fingers latch onto your jaw yet again. He's bruised you, you don't need a mirror to know. He angles your face and laughs dryly.

"Mmm, that's good for now," he says. He presses his thumb into the love bite on your neck, and you whimper. "Bet your mama's gon' love that."

You giggle, still dazed. He releases his grip on you and steps away. Lifting his cowboy hat, he cards his fingers through his dark, sweaty locks to brush them back into place.

"Where you goin' to, little one?" he asks.

"Houston. It's in Texas."

"Yeah, I know where it is."

He studies you for a moment and then steps close. Your eyelashes flutter, lips popping open in anticipation of another kiss. He obliges you, pressing his mouth onto yours. Much softer this time, but no less deep. Right before he pulls away, he hesitates. His tongue darts out just for a second to touch the open space between your lips. You smile.

"What's your name, princess?"

"Y/N."

He nods as he shoves his hand into a worn leather glove.

"Maybe I'll drop by Houston sometime," he says. "Pay you a little visit. Since you like the way freedom tastes so much. "

You feel heat crawling across your face. By the way he eyes you on the word "freedom," you know he's equating himself with the word.

Yes, you think, you are my freedom.

Excitement blooms in your chest like a fresh red rose.

He steps to leave, but you blurt, "Mingi? That's your name. Isn't it?"

He glances over his shoulder just long enough to offer that signature smirk.

"See ya 'round, little one," he purrs, tipping his hat.

He disappears out the door. When you try to walk forward, you wobble. You feel lightheaded and overwhelmed. You have to brace yourself on the wall for a second before you can get to the door. You swing it open.

Heat and dust rush past your face. You throw an elbow over your eyes and, once the air settles, look out of the back of the train. Five horses galloping away. Each rider's face is covered by a bandana—blue, brown, yellow, red, and black. You watch as they ride away into the distance.

"Mingi," you repeat quietly.

The door bursts open behind you, a flood of people swarming into the car. Your mother's shrill cries pierce your ears. She latches onto you, her hands pressing all over your face and body to make sure you aren't injured. A couple of men in police uniforms have come with her.

You hear your mother say something about the "sinner's mark" on your neck and condemn Mingi. The policemen start grilling you with questions. You feign ignorance, pretending to be terrified and forgetful. But, really, your mind is spinning.

Freedom. You can hardly wait to taste it again.

PART THREE

Your new life in Texas is nothing short of hell.

After the incident on the train, your mother has hardly let you out of her sight for longer than five minutes. She is stricter than ever, requiring you to sit beside her at social engagements, to cover up every inch of skin, and to be home and in bed by nine o'clock every evening.

Your father does nothing to help. You rarely see him as it is. His new job at the bank keeps him far too busy. And when he does return home at night, he's too exhausted to even bother to ask about your day.

Each week it seems like you meet with a different eligible, young bachelor. You call them "meetings" because that's exactly how your mother is treating your courtship—like a business transaction. She sits in the room and lords over the entire interaction, as if it wasn't awkward enough beforehand. She is paranoid after the train incident and insists on evaluating every potential husband with her own eyes.

You're miserable.

Your dreams mock you at night. You see images of wild, untamed horses sprinting across the dusty plains or pretty colored memories of the pictures from the dime novels you read at the little town store. Your mother found you peeking at the pages one day, and now you're barred from entering the store by yourself.

She hasn't noticed you perusing the wanted posters yet, but you've already concocted a lie in case she ever does. Each time you accompany her into town, you try to find them. But you never see them—neither the Red nor Black Bandana cowboys who had robbed your train.

Sometimes you wonder if you might be mixing up the details of his face, but your heart knows better. You could never forget him. You would know those deep, hooded eyes anywhere.

A small part of you still hopes that he may be coming for you. But each day that passes without a trace of him, that flame fades a little more. Soon, the whole train incident will feel like nothing but a fever dream.

To make matters worse, your mother dropped the news that she found the perfect match for you: Thomas Barnaby, the son of a wildly successful banker who practically owns the entire town.

You had met him only three times, each time of course under the chaperoned gaze of your mother's ever-watchful eye. While decently handsome, he is quite possibly the most boring, dull person you have ever had the misfortune of meeting. He barely participates in any conversation. He does not ask a single question about you or your dreams or interests. He simply answers your mother's probing inquiries and stares out the window blankly.

But his wealth and status are no match for your personal feelings. Your mother arranged the engagement without your consent or knowledge, springing the news on you like you should have anticipated it.

You've done almost everything you could think of to stop it—being horribly rude to Thomas and his father, purposefully sabotaging your appearance, appearing late to meetings with them, making countless errors on the pianoforte. You've even spread lies about your own family amongst your group of "friends." Nothing is working.

And, now, you're almost out of time.

As you contemplate the end of your life as you know it, a high-pitched, shrill voice cracks through your thoughts like thunder.

"You'll look so lovely," Catherine says. "Ah, or should I say Mrs. Thomas Barnaby."

You cringe at the name. You hate the way it sounds, but you'll probably hate the way it looks on the marriage certificate even more. You raise your gaze to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed perfect little princess sitting on the velvet padded seat across from you.

"Married or not, I still prefer to be called by my own name," you respond flatly. "And that will remain the case long after this frivolous ceremony."

You wince when the seamstress sticks you with the needle as she pins part of your wedding dress tighter on your body. You glare over your shoulder at her. She came highly recommended to your mother from the other ladies in the high society sewing circle. That is, whatever makeshift level of high society exists out here. These people are almost more insufferable than the ones back home.

While most definitely fitting with the crowd of noble wannabes, Catherine has been a small bit of comfort in the sea of pompousness. Naive and gentle, Catherine has no idea about the harsher realities of the world. Everything appears to be a fairytale in her ocean-blue eyes. It's annoying mostly but, somehow, it's endearing. And nothing icy or mean you say seems to make a dent in the rays of sunshine swirling around her.

"I need to fetch something from the back to finish this closure," the seamstress says dryly. "I'll be back in a moment. Please try not to move, miss."

You roll your eyes and sigh, though you remain still as a statue. Fitting. After all, isn't that what you're to become once you marry the wealthy banker's idiot son? Simply an arm ornament. And nothing more.

"Oh, I'm so jealous," Catherine gushes. "Thomas is so handsome. And so rich."

You glance over at her, deadpan stare.

"If you like him so much, why don't you marry him?"

"Whatever do you mean, dear? Aren't you looking forward to the wedding?"

"Heaven's no. What is there to look forward to, Catherine? The death of my independence, the erasure of my rights, the total and irreversible end of my freedom? This marriage is a chain latched to my ankle. It will drag me to the depths of despair, and there I will drown and die."

Catherine's eyes are wide and round. She blinks, clearly not understanding the meaning or emotion behind your outburst. You sigh frustratedly and step down from the podium. Catherine holds a hand up, about to remind you that the seamstress told you not to move, but you bustle through anyway. You collapse in a cream-colored heap on the floor, the fabric of your dress swooshing softly.

"I don't want married life," you say.

The crinkle in Catherine's eyebrows reveals that she's probably never even considered life outside of marriage.

"Well...then, what do you want?"

"More. Freedom. I want to be wild. I want to live a life where no day is the same. I want...I don't know, to be free.

She cocks her head, confirming that the thought had never even occurred in her tiny obedient brain. You lean close, speaking low.

"I met a man on the train here."

"A man?" her eyes light up. "What sort of man?"

"A bandit. Or...a cowboy. I'm not sure which, but he was robbing our train."

"H-he was what?" she gasps, voice shrill.

You shush her, taking her bony white fingers in yours.

"He came onto the train with another man," you ramble. "He had a black bandana wrapped around his face and, oh! a cowboy hat a-and a holster, with a gun in it! A real pistol, Catherine. And it worked. It actually shot bullets. And he took all the money and jewelry and then ran off, but I went after him. I went into the next car and, oh, Catherine...he was so...pretty. Everything about him made me feel alive. He kissed me. And the way he kissed me—I didn't know you could kiss like that."

"He what?!" she shouts, throwing her hand over her mouth.

You wince and shush her again, squeezing her fingers.

"Y/N, are you listening to yourself? You sound like a madwoman."

"I know. I know I do, but, Catherine...I don't want Thomas Barnaby. I want him. the man with the black bandana. I want him so badly, I...I can hardly breathe. I dream of him at night, I think about him during the day. He said he would find me here—that he would come take me away and free me from all of this stupidity."

"He's coming? Here? When? How?"

"I don't know," your voice shakes slightly. "I'm worried...I'm terrified that I'll never see him again."

She stares at you for a moment, blinking. She opens her mouth as if she's about to scold you. But, then, her eyebrows raise and expression softens. She coos.

"Oh, you love this man terribly don't you?" she asks. "I can see it, clear as day, on your face. My goodness, Y/N, what are you going to do? You can't very well marry Thomas Barnaby when you feel this way about another man."

"I don't know what to do, Catherine. I feel so stupidly naive. I don't know how I thought he would find me. Or why I expect him to know about my engagement to Thomas."

She furrows her brow, thinking for a moment.

"Well, actually," she says, and your head snaps up. "It's not unrealistic to think he might know. Didn't Mr. Barnaby run an ad in the paper to announce your engagement?"

"Well...yes, Thomas' father did, but I highly doubt the Black Bandana cowboy is the type to read the newspaper."

"I suppose not, but the front page of the newspaper is sometimes posted in shop windows alongside the wanted posters. If he was looking at one of those, he might have seen it. Or, perhaps he heard it from someone. To be fair, your marriage to Thomas is all anyone is talking about here. Mr. Barnaby practically owns the town, after all. If anyone from the...er, lower social circles heard about it from our people, he might have, as well."

Your eyebrows raise as you consider her suggestion. Then, you sigh, feeling defeated despite the small ember of hope that flickered in your heart.

"I hope you're right, Catherine. Regardless, it hardly matters. I'll be married by this time tomorrow. If he does know about it, then he'd better come tonight."

As the words leave your throat, you feel a pang of sadness in your chest. You want him to come for you, so desperately you can hardly bear it.

You finish your fitting and sit, dazed and distracted, through the rest of your pre-wedding activities. You can't conjure so much as a tight-lipped smile while your "friends" fuss over you and use your impending marriage as an excuse to sneak sips of bourbon from the liquor cabinet.

When you lay down to rest that night, you fall asleep hoping that Mingi has seen the papers and praying that he's on his way right now to take you away from all of this.

EPILOGUE

You toss and turn for hours before sleep finally drags you under. Even when you finally rest, you do so fitfully. You wake twice with an odd feeling, almost like you've forgotten something important. Each time, you shake it off and force yourself back to bed.

You wake groggily the third time. For a few minutes, you feel outside your body. You blink up at the ceiling as your mind comes back to life. There are strange sounds coming from outside your window. It takes you a moment to realize what they are.

Then, you're awake.

Gunshots. Horses' hooves thundering across the dirt. Hoots and hollers, wild and untamed. And free.

A smile spreads across your face. You grin so hard your cheeks ache. Without so much as a glance outside your window, you know exactly what's causing that ruckus.

He came.

He saw the story in the paper. He must've. He's come for you. Finally. He's come to take you away from here. Finally, he's come to save you.

You lie perfectly still, listening to the chaos ensue underneath the floorboards. You hear shouting; your mother whimpering just as she had on the train; your father, helpless and too well-mannered, offering your family's money and jewels; spurs clanking and boots clicking. Closer...closer...and then-

The door to your bedroom swings open, creaking on the old metal hinges. Your heart is pounding in your chest. You feel hot all over. You bolt up in the bed. The strap of your nightgown slips down your shoulder, as if it knows exactly what you want. As if it's hoping he wants it, too.

From the shadows in the hall, a figure steps forward. His face is illuminated with orange light from a small lantern. You see the glint of his pistol just before the halo of firelight ghosts over the black bandana. It's pulled down to his chin. Your eyes flick up to his face—as perfect and handsome and devastating as you remember.

"You found me," you breathe.

"Hi there, princess," he purrs, head tilting. "Heard you was gettin' hitched."

"Tomorrow," you say sadly.

He clicks his tongue three times. Then, he sighs dramatically, spinning the pistol. Your stomach lurches. Still as sexy and dangerous as you remember, too.

"Well, apologies to the groom," he continues, "but I'm afraid I just can't let that happen. Not when I want you for myself."

"So, what are you going to do about it, then?" you tease.

You smirk, watching as he steps slowly into the room. Your heartbeat sounds louder with every inch as he closes in on you. His hand slides onto your cheek with ease, fitting perfectly as if it belongs there. He smoothes his calloused thumb over your lips and then captures your jaw in his grasp. He lifts your face.

"Does he know?" he says.

Your eyebrows knit for a second, and you shake your head.

"Know what?" you ask breathlessly.

His grip tightens on your jaw, and you whimper. He angles your head and raises his lips to your ear. Your eyes flutter closed as his heated breath ghosts along your skin.

"That you already belong to me," he growls. Your mouth pops open. Your body is on fire, your gut is swimming. You've never felt like this before. But you want more. Before you can beg for it, he adds, "And I don't let no one else put their hands on what's mine."

With that, he surges forward, smashing his mouth onto yours. You moan into him, hands gripping the leather belt on his hips. He kisses you hard and deep and sloppy. When you start to fall back on the bed, his hand snakes around your spine to catch you. His touch is...protective somehow, almost uncharacteristically soft.

His lips slip from yours. He chuckles, swiping his thumb over your mouth again. You finally open your eyes, and your heart flutters. The mere sight of him sets you free.

You're drunk on the taste of him. The taste of freedom. And you plan to savor that taste every single day from now on.

taglist: @rileylovescats @wooyoungsbrat @estrnrea @strawberrymars98 @elunicornus

[sylusbrooch]

You and Me Against the World

Previous

They threw me in like trash.

The gate slammed shut behind me, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence.

The arena felt bigger without him. The sand stretched farther. The shadows reached longer. Even the roar of the crowd sounded distant, like I was underwater.

Then the other gate opened.

They sent three.

Three S-rank Wanderers.

Massive, glistening things—bone and sinew and spikes where their mouths should’ve been. Their eyes weren’t even eyes, just dark pits that reflected nothing. The kind of monsters they never gave us without a partner. The kind they used for executions.

I was twelve.

I had never been more alone.

The one on the left moved first, a twitch of muscle that became a full charge in half a heartbeat. I barely dodged, rolling sideways in the sand, ribs aching as they slammed into the ground beneath me. Claws carved the space where I’d stood seconds before.

I sprang to my feet. My body screamed in protest.

Sylus isn’t here. There’s no backup. If you die, you die.

The second one came at me from the side. I ducked under the swinging tail, grabbed hold of a jutting bone as it passed, and used its own momentum to vault onto its back.

It shrieked—high and unnatural. I slammed my elbow into its exposed neck joint, again, again, until something cracked under the pressure. It bucked, throwing me hard into the sand.

My shoulder hit first.

The crunch wasn’t from the ground.

White-hot pain exploded down my arm. I couldn’t move it. Couldn’t even scream.

But I got up anyway.

Blood in my mouth. Ribs bruised. One arm useless. And still two monsters left.

The second one was crawling toward me now, wounded but not dead. Its front limb dragged uselessly behind it, but its mouth still snapped wide open—jaws peeling back like wet paper.

I Resonated.

I called the energy I’d stored from Sylus’s Evol—traces still clinging to my cells like heat after fire—and pushed it into my legs.

I ran.

Faster than I’d ever moved alone. The sand blurred beneath me.

I leapt, using a jagged piece of bone stuck in the arena floor as a springboard, and came down on the second monster with a scream and my entire body’s weight.

My knee drove straight through its skull.

The crack echoed.

It spasmed beneath me, then went still.

My chest heaved. My shoulder throbbed with every pulse of my heart. I tasted iron.

The third one waited.

It was watching me.

Smart. It’s smart.

It circled slowly, crouching low—predator low.

I felt the tremor in my knees. Felt the way my left arm hung limp at my side. I could barely hold a stance.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on, you bastard…”

It moved like lightning. Fast. Too fast.

Claws raked across my thigh as I jumped back—late. Flesh tore. The pain didn’t even register right away, just a hot, wet ripping that made me stumble. I fell.

It loomed over me.

I Resonated again. Pulled what little energy I had left and pushed it into my palm.

I threw it up.

A pulse of pure force exploded between us—raw, desperate, uncontrolled. It staggered, howled, its chest cavity searing with the blow.

I got up, screaming through the pain. My leg nearly buckled. I used my knee, then my elbow, then my broken shoulder like a battering ram, over and over again until the thing cracked, until it broke, until it stopped moving.

Then I collapsed.

The world tilted.

Blood pooled beneath me—my own, I thought. Too much. It felt like too much.

The crowd roared.

I didn’t hear it.

All I could hear was my own heartbeat. Loud. Slow. Fading.

They pulled me out on a stretcher.

My arm was dislocated. My thigh needed stitches. My ribs were bruised—maybe cracked. I couldn’t open my right eye, not from any hit, but from crying too long without anyone noticing.

They didn’t bring Sylus.

Not yet.

They wanted me to suffer through this alone.

I laid in the infirmary cot, swaddled in bloodied linen, breathing shallow. Every part of me ached.

But I lived.

I lived.

And I swore to myself—

Never again without him.

Never again.

yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[fivewantscoffee]

Craving a tua au where the siblings are telepathically linked. Now bear with me, I have no plan for this, just a vague idea: basically, they're all connected. They can sense each other's presence and emotions.

S1 starts out, and I guess the connection is... broken? It's not really working as intended, muffled, barely an echo of what it used to be. There isn't one single reason for this.

Part of it is the distance that exists between them now, both physical and emotional, but there's more to it they just don't know.

Viktor's meds interfere with the link on his end, for example, so he grows up cut off from it. Ben is dead, of course, and the drugs keep things muted for Klaus.

Then there's Five, who was thirteen when he jumped into the future, and the moment he landed in the apocalypse, he knew something terrible - something unimaginable - had happened. Suddenly, he couldn't sense his siblings anymore. For the first time in his life, he was all alone.

When he gets back, it's been forty-five years. He's not used to it anymore. Being around his siblings is overwhelming, even with their connection being as muted as it is, and he can't afford any distractions right now. So he shuts them out and tells himself it's only until the apocalypse is over. This goes super well for him, of course, as you can imagine (sarcasm).

ANYWAY, as things progress and their relationships mend, the telepathic link becomes stronger again. When Five lets the others back in, they know just how much he really missed them. The lengths he'd go to for them. Just how much he loves his family. And because this is a two-way street, Five can tell just how much his family missed him too. How relieved and happy they are that he's back.

When Viktor gets off the pills, his connection to the rest revives as well.

He can feel Allison's worry and sincerity when she finds him at the cabin, can feel the truth in her words, so things end up going a lot better. Leonard's lies are a lot harder to swallow when Viktor knows exactly what his siblings are feeling. That they're worried about him, that they're angry about what was done to him, that they care.

Eventually, when Klaus gets sober and manifests Ben, the final piece slots into place. All seven of them are together again. A family. Seven parts of a whole.

Something something communication and relying on each other is the key to stopping the apocalypse. I'm not sure where I was going with this, but yeah. Could be a fun au

[chaosherald]

Reflection Ruesday/WIP Wednesday -

(Find an old work and dust it off/show it off)

(tagged by @blackwall-my-tiny-husband and @woundedsoul12, no pressure tags for @davrinsleftpectoral @seaglassmelody @jukkaricity @dags-over-caravans)

One of my oldest WIP for Veilguard stuff - my Lucanis character study. I love this piece. I've posted bits and pieces of it before. It's weird and second person and has one foot in prose and one foot in poetry and I keep looping back to it - I think my current issue is it might be finished, but I'm not sure. I was originally planning to write through the end of the game, but - I don't know, where it is works too. (if anyone wants to read over it for me and give me their opinion, I'd be grateful 😂 Though fair warning, it is 3k words of weird. I'm very torn and I love it and would like to figure out if I should just call it or extend it. Anyway, this is the first section.)

Death is the Dellamorte family business.

(Lucanis Dellamorte should be dead.)

Five is too old to still be crawling into Mama and Papa’s bed when sleep has fled in the quiet dark of night. And you try, how you try, glaring at the moonlight making valleys of shadow in your tangled bedsheets, hearing every silence of a house asleep while you muster the last bit of your will power to try to get back to dreaming.

A losing battle. One of your first. Trying too hard means awake and awake means your room is suffocating and lonely and you are halfway down the hall with the quiet roll step feet Mama has been teaching you before you remember that you are five and too old to be crawling into Mama and Papa’s bed.

So you turn the other way. Heel toe, mind the squeaky wood, slippery tiles. Crow shadow quiet is so much better than the crushing silence of awake and alone. Focus and doing instead of clamped down stillness warring with wandering thoughts.

You find yourself down by the kitchen. Heel, toe, get the quiet, then work on the quick Mama said. Maybe the orange cat is on the terrace, adding his song to the quiet drift of the canals and the buzz of the insects outside. Maybe there are biscotti left from the market. Maybe you can try and climb the cabinets again. Papa said you were so close to figuring it out last night, before Mama scolded you both for being late to supper. You are right on all counts and find yourself victorious, laying across the top of the highest cabinet like a pasta board, listening to the orange cat out the window and trying to see how quietly you can make the last biscotto disappear.

You imagine how surprised Mama and Papa will be when they wake up. How proud. You didn’t go to their room because five is too old for that and you made it to the top of the cabinets and you almost miss the quick scuffle clatter suddenly silenced somewhere above your head.

You freeze, listening. Every sound is important, Mama said. The ones that are there and the ones that are missing. The cat is quiet now. There is a creak - the squeaky wood, by the stairs. A slide chirp on the tiles, a foot adjusting after a slip. Your heartbeat, suddenly too loud in your ears as you listen and listen and hold your breath and listen.

Voices. Soft. Unfamiliar.  A word Mama doesn’t like Papa to use around you. Too quiet mutters to make anything out, then slightly louder “The job isn’t done until we find the kid.”

You are frozen. Still and silent and suffocating. Afraid. There have been lessons on this - intruders, attacks, what to do if someone tries to hurt you or Mama or Papa and you cannot recall any of it. You can just wait and wait and you are sure the pounding of your heart, loud as a drum at Satinalia, is going to give you away.

The quiet but not quiet enough footsteps belonging to the unknown voices find their way downstairs, into the kitchen. Their Mamas must not have taught them to listen. They do not hear your drum beat heart or shallow barely there breaths. Their Papas must not have encouraged them to try and climb the cabinets. They do not see you still and frozen and after a too long forever moment they leave.

The first tease of pre-dawn light brings other steps, loud and jarring, and voices, calling for your parents, calling for you. You recognize some of them. Mama's favorite assassin from the chuchillos. One of Nonna’s mages. You unfreeze and barely recognize the voice you use to answer them and they need to help you down, stiff and tense and still so afraid. They do not let you go back upstairs. You do not ask about your parents. You do not have to. They hurry you over the rooftops in the pale pink sunrise and lock you in an internal room at Nonna's Villa with cousin Rio. He is too pale, like the morning, pink blood on his sleeping shirt, and so quiet. Rio is never quiet. You cling to each other, silent as Crows, together and afraid and maybe five is too old to hold onto your cousin for comfort but in that moment you do not care. 

Death is the Dellamorte family business. 

This was the first night you understood what that meant.

[aeymii]

🖤🤍

[707shadia]

DAY 2 - Alternative Universe (The Road To El Dorado AU!!)

[sunn-mechanic]

[ID in alt]

Guess that makes me Evil

--

I could not stop thinking about how Vex is probably dead in DR, that shit makes me so unwell

Also, version without the lyrics below, bc I like both:

[ID in alt]

[violets-bouquet]

zosan be like

[panharmonium]

i am not usually interested in dramatically canon-divergent scenarios because the canon story is what compels me, but i've been obsessed with this moment ever since i re-heard it during my second viewing. from the perspective of someone who already finished the story once and now knows the truth - this was wild.

WHAT IF?

[mewkwota]

Are you still awake?

I drew this at the small edge of my page knowing very well that it would lead to cutoffs and overlap with other sketches because I really do feel more comfortable doing certain positions like this. It just makes it hard to get a snap of them with a "complete" feel.

In a majority of my previous works focusing on Juno's eyes, they were slightly relaxed, as he had just woken up while also going along with his typical calmness. But I've also tried (and failed many times) to see how they would look when they're totally open-- this is excluding the shots where he is straight-up trying to kill someone. :)

In this context, Juno is activated but not totally working if that makes sense? As you may kinda make it out, he isn't upright, so his whole body isn't there either. I was going for something "still, blank, empty".