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miller-n-morgan-2 · 26 days

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Take Me Home

1. TEXAS RED

Arthur Morgan x Texas Red!Reader

A/n: if you're seeing this for the first time, welcome! If not, and you were following my other blog, welcome back! Either way, I hope you enjoy this dumpster fire brought to you by my imagination ✨️

Summary: In the town of Agua Fria lived a shooter called Texas Red. Many men had tried to take him, and that many men were dead. A duelist and potential outlaw, with a secret no one knows. The perfect recruit for Dutch Van Der Linde to sweet talk into joining up.

Warnings: game typical violence, gun violence, dueling, old fashioned ways of thinking (no racism depicted in this chapter, but misogyny is mentioned) mild language, Arthur is a grump but also a sweetheart.

WC: 6.5k

“The infamous Texas Red,” he finished for you, but every time you hear that nickname it somehow gets worse. Why on earth did the good Lord above curse you with something so nasty as ginger hair? “Infamous? Don't know about that,” you lean back against the bar for another drink of water when your hands drop to your sides. “I'm just a kid. Name's Charlie Brooks.”

The light from the outside window is what wakes you first, the brightness pooling over your closed eyelids before they even open. You’re still in Agua Fria, the place you've made a name for yourself. Charlie Brooks, but that's not the one that comes to mind.

Texas Red. The unkillable. Nothing more than a duelist to many, and even less so to those who don't care for that sort of thing. But to those who dare challenge the big iron on your hip, you are not anything short of a quick handed master. Only eighteen years old, or so they say - it’s what you’ve told them, but like your name, it isn’t true. Whichever way you spell it out, your reputation is the reason people know you; You have the fastest draw on this side of anywhere.

For someone who's known near and far as the kid who never lost a match, the nickname is a little less than favorable. Texas Red isn't for the blood on your hands, it's for the ginger of your hair. It's factual, not demeaning… but still unfavorable. You do not care much what they call you anymore, just as long as they know what comes with it. Too many men have underestimated your ability, one and nineteen more.

Here in Agua Fria there's folks that will come from far and wide, just to test your trigger finger. Today is no different. You've spent the night in a hotel above the saloon, so by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, you know there ought to be a man there, ready and willing to die.

“That's him.”

You hear from under the breath of the bartender. He served you only last night, one drink of silky whiskey before bed, nothing more. You told him your name, but not the one people know. Word gets around, you suppose. Your pistol has twenty notches on the handle, folks can tell enough from that alone. One of the outlaws that hangs around here does the same thing… except he takes pride in those marks, as opposed to you. You make those marks to remember the weight of your pistol, heavier every time a notch is made.

The man before you is tall and strong, likely a farmer that does heavy work. He has a sly look about him, but you don't feel bothered too much. You think his hands, worn by the sun and weathered by his work - whatever it may be - will not draw fast enough to even graze you. They are too stiff where they hang by his side, probably from pushing a plow, or milling a field.

He hasn't spoken a word to you yet, but that's what you assume. He's here to challenge me, they always are. No one asks after you otherwise… except for maybe some working women, but that never ends well.

“You're the kid?” He looks you over, a furrowed brow and a smirk brush his features, but it doesn't last. Yes, you think. I'm the kid, and this is my gun.

“Yes sir,” your voice is a little lower, the early morning is stuck in the pitch of it.

His question was so vague, but having been asked about eight times out of twenty ‘are you the kid?’ makes you a pretty damn good guesser of what your answer ought to be.

He takes another once over after a step forward, and now you can see that he stands about a head taller than you. He's not quite intimidating, but you can admit, the anxiousness of a man initiating a duel is always a thing that prickles your skin, warms your very fingertips. Maybe that's why you shoot so fast.

“You don't look like a killer,” he looks down, but his nose is somehow still in the air. He wants to prove something, to someone or to himself you can't be sure, but only the most foolish of men dare your gun this way.

“I'm not one.”

And he laughs. You don't even think to look up at him, you keep my face forward. I don't have anything to prove, but of course you know you’ll have to.

“You shoot folks, got a name for it,” he settled his hands on his belt. It's a gun belt, sure, but the rounds don't even match the gun at his hip. They look bigger, as for a rifle. This farmer likely shoots ducks. Sitting or flying, that’s not the relevant point.

He has experience, and that's what clouds his mind. He thinks you’re a sitting duck.

“I do, but I ain't no killer,” you paused, rounding the man, stepping up to the bar and pointing for a glass of water. This early in the morning, any form of alcohol shouldn't be legal. You reckon it's the very thing that made this gentleman bold and eager enough to try what he's about to. At least you’re pretty darn sure that he's about to, otherwise he’s just an adoring spectator. “I shoot folks as need shootin’, but they always ask for it. I ain't malicious or nothin’.”

“Maybe you's the one that needs shootin’.”

Atta boy, getting to the point. You have to smile. He looks confused by it and he very well should be… people don’t normally crack a grin when being threatened.

“S’pose you wanna be the one that does it,” You take a drink of the water you’re handed, but it does little to wash away the tickle in your throat, trying to climb its way up in the form of the chuckle.

“If I gotta be.”

You’ve never seen this man around town. Being here in this area almost two months, you’ve seen more of the traveling recluses than any of the farmers. Seen more of the local outlaws, too. They never stay long, they cause a little trouble here and there… but never the farmers. They come into town maybe once, twice a month. They harbor most of their own supplies on their land. No need for the town.

“And you think you'll hit me?”

“I've never missed.”

And then that chuckle finally does escape you.

“I knew twenty men who hadn't, either,” but the other's words were a bit more out of ignorance. They wanted to show off, thought they had nothing to lose. You were just a skinny kid with red hair and a heavy gun that you could barely stand to carry.

“I like my odds.”

So you turn to the bartender. He watched this same charade last month. A different man, not quite as tall, but just as confident. He stops wiping down an empty glass, and looks to you with a look of annoyance. What did you do to deserve it? You haven't the slightest clue. When he looks at the challenger with sincerity and condolences, you know what he thinks behind those eyes.

This is a fine young man, he may have a wife and some children. He doesn't know what he's doing, he had a strong drink. He only heard one story, it isn't fair.

But of course, you can't back out. You’ve never backed out. Never having anything to lose, and like today, no one has ever tried to convince you otherwise. If you die now, you can go out a hero of sorts, the gunslinger of Agua Fria. If you live, then you'll someday die a legend. Texas Red, the unkillable.

You will have to step outside, and you will have to shoot this man, but for the first time, you feel you oughta know his name. You stepped to meet him and offered your hand. It's smaller compared to his.

“What’s your name?”

“Robert Sims.”

He shakes your hand tightly, he wants to show how strong he is… as if that somehow makes him shoot faster.

“Glad to meet ya. I'm-”

“The infamous Texas Red,” he finished for you, but every time you hear that nickname it somehow gets worse. Why on earth did the good Lord above curse you with something so nasty as ginger hair?

“Infamous? Don't know about that,” you lean back against the bar for another drink of water when your hands drop to your sides. “I'm just a kid. Name's Charlie Brooks.”

He scoffs, his eyes falling to the floor. Maybe he doesn't wanna do this. He seems to be rolling it over in his head. If he wins he kills you, a scrawny kid with an ugly hat, and not a friend in the world. If he loses, well… he dies.

But as if foolishness ruled his mind, he settles on his thoughts, and you can see it clear as day when he decides.

“Are you ready to step outside?”

And you smile again. He could've been your friend. He seems like a kind enough man, a little arrogant, but a man of honor in himself. He even struck you with a slanted smile of his own, but for no reason other than your reputation alone, he wants to kill you. Always a shame.

“S'pose so.”

And he doesn't say another word… Ever.

Thirty paces apart on the dirt road outside, the poor man never even cleared leather, but a bullet rests between his collarbones, and he himself rests on the ground. He’s got a pouch on his hip you noticed earlier, so while everyone around is frozen in place, you carefully go up to his body, stripping the valuables from him before moving on your way. To the winner go the spoils.

You holster your weapon, turn around and face the folks that stopped their journeys to watch. Some had seen the last one, they expected the outcome. Others were a bit surprised. David beat Goliath. The bigger opponent fell.

You took a walk around the block to settle down, find a nail to notch your pistol yet again. You’ve never forgotten your earlier opponents, but something about this one makes you sadder than the rest. One and Twenty more, and whoever else is stupid enough to have the same idea.

Once you feel at rest you land back in the saloon, but it's not as empty as before, your single friend Robert Sims being the occupant. Now there are three men. There is a tall dark haired man with a mustache and a bowler hat, a darker skinned man beside him against the bar, and a young man that looked all too similar to yourself in complexion and hair color. It was nice to know that you weren’t the only one God would curse that way.

You don't plan on letting yourself be bothered, so you sit down one stool over, beckoning a whiskey you can shoot to chase the adrenaline. You thought you had calmed down, but sitting here it feels as though you’re in the middle of a footrace, with the speed accelerating instead of decreasing.

“Charlie Brooks?” The tall man with the mustache was the first to speak, and directly to you.

These men have guns on their hips, and you hope they are not thinking what the last man thought. You’ve barely calmed down enough from Robert Sims, and your head would hurt having to shoot twice in one day.

“Yes,” your confusion forced through.

“I'd like to talk with you. This man here tells me you're quite the gunslinger,” he gestures to the bartender and you give him a glance, seemingly just doing his job minding his business when he's not running his mouth about you.

“He told ya? Or were you outside?”

The man had a laugh that seemed comforting almost. It was hearty and full of actual joy. He pat you on the back and you had half a mind to turn away from it for a moment, unsure of why he was so friendly or if you appreciated it yet. It’s been a while since you felt the comforting or friendly touch of someone who didn’t later try and shoot you.

“I did in fact see your show of skill, but I wasn't sure if approaching you after a fiasco like that would end up poorly for me.”

And so you smile, because his sense of humor is alike yours, and he looks to be unphased by your violent acts of earlier. You technically didn’t break any laws. Didn’t do anything wrong, even by killing a man. He had threatened to shoot your first, if no one claims they saw the duel, you can write it off as self defense… but this man doesn’t seem too deterred. In fact, he looks all too happy having witnessed your properly provoked quick draw.

“I ain't jumpy, if that's what you're worried about.”

But he had a different point on his mind, so the subject was changed in an instant.

“Look, son. I'm gonna cut to the chase,” he pointed at your pistol, the newest twenty-one mark shining where it peaked out of your holster. “You have a gift for using that. I could use some talent like yours.”

And suddenly you’re confused again. Who is this guy? What does he want?

“I ain't a bounty hunter, sir.”

“I can very well see that. I'm not looking for a temporary gun, kid. I need someone long term.”

And suddenly your interest is piqued. The other men haven't said a word, and yet they seem to be a part of this offer, whatever it is. They are fully invested in your answer, on the edge of their seat - metaphorically, since they’ve been standing - while waiting. It’s strange, as if it’s all been plotted.

“Not sure I quite understand,” You slide the empty glass back after taking the second shot of whiskey, but hold your hand over the top, keeping the bartender from refilling a third.

“If you'd be so kind as to follow me and my friends, I would be happy to explain in further detail,” he steps away from the bar, his hand outstretched to the door. This situation reads danger in every which way, but you don't stray from it. You can’t believe you’re doing it, but you follow along, an open mind.

Nothing to lose.

Your horse was in the stables, an older stallion that was probably bred from war. His coat was full and black, like a starless night sky. Fury, you called him. These other men had put their horses up in the stables as well, but they were quite a bit stranger when it came to interacting with the horse hand. They paid him off so he’d forget any of you had been here.

These men must be outlaws. Dutch, Javier, and Sean… From the time of their introductions, you were watching them with vigilance. You had started to gather that much from the way people ran inside when they passed, but the other behaviors lead you to believe that they weren’t the typical type. They weren’t just bad men looking for trouble and fun. They had reasoning, and they had qualms about who they spoke to about what. They were careful, if that word can even describe an outlaw.

You followed them out of town, and down a road a bit. Agua Fria was a bit drier than other parts of Texas, but it had some nice trees here and there, with ponds and hills to break up the dusty roads. When you came to a clearing, a full on campsite set up, you immediately looked around, taking in who you thought would be the most imminent threats.

“Right over here,” Dutch said, dismounting his horse and leading it to a hitching post. You followed him and the others, and the redhead, Sean, took your horse off your hands.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“This is the camp, ain’t much to look at but we’re all very tight knit, here.”

You followed behind Dutch, he was the ringleader of all of this, as far as you could tell. He gave the orders, and the others followed. You couldn’t say you didn’t see why. He had all the capabilities of a natural born leader. His presence, his personable way with words, and even his ability to convince a random stranger to follow him.

“S’cozy,” you said, nodding to each person you passed. He didn’t bother introducing you to them yet, and you figure it’s because he wants to see how well you fit first. No point in getting anyone attached.

“It is indeed. I’ll have you wait here for just a moment, you can mingle, if you’d like. I’m gonna talk to a few friends of mine,” he told you before ducking into a tent, the flaps falling behind him.

You huffed a breath, turning to the first face you saw and tipping your hat.

“Howdy, Ma’am.”

The young woman looked up to you, a sweet smile on her face. She had lovely dark hair and beautiful blue eyes that reflected a clear sky.

From within the tent, tensions were a bit higher.

“First Mack and Davey, now this… kid? You can’t keep picking up people like they’re stray dogs, Dutch…” Hosea Matthews, Dutch’s right hand man was the one to speak first. He’d just heard quite a story - which to be fair, Dutch liked telling grand stories - that seemed to be impossible.

“I know, I know… but you wouldn’t believe it even if you saw it. Hell, even I don’t.”

“Let me get this straight,” another voice piped up from the corner, standing to make his presence more known. “This eighteen year old kid, who can barely hold up a gun… is the fastest draw you’ve ever seen?”

“I blinked and the man was dead,” Dutch furthered his point, hearing a low whistle from the youngest man in the tent. They began to peak through the open tent flaps, not letting anyone else see them.

“Abigail seems to like him.”

“Abigail likes everyone except John these days,” Hosea joked around, sitting himself back down when he’d taken his look at the kid. He was a spry little thing, but looked like a boy still in adolescence.

“Listen,” Dutch began, his hands raised to calm the air. “This kid could mean the difference between life or death in some of our upcoming jobs.”

The younger man looked to Dutch, then to Hosea, and then to the ground, shaking his head. Dutch was like his father, but these fantasies he conjured up sometimes to justify his antics could be wild.

“He can shoot faster than me?”

“My boy, I’d let you challenge him yourself if I wasn’t sure he’d drop you where you stand.” Dutch clapped a hand on his shoulder before turning to Hosea.

“If he’s really as fast as you say, we should keep him. He can’t be of any harm otherwise.”

A moment lasted longer than you thought it would, but you’d garnered the attention of not one but two ladies whilst sitting in the shade of the trees.

Abigail, the heavily pregnant young woman you’d started conversation with, and Tilly, a young lady who seemed to be swooning with every word you said. You didn’t have the heart to say nothing to her, you weren’t even sure you’d be sticking around.

“And then what happened?” Tilly asked, scooting closer.

“Well, I guess I shot him. S’how most these stories end, sadly.”

You suddenly felt a bit sorrowful. You’d shot a man down only today and here you’d moved on so quickly. The time of self recovery was getting shorter and shorter. Maybe you ought to stop shooting folks, then you could make some ground on a normal life… but that’s never really been your way, not since you left home. If you stay with this gang, though… the shooting gets worse, and you know that for a fact.

“But you’re a good shot, probably why Dutch wants ya,” Abigail lifted a brow, nodding towards the tent. You were sure he’d liked you well enough, and you liked this whole tight knit unit well enough. If you shoot enough folk, you reckon you get to stay.

“Speak of the Devil,” Tilly smiled behind where you were standing, and you took it as a queue to turn around yourself.

“We sure as hell want him,” Dutch said, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “I have some people I want you to meet. This is my partner, Hosea Matthews.”

And the man - Hosea - smiled and waved. He seemed nice, and gentlemanly. He had a kind face, like that of a dedicated father.

“And this,” Dutch stood aside, revealing another man stood behind him… “Is Arthur Morgan. My enforcer, and right hand man.”

You froze when he lifted his head, hat tipping upward enough to see his face. Your breath hitched in your throat as you scanned his features, falling to the stretch of his body and then roaming back up to the brim of his hat. You weren’t sure if it was from fear or from awe, but the tenseness in your body was thick and unwavering. He had all the toughness of a rugged outlaw, but his eyes were calm, serene. Like pools of oasis water against a dry and scorching desert. A beautiful man by anyone’s standard, but completely unaware of himself.

Standing before you now, he nodded in greeting, and you had to snap out of the haze that even now surrounded you, clouding your mind and blocking out anything that wasn’t him.

Sweet Lord above, help me look away… and finally you did, begrudgingly.

“He’s gonna show you around, give you the rundown of how things are here,”

“Sounds-” you coughed once, trying to play off your strange behavior as you cleared your throat. “Sounds just fine.”

“Alright then,” Dutch leaned in towards Arthur at the last second, nudging his arm as he did. “Don’t test ‘im before he’s had a chance to settle. I don’t feel like losing two fast guns on the same day.”

You heard the tail end of the conversation, but pretended it passed over your head. You were standing quietly, still halfway in awe of the man. Sandy strands of hair that fell over the corners of his eyes, his strong jawline stubbled in the same lovely color. He let his hat fall over his eyes again, but you were certain if you’d been able to see them again, you’d not be able to look away.

He fell into a slow walk beside you, beginning to lead through the campsite.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Kid, as if you were actually one…

“Charlie Brooks, sir,” You replied, holding a firm hand out. This was reflectant of a similar introduction you’d made earlier this morning. Didn’t matter what happened though, you wouldn’t be shooting the man before you. Not even if he begged.

“Dutch says they call you Red.”

You dropped your pleasant expression, huffing a fast breath to match the new look on your face.

“Texas Red… But I ain’t even from Texas, so,” and it was true. You’d only earned that nickname here.

“The red part still fits,” Arthur was teasing you. Perhaps this is what Dutch meant by ‘don’t test him.’

You sighed, realizing that you’d found the downside to this ruggedly handsome stranger… “My name is Charlie Brooks.”

Arthur laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t get upset, boy… I’m only poking fun.”

You drop the tension in your shoulders… you didn’t like being teased, but perhaps it wasn’t as bad coming from this Arthur character.

“Men learn fast not to poke fun at me,” you told him, partially as a threat, but followed it up quickly. “I s’pose I’d better compose myself around here.”

Arthur laughed, genuinely. He seemed to find you amusing, or maybe he found you to be annoying. Either way, you earned these hearty chuckles to enjoy for yourself.

“You may be quick with a gun, kid… but just know, that pistol on your hip couldn’t save you from me,” his voice was in a lower register when he said it, and you didn’t know whether you should be intimidated or completely and totally enamored. He wasn’t completely serious, unwilling to scare you away for Dutch’s sake. But he did want you to understand where you stood with him, and you did.

You only nodded, and kept walking.

He had shown you the laundry areas, where the girls nearly strip the boys down just so they have something to do in the daytime. He showed you to Mr. Pearson’s ‘kitchen,’ if you could even call it that. He showed you where the weapons are kept, but not where to refill them. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to yet. You take in every word he says, committing it to memory, not only so you can fit in around here, but also so you can recall the sound of his voice on a whim.

He shows you down to the sloped rim of the pond, where usually one at the time, members of the camp come to bathe in their spare hours. You wondered how far down the way you would have to bathe, just on the off chance someone might come and see.

“Bill takes care of the horses, mostly. I’m sure he’ll add yours to his rounds if you ask ‘im,” he mentioned, walking back past the horse rails and troughs. Your horse was standing happily in the sunshine, enjoying the blue skies and grass compared to the dusty and dark stables you always put him up in.

“I’ll remember that,” you say, as if you’ll forget anything else. So far you remember everyone’s name - everyone you passed by, at least - and every individual location of the camp.

“Miss Grimshaw and the others should have a tent for ya by sundown… if not, just bunk with me until tomorrow,” he offered, hands sat steadily on his gun belt. Your face flushed, but lucky for you, he was much taller and couldn’t see under the brim of your hat when you tilted your head.

“That’s kind of you,” you nodded in reply, saying nothing more.

He began to back away, needing to attend to something else, but he stopped short.

“You’re alright, kid,” he complimented, as best as he could give one, anyway. “See you ‘round.”

And you stood still, watching him walk away with your hands at your sides.

“I’m in deep shit…”

Early to bed, early to rise, yatta yatta yatta. You still hate mornings. The camp wakes at the crack of dawn, and you stir just as some folks are leaving, mounting their horses and setting off for the adventures ahead. You’re fairly certain it’s Dutch, Bill, and that other man Hosea, the one with the kind face.

You did end up taking Arthur up on his offer to bunk for the night. He was kind enough to set up one of the spare cots for you, unwilling to argue about sleeping on the ground and all that. He pegged you for the arguing type and wanted to leave well enough alone.

He was gone from the tent-like structure by the wagon, away somewhere probably having a cup of that coffee you smelled. They must have had a pot brewing somewhere, because it was the only thing willing you to leave the shaded area you were resting. The sun wasn’t high in the sky, but you could already feel the effects of the heat swirling in around the camp.

It was strange, going about your morning routine with others present. Washing up your face in one of the water barrels, raking your hair back over your head with your wet fingers to let the hair sit flat before you crushed it down with your hat. You’d been nearly presentable, good enough for the morning, anyway.

It wasn’t long before you were sitting close to the congregated group, a cup of coffee in your own hands. It wasn’t the best you’ve had, but hey, it helped you keep your eyes open. You didn’t dare interject into the conversation, unknowing of it they would accept it. Not that it mattered, because you liked hearing them interact as is. They were a rowdy bunch, but they had some wit here and there.

After a while, you zoned out during talks of events you hadn’t been to, people you hadn’t met, things you didn’t get to see before coming here. You watched a bunny that leapt across the camp, running into the wilderness ahead only to disappear behind some rocks. You realized by then you were at the end of your coffee cup. You stood up to take it back to Mr. Pearson, but were interrupted by one of the others in the circle. You remember his name is John.

“How about you, Brooks?” He asked, catching you off guard, for you had absolutely no clue what the conversation was.

“How about me?” you replied, a furrowed brow as you stopped in your tracks and waited.

“Are you really as fast as people say?”

You scoffed, a slanted eyebrow to the man when he seemed in disbelief. You don’t blame him, he’s never seen you shoot.

“Faster.”

“Boy’s got some pride on ‘im. Shouldn’t be too hard to break it down,” the only other redhead in the gang reared his accented voice. “Ay, Arthur?”

You turned to the man, stoic and quiet, his hat covering most of his face so you couldn’t see what his features were saying.

“If Dutch says he’s faster than me, I won’t push my luck.”

Except for he wanted to. He really wanted to, and you were curious to see his skill as well. Maybe not against you, because hell… you ain’t never lost before but there’s a first time for everything, and you like it here too much to throw it away.

“I don’t buy it. That’s just Dutch telling tales like he does,” John stood up and clapped his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Never in my life have I seen someone with Arthur’s shootin’ speed.”

“Never?”

You knew it was probably not in your best interest to boast your ability on the first day, but shit, it was the only thing you had going for you. You had to make way in this group somehow.

“Never.”

“Alright,” you nodded. “I propose a game. Two bullets, our names carved in. We set up a can to shoot and whoever’s bullet gets trapped inside s’the one that got there first.”

Arthur lifted his head, and for the first time this morning, you saw his eyes. Your face instantly got red, but no one seemed to notice, too caught up in the heat of the exchange.

He nodded once, a slow and decisive nod. He was thinking it over.

“Sure,” he said, his thick accent coating the word. “Guess I’ll play along.”

And the group dispersed, grabbing everything needed. Arthur took it upon himself to carve the bullets, and strangely, you trusted him not to tamper with yours. He didn’t seem like the type to play dirty. He didn’t look like he needed to be.

Sean set up the can on a log, a crudely drawn X out of charcoal on the rusty front of it. There were words being exchanged as you both stepped up, opening your guns to drop out all the bullets before Arthur handed yours over. His etching wasn’t too bad, but you dropped the smug look on your face when you saw what he actually put on it.

“I told you my name’s not Red,” you huffed, taking it anyway and dropping it into the cylinder, giving it a quick spin to line it up.

“Doesn’t matter, no one’s gonna see it but you,” he teased, loading his own gun and standing beside you, about five yards away from the can.

“Need me to count?” you joked back, hopefully not in vain. You wouldn’t be pridefully wounded if you lost in all honesty. You’d been waiting for your talent to fail you for a long time now, and without any stakes on the table, you suppose today could be the day.

Both guns now strapped to your hips, you waited in silence, and so did everyone else. It wasn’t something that needed cheering on, but it was definitely something to be on the edge of your seat for.

You saw Arthur drop his hand out of the corner of your eye, so you cleared leather as fast as you could in hopes that your shot would land, and it did… or at least, you thought it did. The can went flying and both guns had been fired.

“Who won?” John yelled over in question to Sean, who went to kneel down by the log, picking up the can.

“Uh…” He held up the can, showing two bullet holes, before dumping out both bullets from the inside. “Both of em’.”

And for the first time in any shoot out you’d ever participated in, you were too stunned to speak. You never doubted this man’s abilities as a talented gunslinger, but given you’d never seen him shoot, and knowing your own track record… it was surprising to see.

“Well,” Arthur turned to you, as the others continued to chat amongst themselves, not sure how to split the bets they had made beforehand. “You beat me.”

He offered his hand to you to shake, but you shook you head, you didn’t understand.

“It’s a draw, both bullets hit,” you tried to reason, but he was set on his own explanation.

“You hit first. Mine went through the top as it was fallin’.”

You shook his hand anyway, but froze in place when he spoke. Could he really tell? Was he that detail oriented when shooting? You’d never known much of your craft, just that you could do it, just that you’d practiced a bunch and got pretty damn good… but you didn’t even think to make that observation.

“That don’t count,” you tried to absolve him, still feeling as though from what he said alone, he was the better gunslinger. “I’ve never said this before… but I would not duel you, Arthur Morgan. You’ve scared me somethin’ awful with that gun.”

He had a chuckle in his exhale as he let it fall from his lips, a nod and the drop of your handshake. “Guess we both met our match today.”

“I’d say so.”

The day was slow. When Dutch and Hosea and Bill returned in the evening, there was some wind of a job coming up, the first one you’d inevitably be invited to. It was discussed quickly and not in great detail, and the heads of the camp still had some ideas churning about it. Hopefully you’d be able to keep up in the heat of the moment, as you’d never done anything like this before. Never robbed folk - alive folk, at least - or taken something as a means to survive. You’ve lived off of bets and fools you shot dead. It was a lousy way to live but it had never gotten as low as stealing or cold blooded murder.

The thoughts turned over in your head and for some reason you couldn’t seem to lose them, but at the end of the night they were momentarily stalled when Arthur helped you carry the already assembled cot into your new tent. It was simple, just a double sided narrow-pitched tent, no room inside for anything but a cot and a single human. You could just kick your boots under the cot when you slept, that would be the extent of your storage space. At least it had the privacy of the two flaps at the front, current parted like curtains to allow entrance.

Once everything was set up, Arthur took a step back, but didn’t leave yet.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll owe you one,” you promised, trying to be as casual about his genuine help and concern over you the past day. No one had ever shown this much attentiveness to you, and though you know he’s only acting on orders from Dutch, it feels like he really cares. He’s kind and he’s gentle, despite his rugged appearance and reputation.

“S’no problem,” he scratched the back of his neck, looking from side to side to make sure everyone had either retired for the night or was too occupied to listen in. “I wanted to tell you something.”

You furrowed your brow, crossing your arms.

He sighed and met your eyes again, debating his words in his head. Out with it already…

“I know you’re a lady,” he tried to speak evenly, but the tail end of his sentence got caught.

Your eyes widened before he even finished his sentence. You looked around as well before shoving him inside your tent, too small for one person let alone two.

“You don’t know anything,” you assured him, suddenly self conscious of how he perceived you. What was it? Your voice? The way you walked? Your body? Was anybody else going to notice?

“I wasn’t pryin’, I swear,” he said, reaching into his satchel, still on his hip after a long day. “Bill left early this morning, I took care of your horse. These fell out of your saddlebag…”

He held out to you the most damning piece of evidence there could possibly be. Long cotton wraps and a sanitary apron, the brand new woolen padding you’d gotten was pressed inside and ready.

Shit. You didn’t even think twice about hiding the contents of your saddle bag when arriving here. No one had ever been kind enough to care for your horse, so you didn’t worry.

You looked into his eyes, firm but not judgemental. When you looked at him just a second too long they turned to a silent fear. Like he was a child getting caught stealing sweets.

“Don’t tell Dutch,” you begged, and he huffed a sigh, unsure of what to do.

“I can’t lie to im’,” he shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. You were new, this wasn’t just about loyalty, it was about hierarchy. You, the new soldier, could not dare ask the second in command to deprive his leader of the truth.

“I’m not asking you to. Just don’t tell him, yet. I’ll think of a way to let him know…”

You knew it was a stretch, but he was wonderful with the women of the camp, a man of high honor among the ladies. Surely he would help you, just until you were ready to share your secret.

“We’re different, y’know? If you’ve been hidin’ all this time out there, that’s one thing… but you ain’t gotta do that here.”

“I don’t want them to look at me differently…” you trailed, silently pleading with him.

He nodded, the look in your eyes nearly breaking his heart. There’s a story within you, but he’ll wait to hear it. For now, he just complies, hearing your voice at it’s softest point, the feminine silkiness flowing through. You only ever spoke to yourself like that anymore.

“Okay,” he placed a warm hand on your shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze, before maneuvering out of your small tent. “Just until you tell ‘im yourself, ya hear?”

You nodded in understanding, a thankful and sweet smile dining your features. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“G’night, Red…”

TAGS: @sheepdogchick3

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safarigirlsp · 5 months

Text

Forbidden

Hogwarts Professor Jacques Le Gris x Reader

Word Count: 8.4k

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Aggressive and Dominant Jacques. Chasing. Implied Age Gap. Student/Professor Dynamics. Professor/Professor Dynamics. Everyone is over 18, as All Readers Must Be.

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: Based on a special request for a sexy Christmas party with Professor Le Gris from my beautiful friend @kyloremus ! She does the absolute best edits around and keeps me absolutely rabid! Edits by her, of course!

More Hogwarts Professor Jacques fics for anyone hooked:

Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fire

Dashing Through The Snow

I Put A Spell On You

A Duel to Remember

Fog hung heavily in the winter air, snaking through the cobblestone streets and the serpentine twists of Diagon Alley. Fat snowflakes danced lazily down from swirling carbon clouds and the cobblestones were icy and slick beneath the fresh powder snow. Shop windows glowed with a kaleidoscope of lights and buttered rum and spiced wine could be scented on the frosted air. Christmas Eve was a glittering evening, the kind filled with beauty and wonder and promise. A gust of wind blew down the alley toward you, twirling a flurry of snow up from the ground. You pulled your coat tighter around your body and trotted toward your destination a few businesses ahead.

Ducking inside the welcoming doors of the Leaky Cauldron, you were instantly enveloped by warmth and the smell of drinks and fried food. The bar was more crowded than you had ever seen it, packed to standing room only with patrons out for Christmas Eve. Festive music, a mix of cherry and clubby, almost made you want to dance as you weaved your way through the crowd. The edges of the bar were obscured in that murky shadow that liked to linger on the sidelines, like wallflower shades watching from the wings. You could see figures of people sitting in the shadows, but couldn’t make out any discerning features. You could almost feel a pair of eyes on you, watching you from the shadows.

A wave from the crowded bar caught your eye. A group of four people pressed together at the bar, two couples, waiting for you. Your friends. It wasn’t uncommon for you to be the third wheel in your group, still single after your closest friends had paired up with men during their school years and shortly thereafter. Zelda was now married and Dina, more protective of her freedom, was with a man she had been dating for years. It was easy to see that the man who was supposed to meet you tonight was absent. You expected to hear whatever excuse he had for that from your friends. It was no bother, really. Blind dates were always something of a disaster.

Zelda waved at you more animatedly, fitting for your bubbly blonde friend. Beside her Dina, a stately brunette, must have told their men to clear some space for you because both men moved to the edge of the bar under the guise of having some conversation amongst themselves.

“I can’t believe Gaston stood you up!” Zelda huffed indignantly when you joined them, referring to your absentee blind date. “What an asshole! I wouldn’t have thought it of him.”

“It’s best for the assholes to weed themselves out early,” you said nonchalantly. It was hardly an upset. You were beginning a new job soon anyway, one that would have you sequestered away from the world for most of the year. Starting a relationship now was impractical.

“I agree,” Dina added. “At least you hadn’t invested any energy in him or wasted any time. Besides, now if we see him out and about, we have every reason to be as nasty as possible to him, which is always fun.”

“To hell with him,” you said and took the beer the bartender slid in front of you. The three of you raised your glasses and clinked them together to a round of, “Merry Christmas!”

“There’s more to celebrate on top of the holidays,” Dina said with a coy smile.

“Yes!” Zelda added excitedly. She clinked your glass again with too much vigor, spilling beer over both your hands. “Cheers to the newest professor at Hogwarts!”

Elation and slight embarrassment rushed through you at her toast. You were proud and excited, and still a bit in disbelief that you had secured such a coveted position. After all, it hadn’t been too long ago that you had graduated from Hogwarts yourself.

“To the new History of Magic Professor!” Dina added and took a drink. “Leave it to you to make that class interesting at last. I must admit I’m shocked the Headmaster liked your pitch.”

“Not nearly as shocked as I am.” A wide grin spread across your lips. “I figured that since I had no real chance of getting the job anyway, I might as well shoot my shot and lay all my aspirations out on the table. In my wildest dreams, I never suspected the Headmaster would actually want a course that teaches both the history of magic and the added practice of the arcane spells we lost to history.”

“Another toast! To no lost limbs or dismembered students in your first term!” Zelda teased.

“At least, to no one I like,” you laughed.

“Just think,” Dina mused with a rosy blush on her cheeks. “Now you’ll be on equal standing with our old professors.”

“Ooo, yes!” Zelda said conspiratorially. “Maybe it’s best you’re going into this job single.”

Nearly every teenage girl at Hogwarts had a crush on one professor or other. You and your friends were no exception. It didn’t help matters that several professors were men in their prime, in their thirties and forties, at the peak of their attractiveness. Zelda had charmed her journal to explode with pink hearts whenever she wrote a certain name in its pages. The hearts smelled like roses and would flutter around her like butterflies. Of course, the name belonged to their charms professor, a dashing man with chic mahogany hair, masculine chest hair that peeked through the buttons in his shirt, and eyes as richly green as the forest after a rain. Dina had been so enamored of their quidditch coach, a tall athlete with golden hair, sky blue eyes and a movie-star smile, that she engineered a few nasty falls from her broom just so he would rush to rescue her and carry her to the hospital wing in his burly arms.

It was undeniable that both professors were attractive, but your interest had never been piqued by nerds or jocks. Bad boys appealed to you, or rather, tall, dark and handsome men. Byronic men with a hint of darkness who would be right at home in a gothic Victorian novel. The sort of man who exuded danger and vigor, the kind who had a predatory presence and a devil-may-care glint in his eye. The kind of man who, when he looked at you, he looked ravenously, leaving you wondering if he was going to steal you away to a dark tower or ravage you against the wall at the ball where you could be discovered at any moment.

As schoolgirls, the three of you spent countless hours in the library and common room discussing your favorite literary men, debating which men were the best. Fortunately, there was never any competition between you for your favorites. Zelda could have gallant Mr. Darcy and Gatsby and Atticus Finch. Dina could claim lively Cpt. Wentworth and Beowulf and Jean Valjean. So long as they left roguish Mr. Rochester and Heathcliff and Edmund Dantes for you. The dark antiheroes and villains who you weren’t really supposed to love. The forbidden kind of man. Prince Charming was so boring compared to the Beast, and what prissy prince could eat you better than the Big Bad Wolf? Naturally, the literary epitome of this was Count Dracula, but until he crossed oceans of time to find you, you were left with a sadly more mortal selection of men.

And if there was ever a man who epitomized tall, dark, handsome, and Byronic, it was Jacques Le Gris. When he stalked down the halls, he looked as if he were roaming his family’s century’s old gothic mansion. When he strolled across the grounds in the evening, it was easy to picture him roaming a Scottish moor. Adding to this imagery was the fact that he often undid the top two buttons of his shirt when taking his evening stroll, revealing the thick cleft of his chest. You thought you were suffering a heart attack one morning when you saw him running shirtless near the lake through the mist before dawn.

In coffee and in men, your tastes ran dark, robust, and strong. It was the Head of Slytherin House and Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor who had captivated you from the moment you first saw him. The year he came to Hogwarts as the new defense against the dark arts professor was your last year in school, and despite the number of candles on your birthday cake, there was nothing childish about you at seventeen. The memory of that first day was still as vivid in your mind as the present moment you were living. Professor Le Gris all but storming down the hall in his long purposeful stride, unruly ebony hair dusting his impossibly broad shoulders, his cape swirling in his wake as though it were a living thing. Heat flooded you at the mere memory. Some girls had their sexual awakening in some bumbling experiment with a pimpled teenage boy under the quidditch stands. For you, it was imagining Professor Le Gris’s huge hands running over your body, gripping you so hard in his passion that the bruises he left lingered for days; his long hair falling around his face in sweaty tendrils as he looked down at you, caged beneath his enormous body, running your hands over his broad back and feeling his muscles flex with every thrust into you.

Memories of your darkest fantasies flooded your mind with an almost dizzying intensity. It was unsettling, you had never experienced such vivid, intrusive visions. The feeling of Professor Le Gris’s hands on your body felt as real as the wooden bar you leaned against. The sound of him growling your name in your ear rang deeper than the cheery music in the bar. The rich masculine scent of him overrode the smells around you, and the taste of beer on your tongue was overshadowed by the taste of his skin and arousal.

“Hello?” Zelda snapped her fingers in front of your nose playfully. “Were you listening at all? I asked if you still have a crush on our old defense against the dark arts professor?”

“Oh, Professor Le Gris?” you feigned ignorance, hoping your friends didn’t see the way your pupils had dilated at the thought of him. “I haven’t thought of him in years.”

“Perhaps you can seduce Professor Le Gris and put in a good word for me with Professor Wren and we can have an awkward double date together,” Zelda laughed. “Best we not tell my husband.”

You rolled your eyes and took a drink in an attempt to open your throat back up, since it had closed at the thought of him.

“You’re not a student anymore,” Dina said suggestively. “And rumor has it Professor Le Gris is newly single again after some tawdry fling with one of those jezebels teaching at Beauxbatons. You’re rather lucky, you know? I was devastated to hear that Coach Baldr had married.” She nodded toward her boyfriend at the end of the bar and snickered. “Poor Albert has no clue how precarious a position he has. I would leave him in a moment if that Norse god wanted to take me to Valhalla.”

“Speaking of rumors,” Zelda said, lowering her voice to the quiet tone they once used to gossip in the library. “I still wonder if Le Gris is a werewolf. He has the look, doesn’t he? Those amber eyes, all that bushy hair, and those teeth. The way he looks at you a little too intensely. Can’t you just picture him howling at the moon?”

“My money is still on him being an animagi,” Dina argued. “I agree that he would be a wolf though, like his patronus is. A big black wolf with yellow eyes.”

Unbidden, the image came to you of a big black wolf chasing after you as you ran through a misty forest. Your heart pounded in your ears, almost as loud as the wolf thundering behind you. You inhaled sharply as the wolf lunged at you, sinking his teeth into your neck, pleasurably painful. Your wide eyes shot up as if the bite was real. And met a pair of amber eyes across the room, watching you from a shadowy corner of the bar.

Shock froze you in place, made your muscles seize as though it was Medusa’s eyes you had looked into and been instantly turned to stone. It was lucky actually. Otherwise, you would surely have dropped your beer and made a much more outward spectacle. As it was, you managed to keep a modicum of decorum and show no obvious displays of surprise. Or arousal, even as old fantasies again played in your mind like a song on repeat. You met those eyes steadily, eyes you hadn’t seen in person since your last day as a student at Hogwarts.

Professor Jacques Le Gris watched you intently. The way a wolf watches a fox frolicking unaware. Even the way he leaned casually back in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other, was lupine. A predator at ease, waiting for the opportune moment to seize his prey. Though he reclined in his chair, he still dwarfed the small round table for two. He was dressed all in black, the way you had most often seen him. Only tonight, his jacket was off and his sleeves rolled up to expose muscular forearms. His cravat was undone, the tails hanging down on either side of his shirt, framing the vee of chest that was exposed by the top two open buttons. He looked every bit the swarthy rake, a bodice-ripping libertine straight out of a Victorian penny dreadful. A half-smoked cigar was pinched between his index and middle fingers, a tendril of smoke spiraling from its glowing end toward the ceiling as he casually circled the rim of his glass with his forefinger. His eyes had a fiery glint to match the cigar.

Instantly, you wondered how long he had been there. How long he had been watching you. If he had heard you. Judging by the level of his drink and the length of his cigar, he had been there some time before you arrived. His plush lips twitched in a lopsided smirk as he raised his glass to them, watching you over the rim as he took a drink. Another image intruded into your thoughts. Professor Le Gris striding down one of the many long, dark hallways of Hogwarts. He was behind you, stalking you. And of course he caught you. Grabbing your shoulder, he roughly turned you around and pushed you back against the nearest wall. He crowded against you, towered over you. His hips pinned you to the wall and his arms caged you in, his huge hands planted on either side of your head. He leaned in, his lips hot on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. Every part of him was huge and hard; his thick chest under your hands, his iron fingers gripping you, his massive cock digging into you through his pants. The thought was too real, utterly taking command of your mind, and your body responded. A deep throb rocked through your core along with a melting heat, dripping through you slowly and deliberately like candle wax.

“I need some air,” you told your friends. They looked at you concerned, so you added convincingly. “It’s nothing. Really. It’s just stuffy in here with the Christmas party crowd. You know how I hate being packed in with the unwashed masses.”

You pushed through the crowded bar and all but bolted outside, hoping the cool winter air would have a chilling effect on your rampant imagination. Outside, you walked briskly, feeling the icy snowflakes land on your cheeks. And the way they steamed on your hotly flushed skin. Thankfully, there were few people outside on Christmas Eve. They were all either home with family or inside at a party like the Leaky Cauldron. Diagon Alley itself was nearly vacant, the shops darkened. Darker still and more vacant was Knockturn Alley. You were counting on it as you rounded the corner into the literal darker alley and trotted past a few darkened storefronts.

In the privacy of a shadowy doorway you leaned against the locked door and let out a heavy breath. You sounded lewd even to your own ears. The overhand of the doorway blocked the snow from falling on you and your skin felt instantly hot again. Another image flooded your mind, and you began to wonder if this was what madness felt like. This vision was different than any you had ever had before, but just as vivid. In your mind’s eye you saw Professor Le Gris standing shirtless in a gothic bedchamber with tall arched windows and a grand king bed, perhaps his chambers at Hogwarts or his home, wherever that was. In that omniscient way you know the thoughts of every character in dreams, you knew the thoughts that plagued him. How he had been consumed by the desire for a particular woman for years. A forbidden woman. Jacques would never seduce a student, fuck a student. No matter how beautiful and enticing, and blatantly responsible for his wolfish hunger you were. In nearly forty years, he had never been so captivated. So enchanted. So cursed.

Clear as a florid memory, you saw Jacques lean against the wall, pressing his head to the cool stone. Here, in private, he could imagine all the things he could never do in reality. Like fuck his favorite student. He knew how wrong it was even to think such disturbing things. The thought made him grin to himself, an indulgent, devilishly handsome grin. He pictured your luscious body. He wondered how sweet you smell. He imagined how delicious you taste. When he focused hard enough, he could feel the tight hot squeeze of you around his cock when he fucked his fist. Stroking his cock, he imagined thrusting into you, over and over and over, feeling you strain and flutter when he stretched you around him. The way he groaned was absolutely filthy when he came, imagining he was filling you until it was leaking out of you. He all but banged his forehead on the stone wall when he finally rested his head there, his hair falling around his face in a disheveled ebony curtain, his bare chest heaving and glistening with sweat.

There in the snowy alley, you watched it all happen in your mind’s eye as though it were your own memory. No, less like a memory and more like watching it happen through a window, like a voyeur. Your friend’s statement flashed in your mind. An exciting, enticing thought.

I am no longer a student.

As you felt a slick heat ruining your panties, you sobered for a moment. Just long enough for one lucid thought that was both thrilling and frightening. You remembered another rumor about Professor Le Gris. He was rumored to be a master of occlumency and legilimency. A legilimens could access another’s mind, see their thoughts and feel their feelings. No one could keep any secrets from a legilimens. Not only could a man with such a skill read your thoughts, he could influence them. He could plant any thought, any feeling, any image into your head as though it was your own. He could make you fantasize about him and remember your most forbidden desires. He could make you see what he felt for you, what he always had. He could make all those thoughts and feelings boil to the surface of your mind, make your desires simmer. He could even make you drip for him, almost on command.

“I’ve known your secrets for some time,” his voice sounded from the alley corner. Real this time, deep and hoarse with desire of his own. Jacques Le Gris leaned against the brick wall of the shop whose doorway you had hidden in. “The way you wanted me to corner you in the halls, pin you there against the wall where you couldn’t escape. Take whatever I want.” His pose was casual, his shoulder leaning against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankle. But his eyes were the opposite, watching you with a burning intensity that all but crackled through the air. “Now, you know my secret, too.” His voice was a growl when he added, “I’ve always wanted you. To ruin you for any other man. To make you mine and keep you all to myself.” He pushed away from the wall and stalked toward you in that predatory way of his. “And now, there’s not a damn thing stopping me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, a feeble attempt to cling to some dignity. A thought flitted through your mind – he was prostrating himself before you. In his own way, he was making himself just as exposed as you were. He was pursuing you, taking the greater risk.

“Don’t you, now?” he teased in a gravelly voice. “I’ll never believe you didn’t know how you tormented me. Seeing you in those little skirts, thinking about those fumble-fucking schoolboys laying their clumsy hands on you. Knowing how much more a man could give you. What I could give you.”

“And what exactly is it that you could give me?” You tilted your chin up defiantly to add, “Professor?”

“Knowledge.” He walked to you until he stood so close that you could feel the heat radiating off him, grinning wickedly at the way his proximity affected you. “Regardless of what else I may be, I’m a very good professor. There is a loophole in the Hogwarts Code of Conduct that you might find interesting. Relevant.” He placed his hand on the door next to your head and leaned in close, his body only inches from yours. “Would you like to learn it?”

“If it saves me the time reading through the Code myself,” you tried to sound nonchalant, certain you failed. In fact, you did need to read those exact Codes before assuming your role as a new professor, but you had until the start of term to do it.

“Still a procrastinator through and through,” Jacques tisked you and leaned closer, his entire forearm now resting on the door next to your head, his face very close to yours. “You should know that relations between fellow Hogwarts professors are forbidden. A fireable offense.” He dropped his head and brought his prominent nose near your neck, and you thought he was going to kiss you there. Instead, he inhaled deeply through his nose, savoring the scent of you like some exotic perfume he had long been denied. “But forbidden only when the relationship postdates the beginning of a professor’s tenure.”

His words seemed to echo in your thoughts, needing a moment to take root. Looking up, you met his eyes. Eyes that glimmered like gold in the snowy night. “Relationships that predate the beginning of a professor’s term are allowed?”

“Clever girl,” Jacques said, his lips still near your neck, his breath steaming hot on your skin. “You always were a quick study. The very best and brightest. Did you think I only wanted you for that luscious ass?”

You tried to detect a note of sarcasm, but found none. You took a steadying breath and put a tentative hand on his chest. It was hard as granite beneath your hand. Jacques placed his free hand over yours, trapping your hand over his heart. You fixed your eyes on his, watching for a flicker of doubt when you asked, “What is it you want with me, Professor? Exactly?”

“Everything,” he growled the single word. It was more than an affirmation. His eyes told you it was a promise.

“We shouldn’t waste a moment, then,” you told him confidently. Fortune favors the bold, as they say.

“You read my mind.” He smiled genuinely, one of the very few you had ever seen on his lips. His toothy smile could have looked gawky, but right now, he was the most handsome man you had ever seen. His chest rose and fell under your hand as he leaned in to kiss you. Before his lips consummated your first kiss, he whispered, “My name is Jacques, not ‘professor.’”

“I’ll save professor for when I want you to teach me something, then,” you made your voice as seductive as possible now that you had decided on your course of action. It was easy now that you were confident he felt the same, that he desired you as fiercely as you did him. You eased your hips toward him, arching your back away from the door. Your lips were already parted when they met his, eager to finally taste the man you had dreamed of for so long.

The taste of him when he kissed you, the feel of him when his powerful body pressed against you, the strength of his hands on you was so much better than anything your imagination had ever conjured. It must have been the same for Jacques because he groaned into your mouth, his free hand dropped to your waist and he pulled you against him almost brutally. You wanted to feel every inch of your body pressed to his. Lifting a leg, you hooked it over his hip and wrapped your arms around his neck, using your entire body to pull him closer. His hand caressed your thigh from your knee up to your ass then squeezed you there. It would be so easy for him to hoist you up off the ground, for you to wrap your legs around him, for him to fuck you right now against the lonely door in Knockturn Alley, while snowflakes gathered in your hair.

“I know what you want. I’ve seen your fantasies,” Jacques purred, pulling back from your lips just enough to speak. “I know them so well they might as well be my own. Tell me which is your favorite and it will no longer be just a fantasy. I’ll enact it for you right now, down to every last detail.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing already?” you teased. You were on fire from his touch and you ached with desire. Thinking of him as you had been was its own kind of foreplay, and now it was torment to prolong it. He was hard and his cock rubbed against you through both your clothing, teasing you erotically in the perfect place. But then, he knew right where your perfect places were. And dear god, he was huge.

“This is too tame for your fantasies,” he laughed darkly. “Tell me your favorite. Although, I think I know it.” He kissed your neck, teasing your skin with his teeth and a light nip. “You want to run from me, pretend you have a chance of escaping. You want me to chase you down, catch you, rip your clothes off and fuck you like an animal. Or is that what the girls call being ravaged these days?” He pressed more weight against you, almost crushing you against the door, but the feel of his body and his weight was wonderful. “You’d pound your fists on my chest and tell me to stop, but you wouldn’t mean a word of it. You want me to take from you what has always been forbidden to give me.” Pulling back just enough to let you breathe, he brought his hand to your throat. His hand easily circled your neck, making you feel small and vulnerable, trapped in his grip. He squeezed. Gently, just enough for you to feel how easy it would be for him to truly take whatever he wanted. His voice sounded dangerous when he told you, “I can do that.”

“Yes,” you said at once without even taking a moment to think. This is what you had wanted for as long as you could remember wanting anything from a man. And Jacques Le Gris was offering to give it to. “I want our first night together to be like a fantasy. But I have a counteroffer.” He kissed you before you could make it, leaving you breathless when he pulled away. You took a breath and finished, “I say we play out my favorite fantasy first and your favorite second.” You cocked an eyebrow at him in a challenge. “If you’re game.”

“Darling, I was born game and I intend to go out that way.” When Jacques grinned at you now, sideways and wicked, the wolf practically jumped out of him. You knew he was telling the truth, that he shared your desires in full. That he wanted you just as desperately as you did him, and that he possibly had for just as long.

“Wait, I can’t just run off.” You stalled him with your hand on his chest. “What will my friends think?”

“What do you want them to think?” He slyly tapped a finger to his temple, his message clear.

“It’s enough for them to think I went home with a handsome man and not to worry about me,” you said coyly. “And it had better be true.”

“So long as you think me handsome, it’s true.” His grin widened and he pushed your arms back up around his neck. “Hold on tight.”

You knew what he was about to do before he did it and asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“The perfect place to give you what you want,” he laughed, a throaty rumbling laugh, and held you so tight you couldn’t have escaped his arms if you wanted.

Suddenly, the world blurred around you and spun as if you stood at the center of a cyclone. Your stomach swooped with the unnerving feeling of falling and a boom like thunder rang in your ears. When the world stopped spinning, your head took another moment to catch up. You swayed against Jacques in what could rightly be described as a swoon. For a few seconds, his hard body against you felt like the only solid thing in the world. He held you as you regained your balance and composure, his arms comforting and secure.

You were no longer in Knockturn Alley, or the city at all. You were surrounded by thick pine trees with snow drifting lazily down around you and leaving a light blanket on the ground. The light was diffused softly from the light of the bright full moon filtered through a thin layer of cloud. It looked like a dream and you wondered if Jacques could possibly be such a powerful legilimens that he could be crafting this world all inside your head. But you knew this was real, and you knew precisely where he had apparated with you. Although it had been years, you had been here many times before.

You shook your head at him fondly, appreciating his humor in the moment. He had taken you to the Forbidden Forest.

Jacques was game indeed. He fully intended to give you exactly what you had always wanted– a man of action instead of those of lesser fortitude who hid behind pretty words. Now that the onus was on you to accept his offer, you found it difficult to keep from trembling with nerves. He was so big, so powerful, so predatory. It was more than a little intimidating to think of him chasing you, catching you, manhandling you. It was almost frightening. But then, that was the point, wasn’t it? It was always a fine line between fear and excitement, between a fright and a thrill.

“What shall it be, beautiful?” Jacques asked. The devious bastard had probably read your mind again. Or your trepidation was that plainly written on your face. “Do you want me to play naughty or nice with you?”

“You brought me here,” you said with as much conviction as you could, making up your mind. “Carpe nocturne.”

“I’ll seize something alright.” Jacques sucked his teeth and bared his canines in a wolfish grin. Moonlight glinted off his teeth and glazed his black hair with silver, giving him a wild look. A beast, at home in these woods. He lowered his chin and fixed his lupine eyes on you, looking ravenous and dangerous. His voice rumbled through you when you told you, “I’ll give you ten seconds to run before I hunt you down and sink my teeth into that delicious ass of yours.”

“Ten seconds, huh?” you teased as you took a few tentative steps away from him deeper into the woods, exaggerating the sway of your hips seductively.

“One.” He cut off your flouncing, deadly serious, and took an ominous step toward you. He rolled one sleeve back up to his elbow where it had slipped down, somehow making that gesture look aggressive.

Smiling, you began lightly trotting through the dense trees. The forest glittered all around you in white snow, silver moonlight, and deep pine trees. The air was crisply-scented and cool, but your skin was so flushed the chill was welcome.

“Two,” he huffed behind you. “Better run a lot faster than that.”

Deciding on a path through the trees, you quickly picked up speed as adrenaline flooded your bloodstream. The idea of the chase, of running from a looming hunter, was exhilarating. You found a small game trail snaking through the forest, a pristine white laceration between the snowy trees, narrower than a footpath. The trees themselves reached their twisted branches out to you, as if to offer their help to hide you from the beast at your heels. A light mist lingered in the forest, dancing around your knees and swirling in your wake as you ran ahead.

You felt it when Jacques gave chase. You couldn’t see him now through the trees and brush that separated you, you certainly couldn’t hear him, but you felt him somehow like an electric shudder through your body, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. It was as if the forest itself felt him too, the atmosphere changing around you now that you were actively being hunted.

A thick pine tree was close ahead of you, its lush low-hanging branches inviting you near, offering you a place to hide from your pursuer. Ducking under its branches, you pressed your back to the trunk on the opposite side of the trail. Snow dusted down on you from the branches you rustled, pleasantly cool on your skin. The fragrant smell of pine and sap surrounded you as you breathed heavily through your nose, trying to slow the hammering in your chest.

Snap.

The sound of a breaking branch reverberated through the trees, making your entire body jolt. You strained your ears to divulge more sounds, but there were none to be heard. The silence around you was so complete it was oppressive after the sounds of your running. It seemed as though the forest itself had gone quiet, and the snow offered more insulation on top of it. The trees surrounding you had become an audience waiting with bated breath to see if you would make your escape. Or if you would fall victim to the hunter at your heels.

Surely, Jacques could have caught up to you by now. You expected him to charge past your hiding spot behind the pine tree only seconds after you and run ahead down the game trail.

Slowly and as quietly as you could, you turned to look around the trunk of the tree that shielded you, daring to breach the side of the tree with only one eye as you checked your backtrail. Nothing. No big bad man in sight. Even the fog had settled again.

You returned your back to the tree and rested your head back against it, still scanning the trail. As you returned to face front, you caught movement from the corner of your eye. You snapped your head around to meet Jacques’s unnerving eyes and hulking body looming right at your shoulder. You almost jumped out of your skin as a pathetic yelp left your throat. Jacques growled as his arm shot around your waist, pulling you roughly against him. He wasted no time in sinking his teeth into your neck in a biting kiss, ensuring he left a bruise to mark the presence of his lips.

“Jacques!” You jumped away from him, fueled by reflexes alone. Jacques let you. You took a moment to steady yourself, filling your lungs with air too slowly for your spinning head and rubbing the fresh mark on your neck. It stung, but sensually so.

“I’ll only count to five this time.” Jacques told you as he stepped toward you with a hint of menace and a devilish grin curling his lips.

Hungry lust radiated off Jacques in waves, so thick you could feel it on the air like a spectral presence. And it was all for you. He indeed thrilled you and also frightened you just a little, just enough for that rush of adrenaline to make you giddy. He certainly knew what he was doing, playing this little game of yours, or he had read your desires as clearly as a script and played his role to perfection. Sweat shone on his chest through the open vee in his shirt, a blush tinting his chest and neck. He looked voracious, driven mad by his desire. Jacques awakened the animal part of your brain that civilized society had tried for millennia to tame away, the part of you that wanted to be captured, taken, and utterly ravaged. Jacques was enjoying this even more, his huge chest heaving from the thrill of the hunt. You could see how it sparked a primal urge deep inside of him, probably even more poignant that it did in you. You could also see the evidence of his aching arousal tenting his pants. You were no better off. You had been melting inside all night, it seemed.

Backing away from him, you took a few deep breaths as you prepared to run again, unable to rein your pulse back down from a gallop. He registered your excitement and winked at you, enjoying your game. Laughing, you bounded away then skipped into a run that carried you further along the trail and deeper into the welcoming mystery of the woods.

The trail narrowed and became overgrown as the forest closed in around you. Deeper inside the forest, the woods grew wilder, much as the man chasing you was growing wilder with every pursuing step. You knew he was closing in on you swiftly. You slowed enough to look behind you. You were just in time to see Jacques lowering his massive body as he lunged at you with a growl. His shoulder connected with your waist as his strong arms gripped you, tackling you to the ground beneath him. He was careful with you. He’d never actually tackle you with his full force or risk hurting you. His arm hit the ground hard beneath you, cushioning your body when you met the cold wet snow. His heavy body covered you with enough weight to pin you but not quite enough to crush you.

Laying on your back beneath his sweaty body, your arms flew around him. One hand fisted harshly into his damp hair and one hand dug sharp nails into his muscular shoulder, earning a groan in response. Jacques crashed his lips down against yours in a hard, desperate kiss, his hot tongue twining with yours, stealing the breath from your lungs. He kissed you hungrily, licking into your mouth and catching your lips between his teeth. He brought an enormous hand to your neck, again wrapping around your throat easily, squeezing just enough to make your pulse quicken and pound against his palm, adding to the effect of being captured.

“Do you like making me chase after you?” he asked into your mouth. “You must, since you’ve teased me for years. The torment was almost more than I could stand. Do you know how hard it was for me to resist taking what I know you wanted to give me?”

“I like being chased,” you whispered back. Feeling his weight press down upon you as you kissed, your legs fell open to invite him to settle between them. “But I like being caught by you even more.”

A low moan rumbled in his chest and he grinned against your mouth. The hand at your neck smoothed down to your breast, kneading you and making you gasp.

Moving his hand lower, Jacques’s fingers dipped inside your pants, inside your panties, discovering how hot and wet you were already. You were powerless to resist succumbing to him, your body not allowing you to maintain any coy pretenses. Jacques’s mouth moved down to your neck as he plunged two thick fingers into you, curling them firmly against that spot he knew could make you scream. His fingers worked you into a frenzy as his teeth and lips attended to your neck and throat. He began rutting against you, his cock digging into the back of his own hand, which was still making you writhe on his fingers. Even that light movement caused your body to shift on the ground. The snow beneath you had melted, the ground now soupy under your back.

“This is about to get messy if you want me to take you here, fuck you on the ground like an animal,” he said huskily, pulling back from your lips. “Do you want that? The beast from your fantasy? Or I can show you what I’ve always fantasized about doing to you instead. It’s much simpler, I’m afraid.” He kissed you again. “But you’ll like it.”

“You’ve already proven better than my fantasies,” you said, running your hands over the breadth of his back. “I trust your judgment.”

“Hold on,” he told you as he pulled his fingers from you. He collapsed on you and gripped you in a strong bear hug, but you barely had time to feel the heavy weight of him.

The ground fell away beneath you and you squeezed your eyes shut as your stomach swooped in that familiar way. Thunder boomed around you and the whole world seemed to shake from it. The cool air whisked away from you, replaced by a welcoming warmth. The snow and ice of the forest was replaced by the golden glow of a fire dancing inside a marble fireplace. The sky above you was replaced by an arched cathedral ceiling, and the ground beneath you exchanged for crisp sheets on a king bed. The only things that remained from the forest were the silver moonlight peeking in through the tall, arched windows, and Jacques above you, grinning down at you, the feeling of his powerful body covering you. He traced hot kisses down your throat and chest as he rose back off the bed to roughly shrug off his shirt and work his belt free.

The sight of him shirtless was breathtaking, you felt yourself growing wetter just from that sight alone. His chest was glorious. You had never seen a chest so thick and expansive. His shoulders were absurdly broad and made even more impressive by his fit abdomen. The taper of his waist, the lines of muscle along his hips, even the trail of hair descending from his navel, all worked in conjunction to practically drag your eyes down toward his cock. After pulling your shirt off, you centered yourself on the bed and arched your back seductively. Jacques reached for your pants and yanked them the rest of the way off, tossing them aside as he stood over you at the side of the bed. His eyes glistened like whiskey on ice as his gaze caressed your body.

“As many times as I’ve imagined you like this, you’re better,” he said reverently in a voice that was all smoke and gravel.

You watched the muscles in his arms flex as he undid his belt and pants. Without taking his eyes from you, he unceremoniously shoved his pants down, stepping out of them quickly. Towering above you, standing totally naked, he palmed his enormous erection and let you admire the sight of him, the cocky bastard, watching you with his molten gaze. You expected Jacques to have a nice cock, as big as he was everywhere else. You had imagined it embarrassingly often, but the sight of him still made your breath hitch. It was practically monstrous, and deliciously thick. He would have injured you as a schoolgirl, and you couldn’t be entirely certain he wouldn’t now. Another bit of danger he offered. There would be a limit to how rough he could be with you, and you were thankful that he was seasoned enough to know it.

“If you can’t handle me, tell me now.” Of course, he couldn’t resist teasing you.

In response, you held his eyes firmly as you reached to undo your bra, slinging it across the room to be lost with your other discarded clothing. You raised one eyebrow at him, meeting his challenge. Jacques walked to the edge of the bed, pausing briefly to absorb the sight of you as you lay spread before him, the best Christmas gift he had ever received, before he lowered himself to the mattress and crawled over your body.

Eagerly, your legs spread for him again and he settled between them. Jacques caged you in with his impressive arms on either side of your body as he bent over you, a predator over his prey, and kissed at your navel. His kisses were open mouthed and he lavished you with his tongue. He trailed his mouth down until he placed a wet kiss at the top of your pussy, still covered by the lace of your thong. Bringing a hand down to the thin line of fabric at your hip, he yanked it roughly, ripping your thong away from you and tearing it apart with one motion. His aggressive lust had you aching with the need to be filled. Jacques paused and just admired you, the way you glistened with desire. He lowered himself, wanting to kiss you there, taste you, make you cum on his tongue. But you stopped him.

“The first time you make me cum, I want it to be with your cock,” you told him huskily. “I want to feel you inside of me when I cum.”

Jacques grinned up at you before trailing his nose and lips slowly back up the center of your body as he crawled up into position above you. He paused to inhale deeply at your throat, taking in the scent of you and exhaling in a low heady groan. He kissed you passionately and deep. His taste was smokey and lush, making you shiver. His weight was resting on you now, pushing you down into the mattress. You could feel the muscles in his back and shoulders tense and flex under your hands as he moved, and his heavy chest pressed against yours, a sharp contrast to his soft lips. The unduly thick head of his cock nudged into you, teasing at your entrance. When you bucked your hips against him, he plunged into you in one fluid stroke. He rolled his hips against you gently, giving you time to adjust to his size. Your nails raked his back as a pornographic moan escaped your lips at the pleasure of being so completely full of him. Jacques’s mouth returned to diligently kiss you as the rolling of his hips became shallow thrusts. When your hips started moving to meet his own in time with his thrusts, he began thrusting into you more passionately.

Jacques propped himself up with his hands on either side of your head. Groaning again at an unabashed volume, he pulled back and slammed his entire length into you. It skirted the line of painful pleasure, but he felt so good. He saw your features rendered beautifully distraught by pleasure and kept that angle and rhythm that he knew was driving you in exactly the direction you wanted. You fluttered and tightened around him, your orgasm imminent. Jacques could feel it. Losing control himself, he fucked you harder, pistoning into you roughly. His whole body tensed when he felt the pulsing orgasm surge through you, shooting through him like a current of pleasure connected the two of you. Jacques’s thrusts grew erratic, his shoulders and arms quivered, and he came moments after you on a deep thrust. You reached to his thick, damp hair, tangling your fingers in it and pulling him down to settle over you. He looked down at you adoringly then kissed you lovingly. Though it was unspoken, the emotion was unmistakable.

After lavishing you slowly and indulgently, he rolled onto his back and pulled you down against his enormous chest. Wrapping the arm beneath you around your waist tightly, he held you in something between a cuddle and a bear hug and caressed you with his free hand. His huge body was hot beneath you, his arms radiating warmth around you, and his lips searing as they gently kissed along your hairline. The man was an absolute fever dream. He could keep you in an erotic stupor for hours if he wanted.

“Where are we?” you asked lazily, drunk on the rush he had given you.

“Normandy,” he purred, his hands gentle and warm on your skin. “My home, precisely speaking.”

“This looks like the inside of a castle,” you said of the bedroom with its stone walls and arched windows.

“You could call it that.” He smirked. “Regardless of the descriptor, it will accommodate us well until the start of term.” He brought his fingers under your chin, tipping your face up to look at him. “Provided you’ll accept my invitation to stay with me until then.”

“I’ll need a change of clothes,” you laughed.

“Not for what I have planned,” he laughed too, and rolled back over you again.

Briefly you wondered at the stir you would cause when the pair of you returned to Hogwarts in January. Together. Gossip spread through those enchanted halls like wildfire and you knew a professorial couple would be a source of it for a long time to come. You had no time to dwell on the thought now. Jacques demanded all of your attention elsewhere.

************************************************************************

Tagging some bewitching beauties 🖤

@babbushka @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @gabesprincess @maybe-your-left @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @reyloaddict55 @heartlight-starlight @clydesfavoritegirl @celiholland @reveluving @reylokisses @queen-of-elves @kyloremus @looking4mymagicshop @lumberjack00fantasies

#my stuff!#my writing #hogwarts!jacques le gris #jacques le gris x reader #Jacques le gris x you #halloween #winter #best #fic #werewolf

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itjazzbicch · 10 months

Text

Be Careful What You Wish For

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk x Reader

First time writing for Mihawk, so I hope I did well

Summary: After running into Shanks and having a lot of drinks, the reader finds fun in poking at their rival, Dracule Mihawk, who arrives; their poking and teasing at one another leads them to a predicament that makes the reader see Mihawk as more than their rival

Warnings: Drinking, Shanks being a drunk goof (LOL), flirting

Word Count: 0.8k

“Y/N!! Sit down and have a few drinks with us, yeah?!”

Red Haired Shanks. It was no surprise to run into him, and I should’ve known that ‘a few drinks' would be a lot.

I was laughing and chatting it up with Shanks at this bar he and his crew stopped by, nearly clearing the place of liquor. There were no hard feelings between Shanks and me, so I wasn’t scared to let my guard down, even when my rival walked through the door.

“Mihawk?! What a lovely surprise! It’s just one big pirate party in here, aye?!” Shanks was so drunk he was wobbling in his seat, encouraging Mihawk, “C’m ‘ere and get a drink!”

“Drunk as usual,” He shook his head at Shanks, coming to the bar where we were sitting, eyes darting over to me, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“It’s a crazy world we live in,” I shrugged, smirking at him, “You, of all people, should know that.”

“That I do,” He mumbled, obviously having an attitude when Shanks butted his head into our conversation:

“OH MAN! I just realized you are both here! A little birdy told me that Y/N can rival your skill, Mihawk! Is that true?”

“Don’t make me- “

“Oh, it’s true,” Laughing and cutting off Mihawk, which filled in his words with a bit of annoyance:

“I’ll admit, Y/N is very skilled with a sword. “

Mihawk sounded like he meant those words but was staring at me. I wasn’t in the mood for any hostility, ignoring Shanks’ drunk ranting and winking at Mihawk:

“Relax, hon. I’m not in the mood to have a duel unless you show me a new sword.”

I referenced a specific ‘sword’ of his by quickly glancing between his legs then back up into his eyes, giggling as he got a drink from the bartender, till he leaned over the bar and mumbled:

“What’s so funny? I know for certain that is a ‘sword’ that you wouldn’t be able to handle.”

“Is that a challenge?” Cocking my eyebrow, we just stared deeply into each other’s eyes, but of course, this conversation was ruined by Shanks, who only heard my last words, exclaiming:

“Holy shit! Ya gonna have a duel and put on a show for us?!”

“Shanks, you drunk fool,” Mihawk groaned to himself, taking a sip of his drink while I handled Shanks:

“Sorry, stud, but we’d probably destroy this lovely establishment.”

“Awe, c’mon!” Shanks was too funny to me, cheeks bright red as I stood and said my goodbyes:

“Maybe next time we meet, I’ll put on a show for you.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Y/N!”

Waving and heading out of the bar, I needed to sleep off this buzz before leaving this island in the morning, but footsteps behind me caught my attention.

“Why am I not surprised? Did Shanks convince you to ‘put on a show’?”

“If I did, he’d be stumbling out here to watch,” Mihawk was telling the truth, but my hand rested on the hilt of my sword instinctively, “It’s a bit tempting, though. I noticed that you have a new sword.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Rolling my eyes, I wielded my sword, standing up straight and offering the duel, “Looks like Shanks is going to get what he wanted after all.”

“Who said that I was lying,” Running a fingertip across my blade, he analyzed it before pushing it down to the ground, standing before me, and getting his dig in on me, “Besides, I’d hate to break your new sword.”

“Oh my, I didn’t know you were a comedian in your spare time,” I dished back, putting my sword away.

“How funny,” One thing I didn’t expect from Mihawk was how soft his hand was as he patted my cheek, leaving me speechless for a change, a slight smirk on his face, “You should be grateful that I enjoy having a sparring partner.”

“Sparring partner?” Brushing off my fluster with a scoff, I gave another smirk back, my boldness shining through as I stepped closer to kiss his cheek, whispering to him, “I’m your rival, honey. Now, maybe a little grateful that I don’t show you what I can do?”

“I’m so scared,” He murmured, the tips of our noses brushing together, and it was hard to deny how much I liked having him as a rival, very much enjoying the teasing we kept dishing at each other.

“I wasn’t talking about my new sword,” Licking at my lower lip, I began to fight screaming temptations, observing as he removed his hat.

“You drank too much with Shanks,” He sighed, leaving a peck on my cheek, “We’ll have to see if those feelings remain next time we cross paths.”

Standing there holding my cheek, I was too stunned to speak as he stood tall, put on his hat, and turned away, ready to go about his way.

“You better prepare then,” I couldn’t let him walk away having the last word, but he surely did when he turned his head to me, smirking before disappearing into the night:

“Be careful what you wish for, darling.”

2023 © itjazzbicch — do not repost or translate my work. Likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece fluff #one piece imagine #one piece oneshot #dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x y/n #dracule mihawk imagine #dracule mihawk fluff #dracule mihawk oneshot #read and enjoy

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

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moving person a by their waist with our boy bob floyd?

The Hard Deck is more crowded than usual. It’s standing room only, the press of bodies making the bar loud and hot. Lieutenant Bob Floyd, resident wallflower, can’t seem to move without bumping into someone or brushing against someone else. Every time he breathes he’s elbowing someone, then apologizing profusely.

It’s a bad night to be so flustered. Hangman’s cousin is back in town and charming the crowd by switching off on the piano with Rooster. You’re the only person who can rouse everyone to sing along, even the more reserved fly-boys in the crowd.

“Helps to know more than one Jerry Lee Lewis song,” you told Bob once, and then you’d dropped him a wink, cementing the fatal crush he’s been nursing for you.

It’s not ideal, falling for an extended member of the Seresin family (though your last name is different), but you’ve cast your smug cousin in a more sympathetic light for the Dagger Squad. Jake’s less smarmy, more soft when you’re around. Family smooths out his rough edges, it seems.

Tonight, you and Rooster trade off. Rooster, galled by your success at the piano, has tried to learn some new fare. His results are middling, and Bob can see the way he pouts as he cedes the piano stool to you once he wraps up his faltering version of the Beatles’ “Hey Jude.”

Bob can also see the brilliant grin you flash Rooster as you settle into your seat and start to play Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.”

Which the crowd eats up, of course. You know what the fan favorites are.

-----

Bob has always been content to just watch you, to nurse his crush from afar. You swing through San Diego every other month, and you always stop to see Jake. Bob is usually there for at least part of your visit—at the Hard Deck or on the beach—but he rarely is proactive to speak to you. Any conversation is driven by you.

Tonight, he loses sight of you once the dueling pianos bit ends. He finds you again chatting with Nat, and a beat after his eyes fall on the two of you, Nat catches his gaze and grins at him. She jerks her head in a “c’mere” gesture.

Bob obliges. He weaves his way through the crush of people until he’s standing by you and Nat.

“You looked lonely, standing by yourself,” Nat says.

He shakes his head, offers a rueful grin. “Oh, no, I’m fine.”

“Are you sad the musical portion of tonight’s programming ended?” you ask. “It’s a little obnoxious, right?”

He demurs that too, tells you that maybe Rooster is obnoxious with just playing the same song over and over, but no—he likes your piano-playing, he thinks your voice is lovely…he rambles for a long moment until he catches movement: Nat shaking her head faintly with a bemused smile on her face.

“Ah,” he says, cutting himself off. “I’m ramblin’.” His accent comes out and he winces inwardly, worried you’ll think him a hick—

You laugh and reach out, smack his shoulder lightly with the back of your hand. “Bobby, you can ramble any time if you keep paying me compliments.”

Bobby. You’ve always called him that, back when Jake introduced you. He loves the way it sounds coming from your mouth.

Your sudden touch, your light teasing…it makes his brain short-circuit. He gapes at you wordlessly for too long of a moment, then he notices your empty glass.

“Can I get you a refill?” he asks, but it comes out too fast and too high-pitched.

You laugh again and hand him your glass. “That would be really nice. Thank you.”

He takes it and practically sprints away. He misses Nat’s knowing look. He misses the way his pilot nods, turns to you, and says, “he’s got a crush on you.” And he misses the way you nod back at Nat and murmur that yes, you’ve noticed.

-----

The bar is just as crowded, if not more so, and Bob finds himself lost in the crowd.

He tries to flag down Penny and the other bartender, but there’s always someone flashier, bigger, louder to pull attention away from Bob to themselves.

Which is typical. Bob Floyd has always faded into the background. And it’s usually a blessing, since he’s introverted anyway. But sometimes?

Sometimes he wishes he could stand out, just a little. Just enough to maybe catch the eye of a certain Seresin cousin—

His train of thought is cut off by the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, this time a gentle, tentative press to get his attention. He turns his head and sees you, smiling softly at him.

“No luck?” you ask.

He lifts a hand, lets it fall helplessly. “It’s too busy. I’m sorry.”

You still have your hand on his shoulder. You squeeze him gently, say, “here, let me,” and then your other hand is on his waist, gently leading him aside, pushing him away from the bar to make room for you. He’s so flummoxed by the touch—probably just a casual, friendly touch for you, but it’s gasoline on the flames of his infatuation—that he lets you move him.

Then you release him, and you lift your hand and whistle, getting the attention of the bartender. You order another drink for yourself, and you get one for Bob: a Coke with a splash of grenadine.

“How’d you know my drink?” he asks. He’s still flummoxed: first by your touch, now by you knowing his non-alcoholic beverage of choice. It feels like his world is tilting off its axis, throwing everything askew.

“I noticed,” you answer with a shrug.

“No one’s ever noticed before.”

Another shrug, this time paired with a smile. “I did.”

#ask game #bob floyd #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd x reader #robert floyd #robert floyd imagine #robert floyd x reader #top gun maverick #tropes and tales

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ltash · 4 months

Text

Your first encounter with Simon "Ghost" Riley at the bar.

In the shadows of the bar, their eyes locked in a silent duel, each daring the other to break the icy facade that masked their hearts, yet beneath the chill, a fire raged, fierce and untamed."

As I stepped into the bustling bar of Manchester on a lively Saturday evening, the air was thick with the scent of alcohol and the cacophony of laughter and chatter. I made my way through the crowd, scanning for an empty seat, and found myself drawn to the stool beside a mysterious figure.

His presence exuded an air of intrigue, amplified by the skull design adorning his balaclava.

My eyes glanced over his broad and intimidating physique.

He was wearing a simple black hoodie with black cargo pants and combat boots. A skull balaclava adorned his face.

Even in this simple dress he looked quite charming and mysterious. For some reason I couldn't take my eyes off him.

His legs were long and well sculpted with thick thighs like he used to workout. All in all he had a perfect body.

"Gym rat." I thought to myself.

With a confident gesture, he signaled the bartender and ordered a bourbon, his movements swift and decisive.

My gaze was ensnared by his enigmatic aura, unable to tear away from the magnetic pull of his presence.

With a flick of his wrist, he folded the balaclava up to his chin, revealing a rugged jawline dusted with a hint of stubble.

He raised the glass to his lips, his Adam's apple bobbing as he downed the fiery liquid in one smooth gulp. I couldn't take my eyes off him.

Pulling towards him like he was a magnet and I was metal.

Then the intensity of his gaze met mine, momentarily capturing me in a trance.

In that fleeting moment, amidst the chaos of the bar, time seemed to stand still as I found myself spellbound by the allure of the mysterious stranger before me.

Oh, God, he was undeniably handsome, a captivating enigma waiting to be unravelled in the depths of the night.

As I sat there, mesmerized by his charisma, I was jolted back to reality when the bartender placed my margarita in front of me.

With a polite "thank you," I took hold of the glass, the coolness of the drink offering a brief respite from the heat of the moment.

Sipping through the straw, I felt his gaze upon me, and when I looked up, I was captivated by the intensity in his dark brown eyes, as if they were peering straight into the depths of my soul.

His unblinking stare held me in a trance, rendering me speechless and unable to tear my gaze away.

It was as though time stood still, the world around us fading into the background as we were locked in a silent exchange. But just as the tension between us reached its peak, his phone shattered the momentary spell, its familiar ringtone piercing through the hazy atmosphere of the bar.

I watched as he reached for his phone. Samsung to be precise, the sleek device a stark contrast to the ruggedness of his appearance.

As he answered the call with his sexy, raspy voice, the sound reverberated through me, sending shivers down my spine.

In that moment, I couldn't help but notice the disparity between us-an Android user like me.

Drawn to the enigmatic allure of a man whose very presence exuded a magnetic charm, accentuated by his rich British accent.

As I watched him talk on the phone, his voice resonating with authority, I couldn't help but feel a surge of admiration for the enigmatic man before me.

"Yes, Sir," he uttered in that rich, husky voice of his, a command that seemed to carry weight even in the midst of a crowded bar.

Lost in the spell of his presence, I snapped back to reality when the news flashed on the TV behind me, delivering a chilling report of the terror unfolding at the Mall of Manchester.

I turned to look at the TV where the news flashed.

My heart sank as the gravity of the situation settled in, the sense of dread thickening the air around us.

I could hear people whispering and talking. Their cocern showed through the tension in their voices.

"Bloody fucking hell." He cursed under his breath. His voice sending me shivers down my spine.

I felt his gaze on me, and as I turned to meet his eyes, I saw a flicker of concern reflected in his dark orbs. Those deep brown eyes seemed to hold a multitude of emotions, and for a moment, it felt as though the world had slowed down, allowing us to share an unspoken connection amidst the chaos.

Without breaking eye contact, he stood closer to me, his tall frame casting a protective shadow over my own.

I couldn't help but feel a flutter of anticipation in the pit of my stomach as his proximity sent a wave of warmth coursing through me.

It was as if the tumultuous events unfolding around us had faded into the background, leaving only the two of us in a silent embrace of understanding.

I turned away shyly, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks as his intense gaze lingered on me, imprinting itself upon my memory like a fleeting dream.

Moments later, he silently retreated from my side and quietly exited the bar, leaving me with a sense of bewilderment lingering in the air.

"Weird," I murmured to myself, cocking an eyebrow in confusion as I pondered the mysterious encounter and the tumultuous turn of events that had unfolded before me.

#cod ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #call of duty #ghost x y/n #ghost x reader #ghost x you

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octuscle · 1 year

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Pub Quiz

People hated it when Mr Stevenson was in the pub during the pub quiz. He was an unpleasant, smug smart-ass. As a teacher at the exclusive public school, he definitely felt like something better. His greasy hair, shapeless figure and old-fashioned clothes did nothing to change that. Mr. Stevenson was simply an unsympathetic person in every respect. And that was why all the visitors to the pub had decided that something had to change. Something fundamental.

"Which ruler founded the Achaemenid dynasty?" asked the moderator of the quiz duel. And again, Mr. Stevenson answered smugly as well as recklessly, "Achaimenes, of course. Otherwise it wouldn't be the Achaemenids, would it?"

"Congratulations!" exclaimed the bartender. "There's a special prize for answering that question!" He handed Mr Stevenson a polo shirt. "Would you do us the pleasure of trying it on right away?"

Even more than showing other people how stupid they were, it pleased Mr Stevenson to get something for nothing. He had also been delighted to get his apple juice for free after the bartender had stained his already coffee-stained shirt while pouring it. Perhaps it was quite appropriate to put on a fresh polo shirt now.

Mr. Stevenson took the polo shirt without a thank you, went to the toilet, took off his shirt and put the polo shirt on over his old stained vest. But instead of the vest, there was suddenly a heavy silver chain. And the rest of his clothes changed too.

"'Can I take a piss right now,' Buck thought to himself. He unbuttoned his jeans and took his magnificent cock out of his jockstrap. On his way back to the bar he was annoyed that it was the pub quiz again. Then the pub was full of arrogant know-it-alls. He was here to have a beer and watch football. He was a caretaker at the community school and the captain of the local rugby team. He didn't need to know all that shit.

"What name was the King's grandmother known by," was the next question. "The Rottweiler?" wondered Buck. He had no idea. Hopefully the other lads from his rugby team would arrive soon, then they could at least enjoy the evening having a beer or two.

And again, a post by @stargazerguy was the motivation!

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #inked man #male transformation #muscle transformation #revange tf

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smolmousepotato · 5 months

Text

Tw: ooc, Boothill x fem!reader, tavern, bad writing ig, cringey i think

Midnight tavern

"What's a pretty lil' thing like ya doin' here eh?"

You can feel a warm waft of air trail the side of your neck as a figure corners you from behind. The night is still young.

You came to this tavern in hopes of drowning the day's fatigue with alcohol, with or without fun, you couldn't care less. But the relieving is a must.

Alone, you sit on a stool by the counter with your usual drink: a blueberry martini.

Your senses can't help but relish in the way the berries and vodka blend and soothe the raging storm within your soul. Everything is washed away, bit by bit along with each sip. By the end of the night, you'd expect a cleansed mood, free of annoyance and exhaust.

But this random guy who had been staring at you from across the counter might just create some more stress for you.

You were talking to the bartender when he rose from your peripheral vision. His tall form caught your attention. You notice the mechanical details on his body and the way he showed them off in a flashingly bold way.

The rim of his hat was overshadowing the half of his face. Gruffly, you see him approach.

The bartender left you with it, being occupied with another client.

And so that leads to you, being pressed against a wall by the man whose name you barely know.

He speaks to you in a low, rough voice with a thick Southern accent, towering his form over you. Chills were sent down your spine, and the alcohol in your system did the effect worse.

It felt hot. Amidst the crowd of the tavern, he traps you in one place, breathing heavily down your neck.

"Tell me."

"Just... for a little relief..." you reply with a quiet voice, looking away from his intense gaze.

"Mm, why do pretty lil' dolls like you need relief eh?"

"Personal stuff. Is it necessary for you to be this nosy?" You grumble, a little annoyed by the close proximity between you two.

"Hm, why, it ain't my business at all, in fact," the man leans back a little, noticing your annoyance. He chuckles, "I was just a lil' curious 'bout this pretty doll right here, so feisty ain't ya?"

"Not your business."

"Of course it ain't, cutie."

"What?"

"What? Got any problems 'bout that nickname I give?"

"Yeah. I don't even know you, and you're throwing nicknames at me."

"Aight, the name's Boothill. Pleasure to know your beautiful name?"

"Why should I even tell you..."

Afterwards, he eventually got your name. He grins and presses a brief little flirty kiss on your lips.

"See ya later, darlin'~"

You wouldn't think of a day you'd see someone's dignity missing like that.

He awaits you the next day you return, flirtatiously gazing at you. You can see him tip his hat.

Day after day, he'd be there, in the same spot you'd found him in since the first day, tipping his hat a little and grinning.

One day you step in to find his absence. A routine image, now you can't help but feel a little empty inside.

You take your seat, order your usual and chillax.

You sigh. Perhaps that flirt was entertaining after all.

Drink after drink, you venture forth beyond your forte, intoxicating yourself by midnight, when the tavern lessens its people.

That is when a certain man walks in, all bloody and staggering. He had a duel with another outlaw and took a bullet in the arm. The blood was the other's.

He sees you, limping over the counter, probably passed out cold. A closer distance; he smells alcohol and a mixed scent of multiple berries.

With a chuckle, he asks the bartender for some bandage and wraps his "wound" up.

His eyes wander back to where you sat, his heart swell with a need to wrap his arms around your form and pick you up.

But that'd be weird if he does, right?

So he tries his best to ignore it and acts casual, walking past you like nothing happened.

——

But she wasn't fully asleep. She can pick up the metallic scent of blood from where she sits, and it alerts her from her slumber.

His steps come to a halt when he felt a light force tugging at his arm. He turns around, a smile gracing his lips.

She, a small little thing who picked up the sense of danger and decided to be awake, though a tad bit sleepy.

"Well, what's this huh?" He chuckles, "clingy all out of a sudden?"

He can hear little grumbles from her, signifying her unclear annoyance towards him.

"Tell me, doll," he swoops in, his arms on the counter, trapping her from above, "would you?"

"Hah?"

"Would you care... if I walk in... this bloody?"

"I mean who doesn't? You look like you were dying."

"Yeaaaah, but still, that's just a side question. Here's the real one dollie, answer it honestly."

"50-50. Depends."

"Stop that."

He leans closer, his lips about to touch the shell of her ear when he whispers, "miss me?"

That sent shivers down her spine, making her weak in the knees and blank in the mind. That caused her heart to race like it's never before.

That makes her realize that she craves his presence.

"No." She spats, feigning annoyance.

———

You hear him chuckle.

"Y'know liars don't get to live so long."

"I wasn't lying."

"Sure thing, hun."

His hand grasps at her chin, pulling it upwards so that her head leans back. Those grey, unique eyes gaze into hers in a certain way that stirs up the butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

"Mmmh... what a sweet lil' thing, ain't ya?"

A pause of silence, where he looks into your eyes and solidifies you with all those feelings.

"Consent?"

"What?"

"A kiss?"

You look hesitantly at him, but your body has a mind of its own to decide on what must be done. Your hand wanders to the collar of his shirt, gripping it and pulling it down until his lips press against yours.

There was a slight halt in his breathing, as his eyes widened and his lips slightly agaped. But that was a brief moment before he dived right in, carrying passion with his kiss.

Your lips lock in a palpable passion, where your hands grip the back of his head and his hand rubs your body all over.

He chuckles as the kiss breaks. His hand grabs you by the collar and yanks you away from the stool.

"Get down 'ere, you sly lil' minx."

The alcohol in your system exposes you to being a little staggering, and an extra bit of flirtatiousness.

You grin, looking up from your height, into his eyes. There was affection and amusement in those eyes.

And then your lips collide in an intense kiss, once again. His arm wraps itself around your waist and tightens, pulling your body into his, and encouraging you to hold onto him.

So your hands do. They grasp onto his shirt, trying to pull him closer.

His hands then snake themselves under your body and pick you up, carrying you to the inn next to the tavern.

———

And then behind doors, each and every one of their kisses further lightens up the passion that has been suppressed within their hearts in fear of rejection. But now they both accept one another's feelings and are already in the same bed, it's clear that the passion blooms into lust and whatever comes afterward.

Perhaps the cowboy has found his place where he belongs, and so has she.

#honkai star rail #dunno what to tag this #the brainrot is real #boothill #boothill x reader #boothill x you #slightly suggestive #hsr #hsr boothill #tavern

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thewisaaaaad · 18 days

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AAAAAND here's a bit more from Narinders Locker AU!

this time its about spooky cat himself, along with the failed vessel!

Narinder is very much the same, but instead wears a white coat with a red stripe down the middle. They are still a half skeletal cat, but his chains do not strictly keep him in place; the other captains just chained him to four anchors and threw him into the sea, after all. So he just drags himself across the seabed, looking through wreckages and searching for adventure with his two adopted demigods.

The lamb always knows where to find him, though. The crown makes a very handy compass.

Narinder loves fighting, more than everything else. Everything except his morals. When he was mortal, he loved to start bar fights, especially in defense of people who could not protect themselves. When he ascended to godhood with his family, it was his and Shamuras idea to include an oath to protect the mortals of the sea, to watch over them and not use them as tools, so as not to become the very gods they had set out to slay.

Narinder knows that one day he will no longer be a god. As per the oath, a Captain is chosen by their crew, not the other way around. And the lamb has a naturally magnetic personality, and a drive that pulls faithful crew to their side. One day, when the Captains have fallen, he will challenge them to a duel. He will naturally give up his godhood, but wants to go out on his terms: a blaze of glory, a legendary fight that the crew will talk of forever more. That will be his immortality, as his soul gets to rejoin his family in the deep.

But that isn't what happens, of course; the Thing in the Moon has other plans for their lost champion.

Ratau is an old bartender at this point, running a lonely tavern on an island far from the Captains strongholds. He holds on to the old Iron Veil, beached deep in the forest of the island he retired on, hidden within a lake at the center.

He has a sailors tongue, and passes the time playing nucklebones with his trader friends, when they come to visit.

When the small sloop loaded with woolly refugees docked at the lonely island, Ratau welcomed them with open arms, inviting them to stay the night at no cost. The sheep, exhausted from running, gladly took shelter with the unaligned tavern master.

While there, a young sheep took interest in his craft, and Ratau taught them many things, including a couple knife tricks to help defend their family.

Imagine their surprise when they see that same sheep show up at his bar in an empty ship once belonging to the green Captain, drenched and dripping seawater on his floor, bearing the red crown.

Both of them took time to mourn that day, and the Lamb has returned many times since.

#cotl #cult of the lamb #cotl au #narinders locker #i really don't know what i'm doing #cotl lamb #cotl ratau

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imogenkol · 5 months

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— WIP IT IS WEDNESDAY MY DUDES

reposting because tags are broken sorry

They're having a very normal night out at the cantina

“I still get my fair share of killing in The Guild, of course. It is a profession that keeps me satisfied on multiple fronts.”

Bix’s eyes glinted knowingly. “You mean, it keeps you from getting bored.”

“Precisely,” Imogen answered with a devious grin. “However, I do find Jedi to be the most effective in that regard. I very much enjoy a challenging duel.”

“I’ll add that to the list of things I know you like to do, then.” She mumbled her next words into her cup as she downed the rest of her drink. “Murder, torture, lightsaber fights.”

“And you enjoy making black market deals and drinking cheap ale I would not feed to a womp rat.” Imogen placed her arm behind Bix and began to caress the backs of her fingers up and down her lover’s side as she stared intently at her. “What a pair we make.”

One of the bartenders — a young female Mirialan with most of her green skin exposed in a tight, revealing outfit — came up to them to retrieve what she must have assumed to be two empty cups. When she noted the practically untouched ale at the end of the table, she asked “Are you finished with this?”

“Yes,” Imogen answered without taking her eyes off of Bix, who had turned her attention to the younger woman.

The bartender continued to intrude. “Could I interest you in something else?”

“No,” Imogen said, dragging the word out in an impatient drawl. She forcefully tore her gaze away from Bix to throw a cold look at the Mirialan. “I get the distinct impression that everything here is as dreadful as that ale.”

Bix rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Ignore her. I’ll take another,” she said, handing over her empty metal cup.

As the slightly disgruntled bartender disappeared from sight, Imogen raised an eyebrow at the mechanic. “‘Ignore her’?”

“It’s the quickest way to get your attention, isn’t it?” Bix asked in anything but an innocent tone.

“Perhaps for you.”

“Come on,” Bix teased, tapping her index finger under Imogen’s chin, “you don’t think she’s cute?”

The bounty hunter grinded her teeth at the implication. “I might have thought so, if you were not here beside me.”

Bix lifted one of her shoulders in a half shrug. “I think she’s cute.”

Imogen narrowed her storming eyes and pulled her lover in closer by her waist. “Do you believe making me jealous is wise?” she mused in a low, smooth tone.

The Mirialan returned with a fresh cup of ale. As she set it on the table, Bix placed a couple of credits down as payment. When the bartender reached for them, Imogen’s free hand clamped down on top of hers like the swift strike of a serpent. The young woman gasped and Imogen saw movement out of the corner of her eye — a bouncer taking a tense step towards them. Imogen smiled dangerously at the girl. She supposed she was more attractive than most, but her looks did little to tempt Imogen beyond mischievous curiosity. She took a moment to lightly prod into the bartender’s mind.

The initial embers of irritation towards Imogen swiftly gave way to a sudden wave of fear. This girl knew she was dangerous, but she didn’t know just how dangerous she could really be. If only she could paint a clearer picture. Imogen felt her own ire melt into amusement as she tightened her grip ever so slightly and caused the girl to flinch. Satisfied, Imogen released her.

“Run along now,” she dismissed.

Bix leveled her gaze. “Are you that starved for attention?”

Imogen pursed her lips thoughtfully at the sight of the bouncer returning to his post. “I may kill her yet. If only to be banned from ever returning to this hovel.”

tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @adelaidedrubman @florbelles @marivenah @simonxriley @shegetsburned

@voidika @kyber-infinitygems @voidbuggg @inafieldofdaisies @statichvm

@socially-awkward-skeleton @aceghosts @carlosoliveiraa @risingsh0t @unholymilf

@thedeadthree @cassietrn @jackiesarch @gwynbleidd @shellibisshe

@loriane-elmuerto @katsigian @captastra @simplegenius042 @theelderhazelnut

@g0dspeeed @mandalhoerian @strangefable

#oc insp: Imogen Kol #ship insp: if I had a heart #sorry to everyone that already likes it. tumblr is a functioning webbed site #let’s hope they work now #anyway yeah neither are normal in public let’s just make that clear rn

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docochocart · 6 months

Text

DOCORONPA R

CHAPTER ONE

[trial]

The cast silently shuffled through the greenery in an anxious fog. Streamer's feudal attempts to lighten the mood were hushed by her fellow campers as they cautiously followed Monomaton down the winding path.

MonoMaton eventually took pause between two suspiciously parallel trees. He turned back to the group as if to speak, only for the earth between the two trees to part, opening a rift in the dirt.

The group hesitantly peeked into the void, being met with an industrial metal staircase descending into the earth.

MonoMaton silently lifted an arm, directing the cast to enter. One by one, the cast made their way into the suspicious opening.

They all traversed the underground hallway in a quiet discomfort, cold silver walls and bleak LED lights only added to their dread. No words were spoken between them until they finally reached the massive metal doors leading to the courtroom.

The cast took up their assigned podiums, all positioned in a circle. A lifeless portrait of Salesman stared the group down from his empty podium.

MonoMaton quickly moved things along with a hasty introduction to the trials, informing them they had 2 hours to reach a verdict.

Ice Skater immediately took control of the room, stating they should begin with the, somewhat obvious, murder weapon.

The bow found a few cabins from the crime scene was immediately brought into focus, Ice Skater stating it was clear that this was used to kill Salesman. Nobody contested.

They moved onto the vantage point from which it was shot, a discussion that was quickly derailed by Streamer. The scrawny girl questioned who amongst them would even be capable of successfully shooting an arrow like that.

Ice Skater concurred, agreeing that was also important to establish while coldly locking eyes with Marine Biologist.

Marine Biologist lit up from being silently called upon. She exclaimed she had evidence on that subject, sending a shock up Drummers spine.

She spilled to the group on what she'd seen two nights prior, calling Cowboy and Welder out on their late night archery training. Luckily for Drummer, she was left entirely out of the narrative.

Cowboy immediately jumped to their defense, stating he'd already suspected someone was attempting to frame them for this.

Ice Skater shot back, asking why else the two would be conducting weapons training.

Welder teared up at the accusation, silently letting Cowboy take the lead on their defense.

Cowboy, gripping the sides of his podium, angrily explained that Welder had privately came to him for protection, and Cowboy thought it would serve them better to learn to protect themselves.

Rebel chimed in, mocking the two about what a "cute little coincidence" it was that they were training with the murder weapon.

Cowboy roared in retort, demanding Rebel to take back what he'd said. This only led Rebel to double down on what he'd said, sending Cowboy into a verbal fury.

Ice Skater interrupted the dueling men, stating that establishing the vantage point was a more important use of their trial time.

Bartender reminded the group where the weapon was found, under the brush on the edge of the base camp. She also added that firing an arrow through a window from that distance would be a superhuman feat.

Ice Skater ran with this train of thought, questioning the room on how close they thought it'd have to be shot from to both break the window and kill Salesman. Streamer was the first to respond.

"Doesn't matter cuz it didn't do that"

Ice Skater seemed instantly repulsed by this response, immediately questioning how Streamer could so confidently say something like that.

Streamer pulled something small and round out of her back pocket, hiding it behind her pasty hand to build anticipation. After receiving enough attention, she revealed a small rock.

Ice Skater pointedly asked what this rock could possibly prove, Streamer calmly turning the stone around revealing the blood stain on it's other side.

Streamer said she found this mysterious rock just below Salesman's corpse. She smirked, saying that this is clearly what broke the window, also stopping to question the direction of the arrow relative to the window.

Trucker questioned why she'd hide such crucial evidence up until this moment, implying Streamer could have some involvement.

Streamer shrugged off his accusation, saying she just wanted to make a good moment.

Sailor genuinely asked the room how somebody could both throw a rock and shoot an arrow at the same time, hoping to recreate it himself.

Social Star pointed out how that's a good point, if the window was broken by a rock, how would Salesman not have been clued into the following arrow?

Streamer concurred, smugly responding:

"Simple, the arrow came first."

Sailor once again chimed in, asking how one shoots an arrow through a window without breaking it, hoping to recreate it himself.

Ice Skater followed him up by stating it was impossible the arrow had come before the rock, if the rock had even truly been involved.

Streamer calmly asked the room how they were so sure the bow wasn't a red herring planted by the killer, confusing almost everyone.

Rebel was the first to agree. Cocking his head and saying that they actually weren't certain that the arrow had been shot. Perhaps it could have been used as a melee weapon by the killer.

This narrative really angered Ice Skater, who immediately tried to cut this conversation shut. She sharply stated that they would be wasting no more time on childish narratives.

Surprisingly, Social Star was the first to contest this decree, concernedly saying they should look into any possible avenues for certainty.

Thus, the discussion continued, much to the chagrin of Ice Skater.

They quickly determined it was entirely possible that the killer could have manually stabbed Salesman with the arrow, only to break the window after leaving the Craft Hall as a red herring.

Bartender shot up, an idea coming to her.

She aggressively turned toward Marine Biologist, questioning if she'd told anybody about what she'd seen.

Marine Biologist quickly retreated inward, silently locking eyes with Drummer. Bartender quickly took notice of this, spinning to meet eyes with her.

She interrogated Drummer on if she'd known about Cowboy and Welder's archery excursion before this.

Drummer, filled with a sudden panic as all eyes fell on her, could only reply with a quiet nod.

Ice Skater immediately moved in on this train of thought, asking Drummer why she hadn't told the group about this discovery.

Drummer stammered, awkwardly coming clean about her and Marine Biologist's pact to silence. She then quietly looked up, meeting eyes with Marine Biologist.

"You didn't break our pact, right?"

Drummer stared the girl down with a somber glare, almost as if she already knew the answer.

Marine Biologist froze, immediately breaking gaze with Drummer to meet Ice Skater's glare. Bartender was quick to take notice of this as well.

Bartender pressed the issue, asking Ice Skater if she'd also been clued into this training. Ice Skater coldly denied the allegation.

Bartender turned her fiery gaze back to a trembling Marine Biologist, demanding eye contact from her. She repeatedly shot the same question to her, watching as tears welled up in the poor girls eyes.

"I- I... I might hav-"

That was enough for Bartender, who span back to Ice Skater, calling her a "dirty fucking liar".

Ice Skater avoided the insult, demanding Marine Biologist clear her name immediately. Unfortunately for her, the damage was already done.

With the suspicion suddenly placed onto Ice Skater, she fell silent. Her eyes darted around the room, analyzing her peers expressions in a panic.

Bartender continued, hurling accusations at the two of collaborating on this crime.

As the cast began to move into theories about how she could have done it, Ice Skater had had enough.

She demanded the floor once again, having to argue with Bartender before receiving that courtesy.

She spoke plainly, coldly, and succinctly:

"The killer is Cadet."

All eyes fell onto a silent Cadet, who looked back to Ice Skater in complete shock. Beads of sweat dripped down her porcelain skin as she formulated a defense.

Ice Skater locked eyes with a paralyzed Cadet, offering her a chance to tell her story before Ice Skater told all.

Cadet fell into a state yet unseen by her fellow campers. Her godly poise crumbled as her face reddened and her heart gained speed. She bore her teeth, still unable to find her words.

Ice Skater moved on from this pathetic display, beginning to explain to the room exactly what had happened, only to be interrupted by an unhinged wail from Cadet.

Cadet began hurling conspiratorial accusations of deception and devil worship at an unmoved Ice Skater.

Ice Skater continued in her explanation, occasionally pausing to let Cadet rabidly scream into the void.

Ice Skater's story was:

Marine Biologist had immediately told Ice Skater what she and Drummer had seen at the archery range. Ice Skater instructed her to ensure Drummer's silence for the good of the camp.

Later that morning, Ice Skater briefly departed from Marine Biologist to secretly convene with Cadet. This is when Ice Skater would share what she'd learned from Marine Biologist, and also when the two would form a sinister plan.

Pausing the story, Ice Skater confessed to the room that she had been the one to propose the plan, also promising that she had no part in it's execution.

The following morning, Cadet made her way to the craft hall before sunrise, stowing away in the kitchen. She came armed with a bow and arrow, instructed to kill the first student to enter in the morning.

The plan was simple, storm the dining hall and attack as soon as the student was sat and eating.

She would then quickly flee out of the rear exit, slipping the red herring bow and arrow at the far side of the base camp on her way back to her cabin. This is also where she was to find a small stone to finalize the illusion needed to frame Cowboy.

She then would quietly opened the door to her cabin before whipping the stone at the craft hall window with marine accuracy. She was then to hastily shut the door as it shattered and attempt to get back to her bunk.

By the time Ice Skater finished her explanation, Cadet had devolved into a furious gibberish.

While this display may seem as good as a confession to some, Bartender wasn't so convinced. She questioned whether they should trust the narrative of a proven liar, insinuating that Ice Skater may be covering her own tracks.

The group pondered on this for a moment. Social Star broke the confusion, stating bluntly that they should be voting purely based off of evidence, not malice.

Bartender contested that a liar's word could not be taken as a solid account, Social star responding that, while true, this "liar's account" perfectly aligns with the evidence and timeline.

Cadet's blind rage had completely drained her at this point, leaving her a red in the face and panting behind her podium. This childish display was what truly convinced the group of her guilt, not Ice Skater's account.

The soldier breathily sputtered in her own defense, but the damage had already been done. With 20 minutes remaining till their vote, Cadet had solidified that she would be receiving the majority vote.

Bartender took this time to turn attention back to Ice Skater and Marine Biologist, continuing her tirade on the two's betrayal. While Social Star tried to calm the raging diva down, it wouldn't stop her continued verbal assault on the two traitors.

She zoned in on Ice Skater's betrayal, pointing out how quickly she turned on Cadet once any eyes were turned onto her.

The trial slowly drew to a close, with MonoMaton cheerily calling for the campers to prepare to vote.

A small monitor positioned on each podium lit up with a grid of the campers faces being displayed. MonoMaton ordered for silence in the courtroom while voting commenced.

Each camper nervously selected a face, all 15 votes being submitted within the minute. The tally went as follows:

- 13 votes for Cadet

- 2 votes for Ice Skater

With that, the room had officially decided it's blackened:

CHAPTER ONE KILLER

ULTIMATE CADET

MonoMaton hopped about the courtroom in glee, repeating over and over that this was his "favorite part".

Cadet let out one final cry of denial, crumbling to her knees. The cast watch on in silence as the girl lost any shred of dignity she'd had.

As she desperately sobbed, MonoMaton cartoonishly giggled at the despair. The stuffed mascot mockingly attempted to comfort the blackened camper:

"Awww, look up kiddo."

Cadet's stream of tears continued between her disjointed prayers, MonoMaton continuing in his mocking tone.

"No seriously, look up."

Cadet halted her prayers for a moment, looking to the ceiling with wide, watery eyes. She didn't have time to process the mounted barrel she was staring down until it was too late.

A single shotgun blast from the ceiling painted Cadet's fellow campers in her insides. Her headless body fell backward from her podium, hitting the cold metal floor with a splat.

After a moment of shock, the room erupted in a chorus of terrified screams. With no warning, they had all just witnessed the brutal murder of their fellow camper.

As the campers continued to panic, MonoMaton congratulated the cast on their excellent detective work. He cheerily announced that the 14 remaining campers would all be safely returning to camp.

None of the students processed what their plush captor had said, all too focused on the bloodbath they'd just been covered in.

Only one thought was able to parse the deathly fog filling Drummer's mind:

How could she ever survive in a place like this?

#danganronpa #dangan ronpa #oc #dangansona #fangan ronpa #fanganronpa #docoronpa #docoronpa r #my art

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