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Due to recent events I will not be continuing any of the fics posted here.

I'd like to thank everyone who was always so appreciative to read my works. I realize that I didn't post a lot and there was huge spans of time between entries. I never wanted to discuss why, only that its personal.

Writing was an escape for me. There are tons of stories I never shared. I was looking forward to someday finishing InP and Stricken but I don't feel like that's even possible now.

I hope everyone finds peace and healing through these times.

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Ink and Paint : Chapter 4

Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader Previous Chapters:  One // Two // Three Word Count: 1,865 Prompt: You came to Los Santos to pursue a dream of becoming a tattoo artist. Things haven’t quite worked out as you planned and now you find yourself working a graveyard shift at Pandemonium Ink. Things are typically quiet, that is until one of the cities most infamous criminals come through the door.

A surge of adrenaline snaps you awake when you see Bruno’s name on your caller id. You ignore the cascade of papers that fall from the shifting of your blankets as you sit up, double-checking the time through a blurred gaze before you answer. You couldn’t possibly begin to guess why he’s calling you at nine in the morning but your instincts tell you that it’s probably not to deliver any good news. He all but confirms that when he tells you that you need to come in. Right now. And that the cops were there, asking questions.

Shit.

You scurry to make yourself look presentable and spring for a cab to get down there as quickly as possible, finding the street outside Pandemonium peppered with squad cars when you arrive. At the far end of the block, you see a couple of news trucks behind a guarded barricade while several officers stand outside the shop, talking to a few of the dayshift artists and their friends that typically hang around. Next door the dry cleaner is taped off and you see some detectives coming in and out, one of them talking casually to Phil who had no sense of a poker face in dealing with people interrupting his own flow of business. 

It seemed your long-standing suspicions about the dry cleaner being involved in some sort of shady business were spot on and whatever evidence the cops had gathered in the last few days on stakeout had garnered enough warrant to bust in and do a search. Now the investigators were starting to take depositions from the locals and, since you were the only one that worked nights, they were extremely interested in what you may have seen or heard. Which, honestly, was a whole lot of nothing. Sure, you had seen a van pulled up to the back a few times, but outside color and size there wasn’t much else to recall.

They take down your information and ask you to stay even after they finish questioning you. All in all, it takes about two hours until you were finally released to go back home, armed now with a card that put you in direct contact with one of the lead investigators should you remember anything else. Phil reimburses you for the cab fare and even pays for your ride home, telling you to try and rest up before you have to work that evening. Right, like you were going to be able to sleep after all that. On the way home though you being to think about how lucky Ryan was that the cops didn’t notice him last night. His pedestrian look seemed to be well tested. 

But he was supposed to come back tonight to start his tattoo.

You begin to chew on your bottom lip, your gaze turning to look out at the city skyline hazed in afternoon heat. With all the cops swarming the area maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for him to come. It probably wouldn’t be as bad during the evening but there’s no doubt that the area was going to be heavily patrolled just in case. You did have his number and he did say to call only if it was important. Keeping him from potentially being busted seemed important enough. Still, calling to warn him about the cops, if he didn’t think you knew who he was before that would certainly reveal just that. You begin to weigh which might be more dangerous; having the Vagabond know that you know who he is or knowingly letting him walk into a police heavy area. 

Screw it. 

When you arrive home you flipped through your sketchbook, finding his scrawled number and giving him a call. You’re not the least bit surprised when you’re met with the standard answering message. This was probably some protective line, used for business and nothing more. “Hey...Ryan. Uh, listen. I know you told me not to call unless it was important but...well I think you should stay clear of Pandemonium for a while. The place next door got busted for drugs or something and the entire block has been crawling with cops all day. I just think...you know...it might be safer for you not to come tonight. We can reschedule your tattoo when things clear up. Ok? Right. Ok. Bye.” Your cheeks begin to flush with heat as you end the call, mentally replaying your words over and over again. 

You keep your phone handy though, expecting him to call or text some sort of reply. In the meantime, since you’re resigned to staying up, you begin to further your own investigation into the Vagabond of Los Santos. There’s a plentiful amount of information about the Fake AH Crew online in way of news reports. Robbery, illegal gambling and street racings, prison breaks, even petty crimes such as shoplifting or vandalism. They were dangerous, there was no doubt about that, but it was more like a lot of jackassery then the criminal masterminds the media made them out to be. An hour passes before you look at your phone, making sure you hadn't missed a call or text while watching some amateur video of the Crew leader pissing on a cop car before one of the other boys tossed a grenade into its open window. No reply as of yet.

You take a nap and check your phone again when you wake up. Still nothing. A seed of anxiety begins to take root as your day plays out quietly with no response from the Vagabond. By the time you make it into work, your stomach had worked itself into a knot. Just as you had expected, sitting right outside of Pandemonium, a pair of police officers nod to you from their patrol car as you enter the shop. You touch base with Bruno, who spends a solid five minutes complaining about how dead the shop had been thanks in part to the police presence outside and how Phil thought it might carry on for a few days. The old man was too salty to close up though and Bruno wished you luck on staving off boredom as he left for the evening. As soon as he’s out the door you fish your phone from your pocket and check for any notifications. 

Nothing.

The night continues on. You anxiously watch the door, your mind working a thousand miles a minute, constructing a dozen different scenarios. What if he hadn’t got the message? If he were to walk up and see the patrol car would he think you were trying to set him up? You recall that first evening you had met the Vagabond, how cold his eyes had been, the aura of danger that had exuded from him. A shiver trails down your spine and you close your eyes for a moment, holding a breath before exhaling gently. You had done the right thing and, as the night crawled to a close it came without incident and without Ryan making an appearance. You feel a sense of relief thinking that, if anything, at least he received and heeded your message. 

You check your phone once more before going to bed and again when you first wake up. Still nothing. The lack of response almost seems to haunt your morning routine as you occasionally shoot a glance towards your silent phone while brushing your teeth. You nearly drop your coffee cup when it chimes suddenly, sending you into a scramble to fumble with the lock screen only to see a message from Ruth asking if you were free to pick up an afternoon shift today. Your head suddenly feels like it weighs fifty pounds as it hangs low and you can’t help but chuckle. This was ridiculous. You needed to get your mind on something else and dealing with a hungry crowd at lunch was just the thing to give you a little reprieve. 

Ruth is already in the middle of prepping when you arrive and after a short exchange of friendly banter, you take charge at the register just as the first customer walks up. The first thing you notice about the woman on the other side of the counter is that she seems incredibly out of place from the typical scene that usually patronizes Ruth’s eatery. Sleek auburn hair framed a pretty face half concealed by a pair of what you could only guess were high end, name brand sunglasses. Her black suit was fitted and was something you would have guessed would have been on display in a Ponsonbys’ storefront on Portola Drive, a far cry from the beach bums that usually sauntered up for a hot ham and cheese. “Hi!” You greet her in full customer service mode, ticket book in hand. “Welcome to Ruth’s. What can I get you?”

“I’ll take an iced tea.” Her reply comes with a surprisingly friendly tone, not what you would have expected from someone looking so posh, and the warmth of her smile makes you almost feel guilty for having assumed otherwise. You service her drink and she pays with a twenty, dunking the change into the tip jar without a second thought before thanking you and moving to sit at one of the far tables, the tip of the straw disappearing between the pucker of her ruby red lips. You wonder briefly if maybe she was meeting someone here; local property was always being snatched up for regentrification and she seemed to be the type of person flushed with cash and ready to invest. As the lunch rush begins to kick up you loose focus on the woman and fall into the grind, it only when things slow down and Ruth asks you to bust the tables that you notice she’s still there.

Well, if she was waiting for someone they had yet to show, but, whether it was paranoia or your own active imagination, you feel as if she had been here watching you the entire time. You decide to slake your curiosity by approaching her, armed only with your customer service smile. “Is there anything else I can get for you today? Maybe a refill?” You motion to her empty cup which had begun pooling at the base from condensation. 

“Oh no, I’m ok.” She seems to pause for a moment and extends a finger to idly flick the tip of her straw. “Actually, I wonder if you and I could have a brief conversation.” You blink, the enigma of this woman becoming more and more complex. When you fail to respond she offers you a laugh and tilts her head just enough so that she can peer at you over the frame of her sunglasses. “You and I have a mutual friend.”

“We do?” You quirk a brow, mentally going through the shortlist of people you knew in the city well enough to call a friend. 

Your bewilderment pulls her smile further across her face, almost endearingly, and she reaches to take hold of your hand to give it a firm shake. “My name is Lindsay Jones, I’m a member of the Fakes.”

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Stricken

A continuation of this fic as requested on AO3

You sought shelter in the cradle of ruins that once stood as the stronghold of your kingdom, a kingdom sundered by the very King you had sworn fealty to. Lush and fertile farmlands laid barren, the earth charred and blackened, peppered with the bones of livestock and victims of that first terrible surge of madness that had overtaken him. Even the remains of what had been the castle look skeletal, the ramparts broken and reaching into the dark sky like fingers seeking rescue from the terrible bleakness surrounding them. Time held no meaning; you couldn’t even recall the last time you dared to seek the pale warmth of sunlight to even try and discern the night from the day. Hours. Days. Weeks. How long had it been since you collapsed into the rumble, skin blistering hot with fever with an unslakable thirst and a stomach too knotted to even hold down a crumb of rations?

You roll onto your back, ignoring the way that glass and rocks pinch and prod at your flesh. You had nearly stripped yourself bare as the fever escalated, even what little clothing remained for modesty felt burdensome, sweltering. Your chest heaves in deep, almost labored breaths, your hands pull through your damp locks, fisting against your skull in some attempt to quell the spinning room in which you lay. Even if you could sleep there was no reprieve. Your dreams are haunted by so many flashes of images. Places you've never been; sounds you can barely make sense of as if you coexisted with hundreds of other consciouses at once. It was maddening.

You wonder if this is what Ryan had gone through when he took on his own Ender Eye. If he had raged against the fever and the nightmares before finding solace in the madness that eventually took him. He was stronger, a divine king crowned with stars, so what chance did you even have when this affliction had taken so much of him? Would you even survive or would your corpse be laid here with the rest of his broken kingdom? You close your eye, the Ender one refusing to shut, though all you see through it is blackness. It had been foolish to think you could have followed him in this way.

“It would be better if you just give in.”

Your eye shoots open, a surge of adrenaline erupts through your veins as you sit up in response to the voice, so sweetly purred and softly spoken. You see him there, a clear image cut through your blurred vision; as if he were a child's cut out pasted onto an opaque background. “R-Ryan?”

He was as he was before, whole and strong. He stood almost militaristic, arms folded behind a straight back, adding to his height which already feels like it's towering over you. He looks down at you, a light smirk flirting the corner of his lips, “What do you hope to accomplish, hm? You were always so brash, so hot-headed, the first to run headlong into danger. I admired that about you, it made you a useful tool.”

You swallow a dry breath, scorching your already parched throat. “You're not him…”

“Does it matter to you at the moment?” He strikes you silent. You can't deny that even as a specter you draw comfort from seeing him, from hearing his voice. His eyes seem to soften; as if he senses your thoughts, and before you realize it he has come to kneel at your side. His hand cradles your face, his fingers seem so cool, so inviting to your fevered flesh that you can't help the soft moan tumbling from your lips. “Stop fighting.” He coos, slicking your damps locks away from your brow as he cups your chin, forcing you to lock gaze with him. “Just give in.”

“I want to.” You admit, tears whelming in your one good eye.

“It's so easy.” He smiles warmly and comes to lean closer, his lips pressing briefly against your own. “Just surrender to it, let it consume you and you'll be free.” You move to make an argument but he silences you once more, his mouth fully taking yours before the words could form. The taste of his mouth is like ambrosia, it sparks a hunger in you that you can't recall ever knowing before. You shudder as his hand presses against the small of your back, such a simple motion but the power behind it crushes you delightfully against his frame, letting your fingers clutch his regalia as he draws you to straddle his lap.

This was home. It was the early morning sunrise as you walked the castle's battlements together, the warm Summer's breeze when you stole away to the fields. It was that first kiss claimed at King Gavin's Festival of Fools. The first time he took you completely, there in his war tent, when he thought you lost to the fray. It was perfect, peaceful.

“It's a lie.”

The voice in your mind brings you clarity, spoken so gently as a whisper. But it wasn't the one with you, so busy with melding your mouths together, pushing you onto your back so you could feel the weight of them against your chest.

“Rage against it.”

You break contact, “Ryan?”

The entity above you hisses, speaking in a malformed voice. “Yesss…” He moves in to take you once more and your hands against his chest find strength, pushing him to an arm's length. The specter's form shifts, like a fluttering shadow escaping light, and you see it begin to contort, trying to keep its form, an agitated snarl turning its mouth into a cruel visage. It knows you see it for what it is. You grunt as it's hand comes around your throat, pinning you to the ground, fingers turning black stealing the air before it can reach your lungs. “Pitiful mortal!” It bellows; as the shadow consumes what had once resembled Ryan, leaving only a dark silhouette with two fiery violet eyes. “ I might have lulled you sweetly to your end-”

“Fight it.”

“But instead I'll have you screaming so to dine on your fear!”

“Do it now!”

The shadow breaks open, cracking almost like an egg and you see in the horrible maul that appears are infinite rows of jagged cut teeth descending into a dark abyss.

“NOW!”

A guttural scream rips through you, the sound reverberating off the crumbling walls and causing them to shake and rain debris down upon you. You feel an outpouring of raw, unbridled energy, seeping into every fiber of your body, threatening to tear you apart as it forcibly pulls your muscles from entropy. The specter, unprepared, howls as your hand grabs its wispy wrist, making contact, burning it away with an eruption of violet flames at your touch. You allow momentum to carry you, first to sit and then to push up to kneel, eventually springing forward with enough force to slam the entity against the wall. Again, you scream as energy pulses out of your body, your hands on the things chest calling forth a rush of flames that begin to consume it whole, burning the shadow away into ash that shifts apart on the wind.

And then, darkness.

When next you wake you find yourself in more comfortable surroundings. Your body rested in the cradle of a soft mattress, a warm blanket pulled up to your chin and tucked tightly to conserve your body heat. The warm light of day spills in from an open window, a soft sweet breeze shifting the curtains almost playfully. You sit up, and for a moment your head spins, your soft groan bringing a strange hand to press against your forehead. “Sshh.” says a deep voice, a familiar voice. You follow the length of the arm to see King Jack sitting at your bedside, regarding you with a sympathetic yet inquisitive stare. “Easy.”

“Sire…” You beginning, only for him to interrupt.

“Your fever has finally broken. We did not think you’d survive the night.”

You look at your surroundings, brows knitting in confusion, “How was it that I came to be here?”

King Jack’s expression and tone shifts to something more serious, something he tries to hide as he tends to a basin of water at your bedside. “A very good question indeed. The guards said you appeared from the ether in a crack of thunder and violet flames. I suspect you’ll have a good story to tell when High King Geoff calls on you to explain…” His words trail into silence, left unsaid with a shake of his head as he stands. “Just, rest. Regain your strength. We will talk when you are well.”

You watch him leave and for a moment you sit in the comfort of silence before a thought occurs to you. Reaching for the basin of water you bring it to sit within your lap, holding your breath as you dare to look at your at yourself within its reflective surface, surprised to find a fairly normal and familiar sight. All save for your right eye with its black sclera, slit pupil and a brilliant iris of glowing green.

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Ink and Paint : Chapter 3

Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader Previous Chapters:  One // Two Word Count: 1,814  Prompt: You came to Los Santos to pursue a dream of becoming a tattoo artist. Things haven’t quite worked out as you planned and now you find yourself working a graveyard shift at Pandemonium Ink. Things are typically quiet, that is until one of the cities most infamous criminals come through the door.

You weren’t entirely sure what to expect, but it probably wasn’t this.

There was a chance you had a skewed idea of how we would look given his criminal behavior, not to mention having met him the last time. Disheveled and dirty with stone cold eyes and an expression that could turn from calm to scary at the flick of the switch. But the man that stood before you this evening looked utterly...pedestrian. He was much more cleaned up from the last time you met, and boy did he clean up well. Beneath all that sweat and paint was an almost charmingly handsome face.You now realized how he was able to get around so easily despite being one of the city’s most wanted. Dressed in a loose fitting t-shirt and blue jeans, hair worked into a slightly messy bun, he could be any sort of average person walking the streets.

With his hands shoved into his pockets, he approached you, an almost timid expression cracking into an uneasy half-smile. “Hey.”

Your brows lift and you give him a look over once more, just to make sure you weren’t fooling yourself. “Hey, yourself.” You feel like you should be more at ease. He seems to be in a much better mood than the other night. But so far this encounter felt a lot more awkward having figured out who he was. “They told me you called ahead and said you were coming in.”

His stance shifts and he runs a hand along the top of his head, loosening dozens of small strands of hair from his bun and sending them into his face. “Yeah, I wanted to make sure you were here so I could...apologize.”

Apologize?

“Oh!” your voice nearly cracks, burdened by your own surprise. Having been so caught up in finding out who he was you neglected to run through a scenario like this. “No, you don’t need to do that, not at all.” Your forced laughter seems nervous but he seems not to notice as you continue, thank goodness. “Honestly, I should be apologizing to you. It’s not really my place to tell people what they should or shouldn’t do.”

He interrupts before you can say anymore, “No, you were right. My mind wasn’t in the best of places the other night. If I had gone anywhere else I’d probably be stuck with something I don’t want.” His half smile widens. For such a dangerous man he was incredibly sweet. “If anything you should feel commended on keeping someone from doing something they might regret. I think it shows you have real respect for your craft. I admire that.”

You feel warmth rises to your cheeks. This was not how you imagined this conversation to turn out, and had not prepared for it in the slightest. It truly was night and day between the man you had imagined to be walking through the door and the man who stood before you now. You almost feel bad that you had been running simulations about beating him down with a baseball bat now. “Thank you. If it means anything, I thought it was amazing that you wanted to get something for your friend. After all, you’re going to wear it forever, so it should mean something, yeah?” A glistening comes to his eyes and you realize that the subject was still fresh, despite how well put together he seemed tonight. “So, roses, right?”

His gaze follows you as you come around the counter, sketchbook already in hand and turned to the first of several sketches you had prepared. “You remember that much?”

“Well,” you smile and hand him the book as you walk the both of you towards the sitting area. “You’d be surprised the lasting impressing you leave on someone.” After he casts you a strange look you quickly add, “When you’re angry at them, I mean.”

Silence. Oh man, things had been going so well up to this point. And then he begins to chuckle, catching you completely off guard once again. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before actually.” You breathe a slight sigh of relief and when another bout of silence comes up as he overlooks your sketches you’re much less nervous. “There are...nice.”

��Nice?” The tone of his voice lets you know that he’s being sincere, however, “But it’s not what you’re wanting.” He appears apologetic but you’re not mad. You hadn’t really known what he wanted anyway and at least, now, you knew what he didn’t want. “That’s ok. That’s why we do these consultations. So let’s start fresh.” You offer him a smile and hold out your hand for your sketchbook, which he delivers. You flip through the sketches until you come to a clean page. “Maybe we can start by getting all the technical stuff out of the way, like finding out where you want to put it.”

“I was thinking here if that’s alright.” You watch as his hand comes to his chest, resting over his heart. It’s plainly obvious that this friend meant a lot to him.

“That’s great.” You nod to confirm his choice. “It’s actually a pretty good place for a first tattoo.” It’ll also offer you a fairly large canvas. “Did you have any idea what sort of style you wanted?”

“Not really.” If you had a nickel for every time someone said that. It wasn’t so uncommon for someone to come in with a general idea. That why they had the flash art on the wall. If anything it gave the customer a reference of what they might want. You’re about to suggest for him to look over the wall when he speaks up. “Although, when I was looking through your portfolio the other night there was something that caught my eye. It looked a lot like a painting.”

Mentally, you begin to flip through the pages of your portfolio, a careful and handpick selection of your best work when you were an apprentice. You recalled a piece that you had done just before you had left for Los Santos, a bluejay in watercolors. You fish the physical copy of your portfolio out of the pile and find it, not wanting to assume. “This one?” You ask as you show him.

He reaches for the book and begins to nod, looking over the piece once again. “Yes! That’s it. That’s the one.” His hand comes to rest on the page and again you see his eyes begin to swell with pain. “I don’t know why but there was something about this one I liked best.”

“Believe it or not that was a memorial piece as well.” He looks up at you as you continue, “A man came in one day at the place I apprenticed at. He had just lost his wife after a long illness and just wanted something to keep with him that always reminded him of her.” You smile softly, it was a good memory despite being so sad. “He told me she loved to bird watch. Even when she was sick in bed she would look out the window and watch the birds. When she died he said he remember there was a blue jay sitting on the windowsill that she usually looked out of. He felt like it was a sign.”

“He told you all that? Seems kind of personal.”

You offer him a shrug, “Sometimes people want to talk about the reason they’re getting a tattoo. I think it can be therapeutic.” It’s apparent that’s not something he wants to talk about. You suppose, given his profession, maybe he can’t. “But that’s just some people. Every experience is different. For instance, you look pretty tough, but you might cry.”

A change of subject seems to pull him out of the somberness of the conversation and he chuckles once again, “I doubt that. I have a pretty high threshold for pain.”

“Ooh, that’s what they all say.” You threaten with a grin. “Alright, so, colors?”

“I like what you did with the blue jay, to be honest.”

“We can do blue roses.” You tell him. “Actually, I think that would be really fitting. Blue roses symbolize immortality, and you are sort of immortalizing your friend forever in your skin.”

He appears to be pleased with this, “Sounds perfect. When do we start?”

Already you have several ideas swarming in your mind, you almost want to skip the sketching phase and go straight to tattooing. In all the excitement of getting to do your own work you had completely forgotten about being afraid of him early, in fact, you had forgotten about him being a criminal altogether. Still, it was best not rush so quickly, “I can work on some sketches and we can begin as early as tomorrow night if I come up with something you like.”

“I have no doubt you’ll come up with something great.” You feel yourself blush again and he smiles, seemingly noticing it this time around.

The two of you stand and you make your way to the counter again, pulling out a large scheduling book. Your ledger so far had been empty. “Alright, I just need to get a little personal information, like name and number.”

He seems apprehensive and you realize that he might not want anyone to have that sort of information, whether he knew that you knew who he was or not. “How about I just give you my number and you can put me down as Ryan?”

You don’t argue with that, surprised that he’d offer that much. “Sure.” You hand him your sketchbook and watch as he scrawls his number across the corner of one of the pages. “I’d prefer you not call me unless it’s important though.”

“No problem.” You assure him. “Then, I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow night, Ryan.”

He flicks his hand in a slight salute, “Until then.” And promptly walks out the door.

The rest of your shift at Pandemonium passes without incident, but for once you’re glad for the quiet. You begin to pour yourself into sketching, filling pages with roses and splashes of blue, trying to find that magical moment when everything seems to click together. You can’t explain why you suddenly feel so enveloped in this project. Perhaps it was because it was your first real piece since you came to the city. Perhaps it was simply because, after everything that had happened that one evening, Ryan still wanted you to be the one to ink him. You felt pride, maybe even a little bit of arrogance knowing that the feared Vagabond of Los Santos was soon to be wearing your work.

Maybe if you weren’t so wrapped up in the fantasy of it all you would have noticed the unmarked police car that was sitting outside Pandemonium when you left after you shift.

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Ink and Paint : Chapter 2

Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader Previous Chapters:  One Word Count: 1,593  Prompt: You came to Los Santos to pursue a dream of becoming a tattoo artist. Things haven’t quite worked out as you planned and now you find yourself working a graveyard shift at Pandemonium Ink. Things are typically quiet, that is until one of the cities most infamous criminals come through the door. 

The ringing of your phone coincides with breaking news interrupting your binge of San Andreas Diners and Dives.

You mute the tv just as a headline crawls across the bottom of the screen, Del Perro Freeway Car Chase, but you’re more focused on your brother’s name flashing on the caller id and the gnawing you feel in your stomach as you reluctantly answer. The conversation follows a pretty standard format; a greeting, small talk about each other’s lives, until ultimately asking if you had talked to your mom recently. He knew that you hadn’t of course, he lived at home after all, and you were sure your mom was hovering around him, waiting for a chance to sneak herself into the conversation.

The relationship between you and your mother was strained, more so since you moved to Los Santos. She had never approved of your interest in art and had only tolerated you working for your uncle’s parlor because you had told her you were saving up money to enroll in online courses for Medical Coding. Boy, she angry when she found out the truth. She had done everything, save locking you in the basement, to keep you from leaving. You knew that she probably had good intentions, but she was absolutely lousy in trying to show them.

When you hear her asking your brother to hand her the phone you make an excuse that you’re late for work and hang up. At least it wasn’t completely untrue, you had agreed to take on a last-minute late shift at one of your part time jobs, a little sandwich stands named Ruth’s. It didn’t pay well but the tips were decent enough and the owner, a little old lady who the stand was named after, was very sweet, almost a pseudo mother figure, who never failed to send you home with a nice meal when she thought you were looking a little thin.

Ruth was there when you showed up, her short stature barely visible over the counter and no doubt recovering from the lunch rush. It looked like a good day, at least that’s what you gather by all the fry baskets and plastic cups left on the tables outside the stand. Instinctively, you bust them down, tossing the trash into the bin as you call out to Ruth to draw her attention away from a small black and white tv balanced on the counter. “What you watching there?”

“Oh, the news.” That figures, after all, the only channels she got on that antique were local. “They’re talking about that car chase from earlier.”

“I saw something about that when I was getting ready.” You say as you tie an apron around your waist, walking up to look over her shoulder at the grainy picture. You see the chief police talking at a podium with about a dozen microphones shoved into his face. He didn’t appear to be happy. “I take it that they didn’t catch them.”

She brushes you away with a playful flick of a towel, “What? Those morons? They couldn’t catch a cold.” You snicker and she continues. “You know, back when Augustus and I first came here it was such a lovely city.”

“When was that again?”

“Watch it,” she says and shakes a crooked finger at your playful rib. “You may not believe it but this used to be a city of dreams. You didn’t even have to lock your doors.”

You had heard it all before. Los Santos certainly had its problems with crime, but what big city didn’t? The pristine utopia that Ruth often described was no doubt tainted by nostalgia, but it was cute to watch her reminisce about old times. “I don’t know, a little dirt gives the city personality at least.”

“Personality? You think those delinquents running the streets have an inkling of personality? They’re just running around, causing chaos. At least the criminals in my day had some class and kept their dealings behind closed doors.”

“Well, I’m sure the cities finest will catch up with them next time,” you say as you catch a glimpse of one of the mugshots, a dapper looking mustached man, before she turns off the tv as a new customer walks up.

You opt to stay with Ruth until closing, helping her clean up and shut down just as it begins to get dark. You made enough with tips to splurge on a cab, it would give you some extra time to clean up before heading to Pandemonium. Yet, despite your earnest protest, Ruth splurges on the ride for you as thanks for coming in on short notice and for staying later than you expected to. The ride from Ruth’s to your apartment building is a short one and, along the way, you’re surprised when you get a call, from Pandemonium no less.

“Yo.” Bruno’s deep voice bellows as you answer. Bruno was one of the daytime artists and typically who you interacted with the most between shifts, a sort of changing of the guards as he chucked the keys at you and reminded you to lock up the safe. The fact that he was calling was extremely rare.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Yeah. Someone called and asked for yous. Yous specifically.” Your brow quirks, he sounds almost as surprised as you are. “Said yous guys had a consultation a couple weeks ago.”

Your mind races through your memory like a Rolodex, trying to remember. A couple weeks ago? A consultation? Nothing comes to mind. Nothing except- “Oooh. Huh.”

“What’s that?” Bruno asks.

“Nothing. Just, this one guy did come in but we...we couldn’t come to an agreement. It wasn’t even that much of a consultation.”

“Well, if it’s the same guy yous must have made some sort of impression. Said he was coming by tonight.” Great. You hadn’t really thought about that awkward encounter since it had happened. With the way he stormed out you just assumed that was the end of it. “Yous remember what he wanted, yeah?”

“I think so, yeah. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll try to make it in a little earlier to set up.” Bruno grumbles a farewell and your conversation ends a few minutes shy of the cab pulling up to your apartments.

A quick shower and a change of clothes and you’re sitting on the couch sketching. Roses. You remember that he wanted roses, a memorial for a friend. But that was all. You didn’t have a clue where he wanted the tattoo placed, what style, if he wanted color or black and gray. Maybe he didn’t want anything at all. You realize you could be doing a bunch of work for no reason if he simply wanted to come in and show you a tattoo he got someplace else as a means to remind you of your poor customer service. You don’t regret it, though. You still stand by what you said.

You toss your sketchbook on the table in defeat; there was no point in trying to draw something before you even knew what he wanted. You lay back on the couch and glance at the tv, seeing that they’re still talking about the care chase this morning, or at least that’s what you assume as you see the same dapper looking mustache man mugshot from earlier on screen morph into a full lineup of several wanted criminals.

That’s when you see him.

Disheveled hair, ripped jacket, a face completely smeared in paint, yet the recollection of those blue eyes washes over you like a bucket of ice water. Stunned, you roll off the couch and into the floor, nearly missing cracking your head against the table before managing to get to your feet to draw closer to the tv screen. There was no mistaking it. The man in the mugshot, labeled only with an alias of Vagabond, was the same man that you had talked to. The same man you had pissed off. The same man that was coming to see you tonight.

“Shiiiiit.”

Logic told you that no one would call ahead to let you know they were coming if they intended to do you harm. At least that’s what you had to tell yourself in some way of psyching yourself up to go to work. You no sooner get through the door before Bruno and a couple of other artists are on their way out. If you didn’t think Bruno would laugh in your face if you asked him to stay you might have asked. Fat chance he’d be of any help if things turned sour. Even if he believed you he’d be more likely to call the cops and the thought of getting in any deeper than what you already were was none too appealing.

So you settle on running business as usual. If anything the element of surprise was off the table and if you felt threatened, well, that’s what the baseball bat was for. Still, the waiting game had your stomach in knots. You had no idea when the Vagabond was going to show up, or what mood he would be in for that matter. You had to admire his moxie, though; instead of laying low after a high profile car chase he’s out, living like it was just an everyday occurrence. Well, you suppose it could easily be madness as much as it could be moxie.

The hours tick away and you actually have to shake yourself awake when you hear the door open.

[promptbomb]

Ink and Paint

Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader Chapters: 1/? Word Count: 1,751 Prompt:  You came to Los Santos to pursue a dream of becoming a tattoo artist. Things haven't quite worked out as you planned and now you find yourself working a graveyard shift at Pandemonium Ink. Things are typically quiet, that is until one of the cities most infamous criminals come through the door.

It was the silence that really bugged you about working the graveyard shift.

When you had apprenticed under your uncle back home at his parlor there was rarely a dull moment to be had. Old timers coming in for touch ups usually had great stories to tell, occasionally you’d see a couple get into a heated argument over matching designs, there were even times when business was slow so your uncle would pull out his guitar and have a small jam session. It was the life flowing through his parlor that inspired you to take your art seriously and become a tattooist.

So when you came to Los Santos, fresh off the bus with bright eyes and portfolio in hand, you were somewhat discouraged when you found few openings and fewer owners wanting to take a chance on a no-name artist from the sticks. The money your uncle had loaned you dried up quickly and you found yourself forced into a parade of entry level jobs that kept you afloat as you continued to comb through every dark alley with a neon sign that flickered Tattoo. That’s when you found Pandemonium, the darkest of dives located between a disco tech warehouse club and a late night dry cleaner that, you were almost positive, was the front for some money laundering scheme.

Phil, the guy who ran the place, was hesitant on hiring you. You were sure that when he offered you the graveyard shift that he meant it more as a throw away offer. You’d be working alone and if anything went wrong it would take the cops about thirty minutes to get there. You didn’t care about the danger, not if it got you a chair. So with the promise that, if you did well they might be able to find a place for you in the day, you began your tenure as a pseudo night guard for Pandemonium Ink.

For the most part, it was pretty...unfulfilling. During the week the streets were like a ghost town and you found yourself marathoning cooking shows in some attempt to offset your hunger for a real meal. One could only live on take-out and ramen noodles for so long. The weekends didn’t offer much more in the way of clientele. Sure, you’d get the occasional roaming flock of beach bros stumbling down from the disco tech, bursting into the door so one of their friends could get a fifty dollar flash tattoo. You should be grateful but by the end of it, between having to almost lay on top of them to get them to sit still and their friends howling in the background, you’d wish for the silence that usually drove you crazy.

Most nights you’d think about giving up. You knew if you went home you could work for you uncle no problem. There was no shame in failing and maybe, after a few years and a nice cushion of money and a hefty portfolio, you could try again. But your pride kept you there, sitting behind the counter, flipping through a magazine and dreaming of the day you’d see your own art there on the pages.

As fate may have it you were having one of these internal conversations on a night that you first met the infamous Vagabond.

The door opening made its usually broken down and thirsty for oil sound, a trainwreck of a noise that you had become accustomed to by this point. You didn’t even look up from your magazine as you heard the slow shuffle of footsteps making their way in.

“Hey.” Your greeting was...less than enthusiastic. Already you caught the light scent of liquor; perfect, nothing you liked better than inking a drunk. Even as you half-assed pointed to the wall, where several flash tattoos were hanging, you were already thinking up some excuse to get out of dealing with it tonight. “Everything on the wall is fifty. Words are five a letter. Anything else you’ll have to-” As you looked up your words came to a pause, catching sight of the man that had walked in. He looked like hell; long hair falling out of a loose and drooping pony-tail, clothing dirty and torn up as if he had just walked away from some vicious street fight. You thought for a moment that he may have been bleeding but on closer inspection, and noticing a smudge on the sleeve of his jacket, it appeared that his face had been painted.

Your lips thin, what was up with this guy? Sometimes you had to deal with addicts that stumbled in blitz out of their mind, it was one of the reasons you kept a baseball bat under the counter, just in case things turned violent. Aside from smelling like a brewery he didn’t seem the sorts to fly off the handle suddenly, he even moved as if he was completely sober. “Hey man.” you call again, trying to get his attention, “You ok? You need to use the phone or something?”

He glanced at you, blue eyes bloodshot but focused. The look on his face made it appear that he hadn’t slept in days. “I want a tattoo.”

“Welp, you’re in luck.” You reply while standing, clapping your hands across your thighs as if you were dusting them clean. “We do, indeed, do tattoos here.” No response. Given his appearance it was probably a bad idea to try and make things humorous, so you opted to move the conversation along, “What are you thinking?”

"Roses."

Before you can stop yourself, you snort. It wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t what you were expecting. His eyes narrowed, though, clearly annoyed. “Sorry.” You cough and shove your hands deep into your pockets, “Just not...something I imagined you would- right. Roses.” You can feel the heat in your face as you continue to make a fool of yourself. So again you motion to the flash art, at least to divert his hard stare away, “There are several different options, layouts. We can do whatever color you want-”

"Is that all you can do, just copy and paste?"  You probably deserved that. Still, it didn’t stop you from shooting daggers at his back as he inspected the wall. "I was thinking something more personal."

“I can do original pieces!” He lifts a brow as your eager reply send you shifting quickly through the stacks of portfolios on the table until you find yours, thrusting it into his hands. You can’t even remember that last time someone looked at your original works. “I mean, there's usually a consultation. We sit down, I get an idea what you're wanting-” He sits and you find yourself holding your breath as he begins to flip through your folder. His listless expression is torturous and you begin to talk again if just to end the awkward build up of silence. “So, why roses if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I had a friend.” There is a slight crack to his voice, a tightening of his jaw that you do not miss. “They were sort of his things. I just thought I’d get something to remember him by.” He comes to the end of your portfolio and gives it a quick flip through once more. “You drew everything in here?”

You nod to which he puckers his lips in some sort of sign of approval. “So, this is sort of like what, a memorial thing?”

“You could say that, yeah.” He replies as he tosses your portfolio back onto the stack. “I’ve never had a tattoo before but this just...it’s something I want to do.”

Virgin skin. Looking him over you doubt the pain would be a problem, though you’ve seen grown ass men cry like babies when getting inked before. But he seemed to be a sort of guy who could take it. Still, something doesn’t sit right with you, something you can’t quite put your finger on. “Can I offer you some advice?” No reply, yet the look he sends your way signals for you to continue. “Hold off on getting it.”

The look he gave you could have turned your blood to ice. His brows furrowed, “What?”

You try to convey sympathy; you sit near him to which he immediately puts distance between the two of you as if you had the plague. “Look, it’s just a bad idea to get something like this done when you’re not thinking clearly.”

“And how do you know that I’m not thinking clearly?” You can see him seething, his hands fist against the bend of his knees.

You continue, though, “What I mean to say is that, whatever is fueling this need, it deserves to be looked at with a clear head. Don’t take this the wrong way but I could smell the liquor on you when you walked in.” His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Doing something like this is...it's special. It should mean something to you, yeah? So maybe don't make a decision on it when you're not thinking clearly. You owe it to your friend that much."

"Seems like bad business, refusing a customer."

He was probably right. If Phil was here right now you’d likely be following whoever you refused out the door. “Look nothing and no one is stopping you from getting up and going someplace else.” You stand and take on the short distance to reach behind the counter, grabbing your sketchbook and a pencil. “But if I didn’t care I wouldn’t ask you to wait. Just enough to sober up, yeah?”

He stands as you approach him again, hesitant as you hand him a piece of paper where you had jotted down your name and number. “What’s this?”

“In case you take my advice.”

He doesn’t take it. In fact, he doesn’t say anything else to you. You crumpled the paper up as he brushes past you, your shoulders making light contact before he set off through the door. You heave a short but heavy sigh. Oh well, you tried. Maybe you should have just given in and done whatever it was he wanted.

You shoot the ball of paper into the bin and return to your magazine, though you find you can’t concentrate on it clearly. The entire exchange stayed with you and you wondered if you could have said or done something different. Too late now, at least you wouldn’t have to see him again.

Or so you thought.

[promptbomb]

Ryan x Reader mini fic Inspired by the @samijen Ender Eye au that’s been floating around lately.

You had thought, cast in violet flames, it would be hot. You anticipated the heat, the pain that came from the caress of the fire's wispy tendrils as they made contact with your exposed skin. Yet the blaze gave nothing in the way of warmth; instead you found yourself bathed in a blistering and the mind numbing cold that crept frost against your cheek and turned your breath to mist. The chill has pulled your already exhausted body to a slow crawl, each step forward was a daunting task and a haunting reminder of how worn you were, how utterly vulnerable. You had fought for so long to reach him, cut through the monsters and braved the labyrinth when others called you a fool for doing so. The man you searched for was dead, they said. But you knew that could not be true.

Through the blur of your vision you see him, knelt in the center of this dungeon he had made for himself, a place of obscurity save for the unnatural light the fires around you cast. It fuels you forward and you cast your sword and shield to the ground to unburden your stride, calling his name, "Ryan!" You make contact, your arms wrap around his sturdy form in an embrace that threatens to squeeze the life from his lungs. He trembles, his flesh is as cold as a corpse and if not for the light spray of warm breath against your neck you would think him dead. You release him for a moment, your hands sliding through his disheveled locks as your lips plant against his brow, "I knew I would find you. I knew that you were-"

"No." he speaks, but his voice is distorted, you can barely make out his familiar tone. Distracted, he grabs your wrists firmly, forcing a whimper to crawl up your throat and beat against your lips that close into a thin, tight line. He raises his head, strands of dirty brown hair veiling his gaze as it lifts to search out your own, "You should have left me. You should have... you should have never come." Your eyes meet and his once listless expression reflects the pain of seeing your reaction. His face is haggard, his cheeks hollowed and his beard unkempt. A dark circle hangs like a broken moon beneath one of his eyes and the other... the other you can barely bare to look upon.

You had seen that eye before when the two of you faced down the Endermen that threatened to dismantle the kingdom and plunge it into eternal darkness. You had stared down these monsters and felt their gaze pierce you to the very bone, touching that pit of fear in your stomach you kept buried. And though he appeared distressed, on the edge of losing his sanity, there was a dark and primordial consciousness that seemed to be a complete and different entity than the man who now held you at an arms length. The area around the eye looked to be heavily damaged, the skin like brittle tree bark that had been snapped back, though you couldn’t tell if it was collateral damage or if Ryan himself had been clawing at it. Dark, purple veins raced in any and all directions from the source of corruption and you could see them throbbing, glowing beneath his skin.

“Oh, Ryan.” your voice breaks and you wrench a hand free to slide your fingers against his cold cheek. “We can find a way. There are great healers. Mages. Your friends will help you.”

His lips break into a wide smile and you can see that some of his teeth had turned feral, the gums around them black. “Help me?” he chuckles softly and you feel a chill run down your spine as easily as fingertips. His grip around your wrist tightens, you feel the bones threaten to break as he steps into your stance, towering over you as your bodies press together. Swiftly, he catches your chin in his deft grip and he forces you to look into his face, into his eyes that have narrowed to inspect you. “You don’t understand, I don’t need any help. I wanted this.”

“No!” He lofts a brow at your challenge, your reaction seemingly not what he expected. You might be crushed if you weren’t so damn angry. After all you had done to find him, you refused to believe that all this, this corrupted shell of the man you knew, was what he wished. You shove him away, he stumbles lightly and barely has time to right himself before you push him again, “Bullshit! You would never do this to yourself. You wouldn’t abandon your friends, your kingdom!” Again, you push him and Ryan’s smile slips into a sneer, though he makes no move to block your advances. “You wouldn’t abandon me!”

Suddenly, you find his lips upon yours, the fierceness of his kiss, forcing you to gasp and inhale the sweet remembrance of his breath. His hand cradles the back of your skull painful, pushing you deeper into his engaging mouth and you find yourself surrendering. Your arms wrap around his neck, clinging to him as his tongue delves deeply as if to test the sincerity of your words.There is a passion in his kiss that you recognize, yet a desperation that you have never known before, and he leaves you breathless just as quickly. You see a visible exertion in his features and his breath is hot and flavored with lust as his brow presses against your own.

“Don’t look for me again.” his voice shakes, straining to sound pure and free of the ender eye’s influence. “You won’t find me. Only a monster.” Your reply rests on the edge of your tongue, stalled as he pushes you away. You feel the energies of the area shift, contort, and there is a hollowed pop as you see Ryan disappear completely.

You stand for a moment in silence, half way between dismayed and despair. Without Ryan’s presence the violet flames begin to fade and you find your sword and shield, leaving the labyrinth before complete darkness takes hold. His words burn within your head, his kiss lingers like a promise left unsaid. You know what you have to do.

Eight months later, at the edge of daybreak and after a long and hard chase, you find yourself standing over a felled Enderman. Yet you save the killing blow, only until after you have cut the eye from its skull. Even freed from the body you feel a sort of life surging through the orb, the nerves crawl over your fingers like worms looking for somewhere to burrow. They will not have to wait long.

[promptbomb]

A birthday gift for @let-gavin-free

They bring you before the Mad King in chains; heavy links that weigh down your arms and prevent you from raising them if you got the urge to try and fight. Not that you could, at least, not at this point. You had been in battle for hours, and while adrenaline had fueled you and pushed you past your limit now, in this slow shuffle of a walk, you feel every swing and every blow you dealt and received. They had stripped you of your armor but the scent of war carried with you, filling the hall with an aroma of smoke and blood, and it seemed the King took notice as a wicked smile pulls across his lips. He sits reclined upon the throne, his disheveled locks cradling the broken crown that rests upon his head. Yet for looking so unkempt there is an air of strength about him, a power that radiates and pulses, sending reverberations through your very flesh. The Mad King stands and with a wave of his have those that had brought you forward leave, the groan of the large wooden doors closing following their footsteps.

The Mad King walks towards you, arms drawn behind his back as he chuckles, "They say you killed thirty of my Ender Knights before you were finally subdued. I have to say, I'm impressed." His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth as his hand reaches out, grasping your chin tightly with his calloused grip. "Do you know what it takes to create my Ender Knights? You can't simply give a man a sword and send him into battle. You have to twist them, ensure they're loyal...alter them. Each one of those men are the product of countless hours of preparation before they set foot on the ground they're about to raze. Much of that work I do with my own two hands."

You feel his grip tightened as he leans forward and behind the blue of his eyes you see fire and smoke. "I should have you quartered and strung up for the mere audacity in defying me and yet...I'm not one to look past potential." You feel your head jerk to the side as he releases you and begins a slow circle around your form. "I could use one such are yourself. Your prowess. Your vitality." The venom in his words turns to a purr and the tone sends a shiver down your spine. The Mad King comes to stands behind you, close, so close that you feel the warmth of his breath wash against your neck. You feel the scratch of his beard as he nuzzles your neck and he murmurs into your ear as his hand slips beneath your shirt to explore, "Yes, I would very much enjoy seeing what my hands could do with you.

You feel your face fill with heat and you cannot help the surprised noise that passes over your lips when his teeth drags across your neck before sinking into the flesh where it and your shoulder meet. He crushes you against him, you feel the solidness of his body as his hands explore with skilled intent, and there is a thrill in it that you cannot deny. He laughs smoothly, the roughness of his tongue dragging against his claimed bite before you feel his fingers come to wrap around your throat, applying pressure. "I will make you mine." He speaks and you hear the raggedness of his breath, "And you will call me King."

[promptbomb]

You feel the energies pull at your very soul; dark tendrils threading themselves through every fiber of your being, leaving you cold and stunned into silence.  Around you the horrors of war begin to blur and fade away, you barely hear King Geoff’s frantic shout as he attempts to cut through a horde of undead to reach you, the terror etched into his face saying enough as even sound fades away to join your senses in entropy. You must be dead, this is what you think. You no longer feel the weight of your sword arm raised in combat, in fact, you feel completely weightless as the world around you grows darker and the fray falls away into nothingness as you’re forcibly jerked away from the physical plane.

The first sensation you feel is breath filling your lungs, almost forcibly, expanding your chest painfully as the hot, acidic air surges life through your battle worn body. Darkness had etched itself at the corners of your vision, your head spins as you try to gather your bearings. The battlefield is gone, replaced with stone and endless night stained with a glow of fires. In the distance you believe you hear the sounds of swords and screams, but it’s so far off it seems more like a lingering dream than anything. You lift your head from the knelt position you found yourself in just as lightning cracks across the sky, bringing a roar of thunder. Against the flash of light you see a figure, a silhouette of tattered regalia and tilted crown.

You had heard stories of the man before his corruption. King Geoff often mourned for him, for who he was before he had become tainted, before he had taken the mantle of the Mad King. From the stories you understood why the Kings fought so hard, why they held on to some sliver of hope that they might save him from his own demise. But on the Mad Kings face you see only ecstasy, no remorse, as he directs the skies above to open, raining lightning down into the courtyard below where just moments ago you had stood fighting.

“The battle is turning.” You hear him speak, the low tone of his voice sending a shiver through your form as you move to stand. You realize that you are unarmed, not that you believed you could best him in combat. Still, you would feel more confident with the heaviness of a blade in hand. Instead, you opt to answer him with stoic silence, an insurgence that is not lost to him. The Mad King smiles and lowers his outstretched hand to turn from the fray to face you fully. His appearance is not what you expected. He was disheveled, his beard and hair unkempt, his face gaunt with dark half-moons that hung beneath tired eyes. If not for his imposing stance and leering grin you would think he was on the verge of collapse. “Your Kings have slaughtered my creatures, and now, they threaten to tear down my castle stone by stone. I had not thought them to raise an army so eager to die for their cause; a miscalculation on my part.”

You lift your chin, a surge of pride coursing through you. As insane as he was the Mad King knew his defeat was at hand, a conquest bought with mortal blood and determination. Again, at your defiance, he smiles, the tone of his voice sinking even lower as he chuckles. “Yes. My creatures are disposable, easily carved upon your Kings’ blades. But I wonder-“ He muses and reaches out, his slender fingers pressing against your breastplate. The contact is gentle and yet you feel it through every muscle, as sure as if he had plunged his hand through your chest and grasped your heart. The Mad King coos softly within your ear, feigning comfort as a scream rips through your silence. An inky darkness seeps from his touch, it branches out and spreads across armor and flesh, and you feel it crawl up your neck as if you were drowning. The Mad King releases you, physically stumbling backwards as you sink to your knees once more.

They had fought their way through the labyrinth; through the sea of frozen flames that swallowed stone and flesh without discrimination and left the kingdom scarred with the scent of rotting flesh. They had begun their crusade with many; a legion of men and women united in a single cause, to right the wrong that had cast the land into darkness. They had gathered beneath the banner of former kings and architects and tricksters, had pledge their lives to the cause. Now, only the four of them remained, pressing on, leaving the corpses of their fallen mourned and unclaimed as they approach the broken, crumbling castle of the Mad King. It was a poignant advance, through the dark hallways that moaned as their arches began to buckle and crack, threatening to come crashing down upon their heads. The castle had once stood glorious and proud; pristine and shining in prosperity, a beacon of hope. The Mad King had once been one of them, a crusader and builder. The land was poisoned, the livestock lay slaughtered in their fields and mothers smothered their own children to save them from wasting away from hunger and disease.

And now, the only thing that stood between their victory, between the Mad King and their hard fought justice, was you. You can see the questions lingering unasked upon their lips, you see the same look of horror upon King Geoff’s face as when you were teleported from their side. Your appearance has shaken their resolve and knowing that you begin to smile. Behind you a thousand eyes alight and glow, silence fills with shifting armor and dragging blades as a new horde emerges to face the already battle worn kings. You draw the blade sheathed at your hip and raise it high, the monstrous horde behind you bellows like a single entity. “For the glory of the Dark God!” you hear a voice cry out and it takes you moment to realize that it is your own.

Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of your mind, in the darkest parts of your subconscious, there is a scream of protest. But it is quieted by the whispers of the Dark God’s desires murmuring within your head. Whoever you once were, whatever you once fought for and believed in, none of it mattered. You have once purpose now; insure the Dark God’s victory.

Okay so I’ve been thinking a lot about Dark God Ryan (alternatively titled I hope they film the next Kings let’s play on pc and here’s why)

Humans are not the only creatures who must kneel before him, the animals themselves flock to him to obey his commands. Even the generally peaceful cow will fight to the death in his name.

He can create any object he desires on a whim.

The weather is his to control. He can dismiss the rain with a wave of his hand if he’s feeling benevolent, or call forth the mightiest storms to smite his enemies.

Even the sun answers to his beck and call. If the Dark God wishes for daylight, it shall be so.

Perhaps most terrifying of all, the Dark God has the power to transport you from anywhere in his realm to appear by his side. There is nowhere to hide when Dark God Ryan desires your presence.

[promptbomb]

Of all the labels given to Ryan during his tenure with the Crew one thing was always true; he was a professional. Amidst the gunfire and explosions and the reoccurring grief he gifted his boss the often silent vagabond kept himself to a certain code of conduct while on the job. Murder and mayhem- that was always part of the game, but even he had his limits when it came to the targets of their high stake escapades. Luckily, he rarely had to chastise the others in the group for crossing those lines and yet times did sometime arise that he was obligated to enforce them. 

Ryan shook his head in irritation; his chest heaved an exasperated sigh as he crossed the grease stained driveway towards one of several tables that dotted a finely manicured lawn. With no mask and no war paint he moved through the sparse crowd discreetly, a luxury he often took for granted but one he welcomed with a soft smile and a curt nod of the head towards one of the two elderly ladies tending to a customer at their small yard sale.  She smiled kindly in return and Ryan could only imagine that they must have had a good turnout throughout the day, something that had not been lost on the man who he now approached.

The man grunted as Ryan bumped into him, letting his presence be known. “You got a-“ the man began and then paused when he found himself cast in Ryan’s shadow.

Ryan was not one for small talk, so his words came quick and to the point. “Don’t move. Don’t make a fucking noise.” His tempered voice was cool, near a whisper and the man, baffled into silence, followed Ryan’s hand as it came to pull back his jacket, revealing the pistol holstered against his solid frame. “Now, I don’t believe either one of us want to make a scene, so I’m going to ask you once, politely, to return the money box you just lifted from these nice ladies.”

“You’re crazy…” the man squeaked, the color draining from his face.

“I get that a lot.”

The man shifted his gaze about and Ryan could almost guess the skitter of his thoughts as he looked from person to person that lingered on the lawn. Defiantly, he smiled, and nodded towards the small crowd, “You won’t do nothing. You ain’t gonna do shit with all these people standing around. In this neighborhood the cops would be on you in a minute.”

Ryan lofted a brow, his expression listless as he shrugged, “Probably. You’d still be dead though and these nice ladies will have an interesting story to talk about at their next bridge club.” Again, the man whitened, and Ryan understood that either the tone of his voice or the narrow of his eyes had instilled just the right amount of fear for him to fish the small, tin box from his coat and lay it again on the table. “Now, hit the streets. You come around this neighborhood again, I’ll know, and trust me when I say that I can find you.”

The man took the warning to heart and Ryan almost chuckled as he stumbled over his own feet to retreat back to the road, walking away briskly. The vagabond hummed softly, a smile lingering on his lips as his long fingers tapped the top of the tin before deftly snatching up an antique decanter. Maybe Geoff’s temper would be cooled if he gave him this as penance for missing their heist. “Excuse me?” He called out to the women, earning a pair of eager smiles, “How much?”

FAHC headcannon where Ryan would rob anything from anywhere, but when it comes to little old ladies having a garage sale, he will never steal anything.

[promptbomb]

“Shit. Shit shit shit fuck fuck fuck-“ the words tumbled from Ryan’s lips in a heated mantra, each verse flavored with sweat and smoke and blood. His heart thumped hard within his chest, beating in time with the chorus of gunfire and Geoff’s frantic voice shouting orders within his earpiece for a full retreat. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. They had planned ahead, had spent weeks of reconnaissance, they knew each exit in and out. They had been careful. But something had gone wrong and at this point Ryan could only assume that someone had sold them out.

He stumbled and a searing pain reminded him of the slug that was buried in his calf. He shouldn’t even be able to walk and yet the adrenaline surging through him gifted the strength to not only stand but to lift the man he had been carrying up and over his shoulder once again. “You alright?” The gentle question startled Ryan, the voice hardly more than a whisper against his back as he took off again in a hard run, shirking the search of lights from above as the whirl of helicopter blades arrived to join the chaos.

“Stop talking.” The command came in a growl from beneath his mask as he adjusted Ray’s limp body again, the dead weight wearing heavy on his shoulder as he desperately searched for cover. Whoever had sold them out had made sure to expose Ray’s sniping position. The sound of his frightened screams amidst a barrage of bullets lingered still in Ryan’s thoughts and the sight of his friend lying in a pool of his own life’s blood had sent him into a rage. One of the cops had got lucky; he got off one shot before Ryan put them all down and scooped up Ray to make a run for it. In his grasp Ray had not moved, not even once, and Ryan could only hold his breath between each of Ray’s own labored gasps, praying it was not the last. Finally a culvert came into view, “Hold on.” He spoke, his tone apologetic as he shifted Ray to hold him close, cradling his bullet riddled body as he slid down the embankment into the water below.

Ray moaned loudly as Ryan set him up against the side of the cylinder, offering him a spark of hope as Ray lifted a bloodstained hand and pressed it to his chest in a meager attempt to halt the flow of blood. “Goddamnit Ryan…you had to drag me to this….I don’t want this smell to be the last thing…”

“Shut up, Ray.” Ryan’s tone remained firm despite the shake of his hands as he reloaded his pistol. “Any minute Jack’s gonna lock onto our coms and we’ll make a spectacular escape, as always.” Ryan forced the mirth into his words, pleased when Ray laughed softly.

“Yeah…great…” Red and blue lights flickered against the water as a pair of patrol cars flew over their heads on the bridge above. Ryan waited for them to stop, his back pressed against the shadows of the culvert, finger poised on his trigger. “Listen, Ryan…I just want to say something….”

“What is it?” Ryan asked, though his eyes remained fixated on the shifting of brush and the sound of dogs barking. He knew his ammunition was low, every shot had to count; every shot had to keep them alive until the crew found them. It wouldn’t be much longer now, and the approach only made Ryan realize that Ray had drawn quiet. “What did you want to say?” He queried again and gambled a glance over his shoulder towards his friend. Ray’s gaze met his own but Ryan knew. The life was gone from his eyes, leaving them hollow, leaving them with emptiness that reached through Ryan and gripped his stomach, turning it in knots. “Ray?” He knew that it was fruitless and yet he called for him again, his voice quivering as he limped towards his friends motionless form.

Breathing became difficult; all he could taste was mayhem within his mask and it made him sick. “Ryan?! Ray?!” Geoff’s voice called in his ear, his desperate plea nearly lost in the thunder of a helicopter that hovered overhead. “Guys if you can hear me we’re on our way. Just hang tight! It’s really hot all around you, we got to fight through it, just stay low. Ryan? Someone fucking answer me!” Ryan’s fingers deftly pulled the mask from his face; the motion loosened the earpiece, leaving it to fall into the shallow water.

Gently, his hand drifted over Ray’s face, his calloused fingertips lowering his lids and closing his eyes forever. “Fucker, it’s just like you to leave shit unsaid…” Ryan’s voice trembled, heavy in his throat as he pushed his mask against Ray’s chest. At his back a light exploded into the culvert, illuminating the ugliness of the situation further. He could vaguely hear the S.W.A.T. bark orders at him to raise his hands, or maybe it was Geoff still screaming at one of them to report in. A smirked turned the corner of his mouth. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Ryan turned, his gun drawn, See you soon, kid.

There was noise. There was pain. Then, there was nothing.

CALLING ALL ARTISTS/WRITERS

So I’m not sure if this already exists or not but.. what if there was a gta au where shit goes downhill during a heist and ray is down so ryan rushes to him and ray fucking dies in his arms so he takes off his mask in the midst of explosions and gunfire and closes ray’s eyes and lays his mask on his face?? and then maybe theres not enough time for ryan either so something happens to him but not the rest of the guys??? help?? make this happen plz?? i’ll pay you in friendship and complements!?