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thebestofoneshots · 5 months

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MARAUDWEEEN

Renegades | Remus Lupin x reader

Pairing: Remus L. x Reader + bits of Sirius x reader

Word Count: 6.8 k

Warnings: Smut, fingering, P in V, lots of praise, bit of oral near the end (male receiving) consent is sexy, lusty!Remus, childhood friends to enemies to lovers.

Prompt: As a part of the Maraudween Series, this fic takes you to an Alternate Universe where Remus Lupin is the Sheriff of Moonridge and you’re an outlaw he’s bound to chase after, but there’s a catch, you knew each other in the past, and the tension between the two is palpable, to say the least.

Maraudween is a Halloween-inspired anthology series where each chapter transports you into a distinct alternate universe. From the real world to old western Texas and even through the dark times of vampires. These standalone tales invite you into a realm of boundless potential. Experience the enchantment of Halloween as it weaves its spell, intertwining the magic of costumes, AUs, terror and spice.

NSFW (Smut under the cut) ♡

The sun was hot against you, almost burning the unclothed soft skin of the back of your hand as you stared at the long dirt road ahead of you. There was a man a few feet from you, tall, broad chest, handsome. The Sheriff of Moonridge, Moony, as Sirius would call him, just to spite the man. Or… The Wolf, like most criminals, knew him.

Things didn’t go awry on his watch, Moonridge was the safest town in the west and it was because they had a protecting Wolf against all the bandits that even dared get close enough. No one had managed to cause havoc in his town. No one except yourself.

His hand was on his hostler, so was yours, you could see his grip tightening in the distance, a warning, telling you he was ready, telling you he was faster, telling you you’d be gone in an instant if he took it out. He was the fastest gunsIinger of the West. You smiled, placing your own hand on your own hostler, because it didn’t matter if he was faster, not today at least.

3 seconds passed, he was looking at the way you smiled when a horse barged in from the side. Sirius and Firebolt. Your smile grew wider as the man on the horse extended his hand and hauled you over it, zigzagging his way towards the Sheriff.

“Took you long enough,” you huffed.

Sirius looked back and flashed you a smile as he bit his lip “Saw this beauty,” He said as he raised one of his hands up to your face, there was a small gold ring on his pinky, contrasting against the rest of silver rings he wore “Had to get it for my favourite outlaw.”

“You’re not gonna appease me with a little trinket.”

He pouted “Come on baby, you really think I only got one little trinket?” he asked as he nodded to the thick bag that hung from his belt “I’d get you the entire jewellery if that’s what you wanted.”

You smiled and rolled your eyes, pulling out his gun and firing a warning shot against the Sheriff's feet even in the horse, you had one hell of an aim. That’s how Sirius had discovered you and hauled you into the life of an outlaw after your parents passed away and your uncle was ready to sell you to an old man in exchange for a piece of land.

When you were about to pass next to the man, you put the gun back on Sirius’ hostler and placed your hand on his shoulder, “What are you…?” he started to ask, but shut his mouth when he noticed.

You had leaned down and taken the Sheriff’s hat from his head, and placed it on yours “Thanks Sheriff,” you said in a cocksure tone, a mocking smile and a wink before taking the gun from Sirius again and shooting another warning shot. A few more horses had gathered around you, the rest of the gang.

“Just shoot him somewhere Fox!” Barty said as he got slightly close.

“Oh, but Sheriff Moons is the only one that puts up a fight, it will be boring if he’s gone,” you responded with a pout.

“Why the hat?” asked Sirius, he looked to you over his shoulder before turning back ahead, you could hear the hooves clicking against the ground, approaching your group fast. You turned around and saw the Sheriff, chasing after you on his massive steed, a gift from the bankers after he stopped a robbery, if the rumours were true.

“A little souvenir,” you said with a shrug as you turned around and waved at the Sheriff, hoisting your own gun out and shooting at the side of a light post, causing it to fall down on the floor, a few metres ahead of the man.

“You missed,” teased Crouch. You just smiled, the kerosene from the broken street lamp was on the floor, slipping through the sides and making almost the perfect line, you shot at that this time around and the fire started ablaze.

“You were saying?” you asked your friend, he gave you an approving look. There was a reason you had been made a member of The Marauders, and it wasn’t just to be the leader’s little plaything as some other bands assumed.

Regardless of the fire, the Sheriff’s horse had no fear, and jumped over it, still trailing close behind, “Prongs, you got the timing right still, correct?” Sirius asked.

James nodded, he was Sirius’ best friend, and one of the minds behind the plan of this heist, “Of course,” he said and Sirius tightened his grip on the reins and spurred Firebolt.

Things were getting faster, you kept shooting at things to deter the Sheriff from following, but he was just as relentless as your gang, and followed behind the three of you. “It’s coming,” you said when you heard the whistle of the train. The chug-chug of it would have been enough to deter any horse, but you had trained yours well.

When the train was about to reach the spot you walked through, the horses jumped, to the other side of the tracks, your hat –Remus hat– almost flew off your head, but you managed to hold it with one hand while you used the other to grab onto Sirius and avoid falling of the horse yourself. Once Crouch, the last one to cross made it, the train passed right in front of you, making the perfect wall, in between you and the sheriff.

But that wasn’t the end of the plan, there was a chirping sound from a few carts back and suddenly a side of the train fell open, inside waited for you the rest of the gang. Peter, the mousy guy nicknamed Wormtail and Evan, Bartie's lover. The second guy was a lot more on the peaceful side, but when Barty joined he clarified that he came as a package. Either Evan came with him or he continued by himself, the way he always had been.

James and Sirius agreed, and he was glad he did, since it was thanks to that, that they had another master planner in the team. All the horses jumped up the ramp and into the train, and Evan and Wormy quickly picked the latch up and closed the cart. You smiled and looked at Sirius, a shine in your eyes that let him know exactly what you wanted, “Was it perhaps dangerous?” Yes. But Sirius already knew you found a thrill for danger when he recruited you. He also knew you ended up in a better mood when he indulged you.

You gave him a wink and went to the door of the wagon and opened it with a rather strong pull, slipping out only partially, the Sheriff, had been shocked when the train passed and there was no one left, being stunned by the magic of it before realising you’d somehow gotten on the train and chasing behind. He was a few blocks back, and you smiled, pulling off the hat in a small nod and waving to him with it “Thanks for the souvenir,” you shouted. He pulled his gun and aimed a shot, but you moved to the side and he missed by the hair, you were expecting it. You gave the man a pout as he aimed again, but Sirius was faster, pulling you inside and shutting the door before the second shot even reached the cart.

“You’re absolutely insane,” Evan said in disbelief.

You shrugged “I like to think I’m fun.” You then placed the hat back in your head “What do we think?” you asked with a smile “Nice souvenir, right?”

“It’s rather elegant,” agreed Barty.

“How long are we staying?” Sirius asked Evan.

“12 more minutes,” the blonde responded as he checked his pocket watch, “then we’re out and ride towards Hideout 6.”

You smiled and hummed “I love Hideout 6.”

Barty almost rolled his eyes, he knew why you liked it, he liked it for the same reason. It was big, it had comfortable beds and private rooms. He just didn’t like when Sirius and you were too loud.

A few minutes later, you heard a clock chime and James spoke “Time to get down.”

Peter rode with him, while Evan got on Barty’s horse. You, as you had done earlier, mounted Firebolt along Sirius. They opened the ramp and you all rode down and towards the hideout. In less than half an hour, you’d already gotten there. Evan checked the traps, to make sure no one had sneaked inside while you were gone and you all got in. You took a piece of dried jerky to snack on and walked upstairs, Sirius and the rest stayed, splitting the plunder. While on a normal gang, you wouldn’t trust them to do it evenly without you, you knew Sirius and James would never allow such scheming inside the Marauders. More than a team, the group was like a family.

You were lying on the bed, the sheriff’s hat over your head blocking out the light when you heard a knock on the door “Who?”

“The love of your life,” he responded, you rolled your eyes but mumbled something that sounded close to “come in”, not that it had been necessary, Sirius was already walking inside. “I see you’ve kept the hat,” he said before sitting beside you, turning the bag he’d hold onto and letting the contents fall on the bed.

You took it from your head and sat down beside him, to take a peek at what he’d kept, “Smells nice,” you said pointing at the hat dismissively. Sirius took the hat to his nose, and it really did smell nice. While most cowboys’ hats smelled like nothing more than sweat, this one had a rather distinctive and pleasant aroma, most likely from whatever grooming products the owner used “We should ask him what cologne he’s using now.”

Sirius sighed “You miss him, do you not?”

You shrugged, ignoring the question “We’ve picked very different paths to his own,” you said simply, a tone that let Sirius know that you did not want to talk about it. But after all, it had also been why you never shot him directly.

You all knew The Wolf of Moonridge, except you knew him as Remus.

Sirius traced his finger over your clothed thigh, and you gave him a soft smile, one that contrasted with whatever mask it was you wore when you stepped outside the hideouts and onto a raid. One that only he and maybe James were allowed to see, he loved it. And then gave you a similar face in return. He grabbed onto your hand and pulled it towards his, taking the ring from his small finger and slipping it onto your ring one. Sirius had always had relatively thin fingers, even for a man.

You extended your hand with a half smile and looked at it, turning it around swiftly as you stared “Looks good on me, doesn’t it?”

“Anything looks beautiful on you,” he said, and then smirked “In fact, nothing looks better on you.”

You gave him a rather incredulous look with his suggestive little tone, he pulled you by the hips on top of him, the rest of the gems and jewels he had stolen already forgotten on the bed as he pulled you into a heated kiss. You were already halfway removing the buttons of his shirt when there was a rather urgent knock on the door.

You both ignored it, and went back to kissing, but the person persisted, both of you separated from each other and looked at the door “What?” you said at the same time, annoyance laced in your tone.

“We’ve been found out. Moony followed us somehow.”

“What?!” You asked with a frown “Not Hideout 6!” you whined.

“That clever son of a bitch,” Sirius huffed “Alright luv,” he said, his hand patting your leg “Time for some action,” he added with a half smile.

You hummed in response. As Sirius stood up, you grabbed the bag and threw all the jewels inside, fastening it to your belt before putting your boots on, “Hey babe?” He hummed, “Don’t you think Sheriff Moons grew up rather handsome?”

Sirius threw you a look “He grew up fine,” he responded.

“Aye he did,” you said. “If it were a different situation, perhaps we could drag him to our bed.”

He looked at you, eyes narrowing “You want to drag him to your bed, don’t you?”

You shrugged, putting on the sheriff’s hat again “He smells really nice.”

Sirius laughed at the silly innocent smile you were giving him after hearing such a request “If anyone can convince him, it’s definitely you darling…” He dragged you by the waist and placed another kiss on your lips, taking some time to smell the sides of your face, exactly where you had placed the hat earlier “You’re right, he does.”

When you separated you smiled up at him, and then you heard a gunshot, “I hope he doesn’t fucking ruin hideout 6 for everyone,” you said with a huff as you took a кnife and placed your gun in your hostler. Sirius grabbed you by the waist again, pulling you to him. Your eyes shone with lust at the instructions he whispered into your ear, “And that would work?” you asked, turning to him with a shrewd look.

“Don’t overestimate your abilities, darling,” he told you with a wink and nodded, a sly smirk forming on your face as you both placed yourselves on each side of the door. Sirius opened it carefully, the gunshots still going off in the distance.

There was a moment of heavy breathing as the door opened completely, and then Sirius leaned over the frame, only letting a little of his head out as he searched for signs of someone. He pulled back and nodded. The two of you stepped out, guns held high as you walked down the stairs.

Midway down, you heard a gunshot, the bullet biting onto the wood of the railling and spluttering to the side. You looked around, they were shooting from the outside, Barty and Evan were shooting from one of the windows while Peter and James were on the sides of the front door, the hinges had been torn apart by a gunslinger with surprising accuracy and the door was currently laying on the floor.

“Well there goes hideout six,” you mumbled “How many?”

“At least 6 of them,” Barty responded.

“Sheriff’s with them,” James warned.

You took a deep breath but nodded looking at Sirius and tilted your head just a little “Andromeda's Strategy?”

Sirius took a second to process your suggestion and nodded in response “We’re doing Andromeda, get ready.”

You smiled, in seconds the boys were shooting and both you and Sirius finished walking down the stairs and into a more secluded area. You walked to the side of the house and used a lighter to turn on a long fuse that was connected to the garden with an underground pipe. “Ears!” you shouted, and everyone placed their hands over their own.

3…2…1… Boom!

The explosion caused some of the men to fall back and then started emitting a good deal of smoke. You didn’t say a thing, everyone knew what they had to do. Sirius mounted Firebolt and offered you his hand, but you shook your head “I’m taking his horse, he’ll have to follow.”

Sirius gave you an incredulous look, and then smiled proudly “I’ll see you at our spot later, deal?”

You nodded with a little smirk as you bit your lip. “If things go as planned, we’ll definitely have fun.”

Sirius winked at you and started riding away. You took that as your sign and went through the smoke. The others were still distracted enough not to notice you when you walked behind them, uniting most of their horses and firing a shot just next to them to scare them away. You mounted Moony’s horse and let the last one free, but you didn’t prompt it to run, after all, Remus would have to find a way to follow you.

Once some of the smoke dissipated, you made sure Remus saw you, pulling the horse back a little to make him stand on his back legs for just a second before riding away. The boys were already riding in all sorts of directions, all different to your own and the men didn’t know who to follow behind, until Remus gave them orders.

He’s certainly good at giving orders, you thought as you waved at him with a taunting smile on your face. One of his men, a short, disagreeable-looking dude pointed his gun at you, and you stared at him, you knew he was a bad shot from the sole way he stood, legs wobbling and posture askew, poor dude, it might have been his first day. He fired the shot, but Remus pushed him away before he tried again “Not at my horse,” he said sternly.

You smiled “Yeah, not at his horse,” you repeated and rode off. Remus mounted the only horse left and indicated the others to follow behind the trial of the rest of the marauders.

“She’s the best shot in the county boss, it’s a bad idea to go alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” Remus said, offering no further explanation before following behind you.

You both sped through the desert, it didn’t take him that long to catch up with you “Darling, I’m gonna need you to give back my horse and my hat,” he shouted, as he levelled with you.

“And surrender like that?” you asked with a pout “That wouldn’t be fun Remus,” you said before spurring the horse, leaving Moony behind.

Eventually, when you lost sight of him, you walked inside a small abandoned-looking little house, where you used to live before your family passed away. You walked inside and waited, you started to get bored at some point and went to rummage through the kitchen. You heard the creak of a floorboard and then someone was hauling you from the back, a кnife at your throat and a strong arm pressing you against his chest with enough force to keep you there but not enough to hurt you.

You pulled your hips back against his “Is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?”

He tightened his grip, кnife prickling at the tender skin of your neck “Come on… why do you do this?” he asked.

“Because it’s fun Moons,” you replied as you felt the кnife pierce just slightly, deciding to pull your hips back again, this time making sure to roll them against his.

“Stop that!” he ordered.

“Make me,” you responded with a devilish little smirk, he hauled you off him and onto a nearby wall, кnife still at your throat.

“Come on darling-“

“It’s Fox now,” you interrupted.

“Does Sirius also call you that now?”

You didn’t respond, jaw clenching slightly.

“Thought so,” he said with a nod and whispered your name, almost a plea, completely in contrast with the way he had you against the wall, a small line of bIood already dripping from your neck, “Just… come back.”

“Back where?!” you said with a frown “With Uncle Cliff? So he can sell me off to the first old banker that asks for my hand? No, thank you.”

“Marry me, I’ll ask Cliff for your hand.”

You scoffed the кnife digging deeper into your skin, Remus pulled it back when he noticed, not having realised he had caused you to bleed, “What a hell of a proposal, with a кnife against my neck and one against your ribs.”

“What кnife against my–?” He looked down and realised your hand toying with one of the buttons of his vest, he sighed and turned back to you “I’m faster. I’ve always been faster.”

“No doubt,” you smiled, “but you want to slice my throat as much as I want to get married to an old rich banker.”

“You don’t want to stab me either,” he said as he pulled back, raising his hand and placing the кnife on its hoster. “The offer’s on, either way.”

You raised your eyebrows, leaning back against the wall and using your ascot to clean the bIood from your neck. “The marriage proposal you mean?” He looked to the side but nodded. “Why didn’t you ask me before?”

That seemed to take him by surprise “I’m sorry?”

“Before this,” you said, arms open, trying to express before you became who you were now.

He swallowed “You’d always liked Sirius.”

“That’s bullshit.”

He huffed “I thought you wouldn’t want me.”

That pulled a frown “What? Why?”

Then he pulled a look at you, a frown and a small tilt of his head as if he didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to say it was because of the way he looked, because of the scars, because he had nothing to offer you back then.

You gasped “Don’t be ridiculous, you must get hundreds of women thrown at you, the Handsome Wolf of Moonridge, you think I haven’t heard the stories?”

“They’re not like you.”

“You hold way too high standards for me Moons, I think I’m just like them, swayed by the handsome cowboy,” you said and walked towards him, placing your hand on his badge “And the little shiny star on his chest.”

He frowned, “You just want me to let you go,” he said bitterly.

“Au contraire,” you said with a tilt of the head. “I want you to join us. We could use a great gunslinger.”

He raised his eyebrows “to stop being the Sheriff and join your gang of outlaws?”

“Mh-hm,” you said, your hands were now on his neck, tracing over some of the scars with a feather-like touch.

“No.”

You stood on your toes to whisper in his ear, “Allow me to persuade you.”

“NO,” he repeated, stronger this time, you smiled. You could hear the wavering in his voice.

You pressed a soft kiss, wet kiss to his jaw, and you felt him tense, another kiss and he was relaxing against you, his body giving in while his mind still raised with thoughts, you continued kissing until you reached the corner of his mouth, pressing a kiss that lasted just a second longer before pulling away “Tell me if you want me to stop,” you said looking at him, a deadIy serious tone in your voice.

Remus looked at you, eyes pleading before he placed his hands on the sides of your head and pulled you into a kiss. You kissed back instantly, brushing your tongue over his and deepening the kiss when he parted them to let you in. Remus was kissing you like you were the air he needed to breathe, and you kissed back in a similarly desperate manner.

Eventually, you pulled apart to take a breath, and you saw his doubtful face. He was about to say something when you leaned down to trail kisses from his jaw to his neck, fighting with the collar of his shirt for more space.

He saw you reach for your кnife, and he let you, if he was going to diе in between your kisses, then it would be the sweetest farewell a man like him could hope for. But you only used it to cut the buttons of his vest, letting the кnife fall on the floor before pulling the piece of clothing off from him. He allowed you, he’d allow you to do whatever the hell you wanted to him at that point if he was being honest.

He had been pretty passive up until then, but the moment you grazed over his thin linen shirt with your fingernails he seemed to be brought back. Placing his hand on your hips and pushing you further onto the wall, you smiled in between kisses as he pressed his knee in between your legs. You were still kissing him as you started to rock your hips against his leg, grinding on him shamelessly.

He groaned at the feeling of your hips rolling back and forth, grabbing your hair and pulling it lightly to get your lips away from his neck, to be able to look at your face again, to make sure it was real, to make sure it really had been you.

You smiled when you realised he was staring, thinking of a snarky remark to give only for it to be caught in your throat the moment he leaned down to kiss it. Licking over the place he had unwittingly cut and savouring the taste of sweat and copper “I’m sorry,” he mumbled against it as he continued to press kisses, “I’m sorry,” he repeated. Neither Remus nor you were sure if he was sorry for slicing your skin, for not daring to ask you to marry him before you became “Fox”, or for taking this long to finally press his lips to yours, perhaps it was all of it.

“Then make it up to me,” you managed to say with another roll of your hips against his leg.

He hummed into your neck, a mischievous smile, reminiscent of when you were children appeared on his lips “Tell me what you want.”

There were so many things that you wanted, but the only thing that could come to your mind in that precise instant was “Fewer clothes.”

“Yours or mine?” he teased and you huffed in response as he pulled his hands from you to unbutton his shirt and pull it off, he then went for yours, untying the ascot with his hands and teeth and immitting your earlier movement by taking his кnife to break the buttons of your shirt apart, and pulling it off along with your jacket, leaving you only with a corset.

He took his moment to look, to appreciate, before you spoke “Commission a drawing, it’ll last longer,” you teased.

“Sirius must have hundreds already, I could always confiscate them when we finally trap you.”

“Or you could ask for them nicely once you join our team,” you countered.

He huffed a laugh in response “And now?”

“And now?” You repeated.

“What else do you want?” he asked, his fingers tracing over your collarbone, torturous feather light touches that made you feel like you were on fire.

You flushed and his gaze darkened, “touch me,” you whispered and he complied, his hands trailing all over your body shamelessly as he started to flex his thigh muscles, causing you to go back to riding it, with his help now.

He too, without being prompted, went back to kissing your neck, now trailing kisses down your collarbone and towards the valley of your breasts. Lucious, soft breasts that would press against the fabric of your corset whenever you breathed, taunting him. He wanted to see them bare, and so he trailed his hands through your back and felt the laces. He toyed with one of the ends before looking at you, you nodded and he undid the top, trying to unlace it as he kissed.

But Remus wasn’t a particularly patient man, even being often teased by his friends due to his sometimes explosive temperament. He went back to his hoster and took the кnife out. “Don’t move,” he commanded. You stared at him with a smirk as he peered over your shoulder, grazing the skin of your back with the кnife before latching it against the lacing of your corset and cutting them all open in one swift motion.

You smiled, holding the piece of clothing against yourself and releasing only when he had pulled back enough to see. You let it slowly fall from your chest, it wasn’t even halfway down when he fisted it and threw it to the side, desperate to see you.

To see you up front, to see what his imagination had been showing him for so many years but better, brighter, warmer, softer and alive. He had seen a few of Sirius’ drawings, all from the fantasies of his head from when they were younger, but nothing compared to this, nothing compared to you.

“Fuck you’re so beautiful,” he murmured under his breath.

“Could have it every day if you joined us,” you said, taking one of his hands in yours and leading it to one of your breasts.

He smiled at you, eyebrows raised but complied, letting your hand guide his, squeezing and then pinching your now hardened nipples “Could also have the entire law system behind my back, having to turn my head and worrying about getting shot every ten seconds,” he responded sarcastically as he trailed kisses down your neck towards the breast he wasn’t touching yet, “Not being able to sleep properly, always with a gun under my pillow and a кnife strapped to my leg.”

You moaned when he kissed your breast, he was enjoying the way the soft, supple flesh pushed under his mouth and sprang back just as he pulled away to look “Wouldn’t it be worth it?” you asked, breathless.

The sounds you were making were driving the man to insanity, him fading and fading away, leaving only the hungry wolf. He hummed as he took your nipple in between his teeth and nibbled on it softly, causing yet another moan to erupt from your mouth. Perhaps it would be, he thought.

You lowered your hand towards his pants, palming him softly as he groaned into your breast. He was hard and he was definitely big, a testament to his height after all. You couldn’t be sure until you actually saw him, but he felt bigger than Sirius did.

“Fuck, dove…” he said as you started stroking him gently, hand still over his pants, dragging up and down and gripping unto him when you felt the outline against your palm.

“Language Sheriff,” you teased, this time it was you who pulled his hair and dragged him towards your lips, kissing him with an almost feverish ardour that left the two of you breathless, all the while you continued to rock your hips against his thigh and he continued to flex his muscles against your cunt. And your hand, that devious hand of yours, the sharpest shot in the west, trading the gun for his cock, never stopping the lazy and soft strokes. “Ask me that question of yours again Remus…” you breathed into his mouth when your lips separated for just a second.

He smirked into your lips “Tell me doll, what do you want?”

You smiled “I want you to…” you breathed “touch more.”

He looked surprised at your request, and you used the moment to drag the hand on your waist lower, enough to bring it in between your pants. Remus took the opportunity and seized it, using his free hand to unbutton the few buttons that kept the pants in position and freely roam around, you were wet, almost impossibly wet. He didn’t wait too much, tracing his fingers through your folds as he used his knee to hoist you up and get better access, massaging and exploring the sensitive area until he discovered a spot that made you tighten your grip around his bicep, digging your nails so hard you almost pierced his skin.

“You want more of that?” he asked as he brought his lips back to your neck, you nodded and pushed your hips against his hand again, chasing for more friction and he chuckled, shaking his head in between kisses “No, no, use that pretty little mouth of yours to ask for it dove,” he tutted.

You whined in response, and he just chuckled further, taking his hand away and placing it on your leg “Remus!” you warned.

“Yes, dove? What do you want?” he asked calmly.

You scoffed in frustration licking your lips as you fought your way to surrender, and then you thought of yet another way to rile the man up “I want your fingers, Remus. I want them inside me, now.”

He considered asking you to say please at least, to beg, but he was mildly aware that you may or may not bonk him in the head if he dared to do such a thing, so he only listened, dragging his fingers back to your cunt, toying with your clit until he was satisfied with how wet his hands were and then, without a warning, digging two fingers inside you. Your breath hitched in your throat and your nails dug into his bicep even more, leaving little crescent moons imprinted on his skin, very proper for the Wolf of Moonridge.

“Hurts?” he asked breathlessly. You buckled your hips against his fingers in response. “Good,” he added and started pumping them in and out, curling them inside of you and toying with your clit as he did “You’re so fucking tight,” he mumbled, more to himself, but you heard either way, and clenched around his fingers, causing yet a few other curses to leave his mouth.

As he fingerfucked you, you brought your free hand down, stopping your own strokes to take it off, unbuttoning his pants and letting them fall on the floor with a thud as you also took the button of his briefs off. His cock pretty much sprang and bumped with his belly as they too fell on the floor. You buckled your hips against his hand, head pulling back and biting your lips as he touched a particularly sensitive spot.

“Fuck Remus,” you breathed out, his name on your lips making the most pleasurable sound he’d ever heard.

He repeated his actions and in a matter of seconds, he had you panting, barely managing to make a coherent thought until you clenched around him again, hips making the most erratic movements until you leaned down your head against his bare shoulder as he slowed his pace.

“So… You still very sure you don’t want to be the Sheriff’s little wife?” he asked in cocky tone.

It took you a minute to process his question, his fingers still moving inside you although the pace had slowed significantly, and then you stared down, his cock was still there, hard and proud, a bit of precum brimming from the tip, you smiled and reached down, wrapping your hand around him and relishing on the way he groaned, the sound so close to your ear you almost shivered in return. You moved your hand up and then down and then toyed with the tip. Sirius had taught you how good it made men feel, seemed to be working just as well on Moony.

As you stroked him, Remus’ fingers became less confident, less focused, almost lost in the pleasure you were giving him, he was panting, you had managed to stand straighter and he had his head on your shoulder now, head cloudy and kissing your neck whenever his head allowed him to make a coherent thought. He had never felt this good with anyone. Whatever it was you were doing to him, you clearly knew what to do.

“Ask me that question again,” you taunted.

He seemed fazed, blinking at you in between pants “What,” breath “do you,” another deep breath “want?”

You smiled at that “I want this,” you tightened your grip around his cock just a little “now.”

That seemed to bring Remus’ vigour back, he pulled his leg from under you and allowed you to fall back on the ground, you pushed your pants off as fast as you could and Remus took a moment to look at you, to really look at your naked frame and his pupils were blown, much more that they had been in the past. He tried to memorise every curve and corner and crevice, scared he wouldn’t be able to see them again, you saw the way he stared at you and bit your lip “I said now, Remus.”

He didn’t make you wait another second, placing both of his hands on the side of your waist and hoisting you up on him, so you were straddling him, you bit your lip at the feeling of his thick and warm cock against your folds, and grinded against him by pushing your hips and tightening your legs around his torso. He tightened his hold on your waist, his breath growing heavier as he felt your wetness against him directly.

You rolled your hips again “All right, hold on,” he said “I’m trying to adjust.” You just rolled your hips against him again, causing the skin around his cock to ride down, and prompting him to hiss. “I said wait goddamnit,” he insisted a bit more commanding this time around.

You smirked “I like it when you order me around Sheriff Moons,” you joked, and he threw you a warning look, you opened your mouth again, but he had taken his cock into his hands and rubbed the tip to your clit, so instead of another witty remark you only managed to gasp.

It was he who smirked now, but then he stared at you, looking at you attentively “I’m going in,” he informed, and then he did, slowly, to allow you to adjust to his size, not completely at first, only the tip before pulling out again, next time he went in he pushed a little further again. You breathed slowly, he didn’t move, not until you started to clench around him, almost drawing him in even more “You feel so fucking good dove.”

That was all the encouragement you needed, you rolled your hips against his, a little harshly and he pushed towards you again, you let a sound in between a whine and a moan and he repeated the action, pushing in and out just to hear that sweet sound of yours again. The sound that made him go wolfish, undomesticated, wild.

Like an animal, like the wolf they always compared him with, he had no control, not when he was with you. At some point, you felt his lips on yours again, and you kissed back eagerly, you’d never taken Remus as a romantic, but then again, the way he was fucking you against the wall wasn’t exactly the most romantic either, he was harsh and strong and he pushed in and out of you with a ferocity that had you mumbling his name incoherently, sometimes Moons, sometimes Moony, sometimes Remus. That was his favourite.

Regardless, there was something about the way he held you close to him, the way his hands would travel up and down your thigh, almost reverently, that you could see there was care behind his actions, perhaps something more, something hidden and locked up for years out of fear.

At some point his movements became a little erratic, you clenched around him, just to tease and he bit your earlobe in response “I’m going to…”

“Yeah, I know…” you responded. He pulled out of you, ready to catch it with his hand, but then he turned to you, a mischievous smile on his lips “where do you want me?”

You were almost taken aback by his words, but you wouldn’t pass out such an opportunity, you kneeled down in front of him, and peered at him through your lashes “In my mouth.”

He froze, and you smiled, the very reaction you had expected. Then you nodded your head and dragged it closer to him, wrapping your lips around his tip, and bobbing your head, just once, and you felt the spurts of liquid into your mouth, you bobbed again, helping him empty himself before separating completely, a line of spit forming between your mouth and his cock. You looked up at him as you panted, breath heavy and chest rising up and down, your nipples still perked, your lips wet and glossy, you were the prettiest sight he’d ever seen and he was about to lean down to kiss you again when you spoke.

“Have I convinced you yet?”

Remus didn’t say a thing, he looked at you as a deer trapped in the headlights would, still hazy and seeing stars from his close orgasm, but then he heard someone clear his throat, and he was quite literally looking at a star now, Sirius.“If she hasn’t,” Sirius said as he tilted his head in the most lustful and cocksure expression he had ever seen in his life, biting his lascivious lips before he spoke again “I may have an idea of how we can convince you… together.”

A/N: well I’d been wanting to write e Cowboy au for a while, and while there are still some other tropes that I would have liked to use (like the ties to the railroad trope) I’m pretty happy with the final result hehe. Especially with some of those dialogues between the reader and Remus. I literally had to stop writing to take a breather more than once.

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leonstoenailunderhisbed · 22 days

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A Southern Myth

Summary: Leon had been sent to a rural place in Texas where sightings of a BOW were reported. But upon entering the forgotten town, he began to get entangled in a horrific twist of events involving a religious cult. Things escalate and now he must survive with the help of a girl who doesn’t believe in anything.

Warning: horror. religion. mentions of blood and gore like description. cult activities. violence. swearing. reader is fem. there is no romance/smut.

A/N: omg I’ve never written something like this before🙈 CAPCOM should hire me for script writing.

“You believe you're on the righteous path, you believe you're a force for good, but you're not.” - John Seed, Far Cry 5

“Come forth, my children. Let your souls become pure under His guidance.”

“Let us rejoice in purity as we bathe in this sacrifice. Let us become one for Him, for He has been waiting.”

The sound of the dirt rolling under the car’s wheel made the road feel bumpy for Leon. The heat was intense the further he went into the rural side of what was once a town named Giligand in Texas. Once a lively town that had become a ghost town.

Until a group of religious settlers took over the desert land and claimed it their new home. They built their own society, far away from modern civilization. The orange and dried plants surrounding the new town as the wind blew hard. The sun intensified and caused Leon’s sweat to trickle down his body.

Right in the middle of nowhere is where he got sent- yet again. The D.S.O has assigned Leon a more haunting mission. The government division found in Texas’ own legislation had found weird signs of an unknown entity roaming around the dried up land. He found himself standing in front of an agent in Austin telling him about this entity.

“Our homeland security experts have raised a few concerns regarding a secluded town in Western Texas. They believe that this could be related to the virus incident that presided in other countries,” The senior agent stated as he gave Leon a stack of papers containing pictures and files of the sightings.

The abnormality was big and round. But its eyes were the only visible thing in the dark of night. Pure white eyes protruding from the creature’s face, sending a wave of uneasiness to Leon. The monster seemed tall, definitely more than 9 feet tall. Leon couldn’t tell exactly what it was but he guessed there were some sort of horns coming out the creature’s skull.

Leon had finally reached the town, being greeted by a yellowing sign. The sign written in Times New Roman “Welcome to Cunstacin” on the bottom “previously Giligand” and then near the border edge “Pop. 189”

Such a small town for a big state. Leon didn’t think much of it. He wasn’t aware of how much his life would change the minute he passed the sign without seeing those pure white eyes watching him from behind his truck.

The town itself was small but seemed very busy. The roads were flat with gravel. The houses were old and barren but still usable. He wondered how people were able to make a living of such an abandoned place. As he neared a motel, he was met with the leader of the town. A tall man of tan skin, hair long enough to reach his shoulders as his beard grew to his neck.

He approached Leon’s truck and greeted him with a polite smile, “Ah, you must be the new guy they sent here.” Leon nodded as he turned off the engine and jumped out of his car.

The man walked up to Leon and patted his shoulder, “Hope the road wasn’t too tedious. The distance between here and the city is pretty stretchy.” The man chuckled and looked behind him where two young women stood. “Go fetch his luggage and take it to his room. We don’t want to make our esteemed guest work too much now, don’t we?”

The two ladies nodded and walked over to the trunk of Leon’s truck. They both carried the brown and thick luggages to the motel, their silhouettes getting lost in between the halls.

The man then gently forced Leon to walk with him, “I’m sure you’re tired and you might want to get some rest, but there’s an afternoon mass the town wishes for you to attend. The people want to meet the new guy in town,” the man laughed again and gave Leon’s chest a lazy slap.

“I appreciate the offer but I’m here for work- strictly for work,” Leon replied as he looked at the man and then around the area.

The man chuckled and took his hand away from Leon’s shoulder, “No worries- I get it. You’re a busy guy and your work ethic is commendable,” the man leaned towards Leon’s ear to whisper, “But if you find yourself in need of His words, do come to the church behind the Great Willowed Forest.” The man leaned back and gave him another toothy smile, almost unsettling. “Make yourself at home.” That was the last thing the man said before he began to walk away.

Leon exhaled through his nose. He already got the creeps from the background check he ran on the town but meeting the people in person made the whole experience much more precarious.

He began to walk along the town, trying to find any other civilians. He saw an older woman with two children outside a two story building.

“Excuse me,” Leon said as he jogged to the three individuals. One of the children, a little boy with a bowl haircut pointed to Leon and exclaimed, “Look, meemaw- ‘tis the new guy!” The older woman slapped the little boy’s head, “Pointing at strangers is rude.”

Leon cleared his throat, “It’s alright,” he looked down at the kid before looking back at the older woman, “I’ve heard there were some strange… sightings around this town-“

“Ah, yes-“ the woman cut him off, “You’re talking Tervin.” Leon immediately furrowed his brows. They had named the potential B.O.W?

“Tervin?” Leon asked and the woman nodded, “Yes. He was sent by God,” she looked up at the sky and then back at him.

“He was kind enough to send us a messenger. My boy, the end is coming. We must cleanse our souls of our sins in order to enter our Eden.”

Leon immediately felt a weird sense of unease in his lower stomach, the bottom pit sinking down after the woman spoke.

The woman took a step forward and cupped Leon’s face, “He is our savior. He will bring us to an eternal peace. Time is ticking, we must proceed with His plan.”

Leon took a step back, taking deep breaths. What was this feeling? His heart was hammering against his rib cage and he could feel his head become light. Maybe it was heatstroke or maybe it was fear.

The woman stared at Leon, seemingly in a trance. He swore he saw her eye color vanish for a moment, not right before she “came back” and smiled at him. She then took hold of the two children’s hands and walked away. He could only stay there watching as they got further away.

He exhaled shakily as he ran a hand through his hair, this would be harder than he thought.

For the next following days, he’s been trying to talk to these people but everyone said remotely the same things.

“Monster? He’s no monster. He’s our salvation.”

“God sent him, it is His gift to us.”

“We must act quickly, the end is nigh”

Leon was currently sitting on the edge of the bed in the room he was currently staying. His elbows rested on his knees as his gaze fell on the picture of the creature he had in his hand. Pure black, except for the eyes. Something felt sinister- almost too evil. But he couldn’t pinpoint what. Everyone looked normal-ish.

He left the motel and began his 15th round of research. He was so sure he’d get kicked out if he kept asking the people questions. His mind traveled back to what the leader said, something about attending mass.

He didn’t want to but he knew that he had to try. Maybe there was something that could be useful in the church.

So that’s where he was headed. To the Great Willowed Forest. A forest full of tall trees and tall grass. The sun was setting and the church came into his line of vision. A tall Victorian structure that was adorned in white and gold. A bell sitting on top of the highest tower peak of the religious establishment. He slowly walked up the freaking and old steps of the church. Muffled talking from just the other of the door. With a light inhale, he pushed the door open with gentleness and stepped into the church.

The inside was much more beautiful. The benches were neatly fixed in rows as the windows were stained glass depicting stories of their God. The church was packed and the leader stood on the podium, preaching about their path to salvation.

“We must obey the Lord’s rule. For we are His children as well as His servants. We must makeup for the loss of His journey.”

Leon found himself an empty seat at the very back. No one seemed to have noticed him enter, they were all focusing on the town’s leader words. Almost as if they were bewitched.

“Tonight, we must bring our sacrifice and cleanse our souls. We must savor the taste of blood as He has given us a vessel from his sacrifices. We must show him our devotion.”

The mass lasted for an hour and a half, and he didn’t find anything remotely useful. He sighed in defeat as he felt like he wasted his time, yet again. There were no signs of any B.O.W and these people were most certainly convinced that the monster was their key to heaven.

It was nighttime when Leon had left the church, walking aimlessly through the forest. His mind preoccupied with thoughts about potentially lying to the D.S.O and telling them it was just some southern myth.

Until he hears clinking sounds coming from behind a bush. His agent instincts activated and he quietly walked towards the bush to see what was behind it.

To his surprise, he’d found another person. A girl working on a garden. She had been couched down on the floor as her hands worked through the soil.

As he walked towards you, his boots crunched against the twigs lost in the grass. Your attention had been drawn to the sound and you quickly spotted the new man in town.

You furrowed your brows as he approached you, “You’re the new guy everyone’s talking about.”

Leon nodded curtly, “The one and only,” you hummed in response and resumed your duties.

“Can I ask-“

“No.”

He was caught off guard by your immediate answer. You didn’t even look back at him. He could only stare at the back of your head as your hands worked through the soil.

“You didn’t even listen to what I had to say,” he approached you and crouched next to you, glancing at the plants you’ve been planting.

“I don’t need to. You’re asking questions about this stupid and fake thing everyone claims to be salvation or some other bullshit,” you grumbled.

“Not necessarily-“ he sighed and looked at your side profile, “I’m not here for that-“

“What do you want me to tell you? That there’s some sort of monster roaming around the forest?” You turned your head to look at him, “Because I won’t. I haven’t seen anything and I do not believe it even exists. Those lunatics are hell bent on their stupid… belief,” you scoffed as you turned your attention back to your plants.

“Bunch of bullshit if you ask me,” you muttered. He looked at you some more before looking back down at your hands covered in dirt.

“So you aren’t with those people?” Leon raised a brow as he analyzed you. You shook your head no, “Hell no. You don’t know what they do to those who don’t believe in their God… you don’t know anything.”

Leon remained silent as your words settled down in his mind. There was more than what you led on and both of you knew this.

“Then tell me,” he replied quietly. You sighed and looked at him with an annoyed expression, “Doesn’t matter. Just go back to your shit and mind your business.”

He didn’t say anything, he just watched you for a few minutes before he stood up and left.

He went back to his motel room and laid down on the bed. Staring up at ceiling as he thought about the events that took place. He still couldn’t shake off the strange feeling he felt about this town. Something felt odd but he just didn’t know what. He sighed and decided to just sleep for the night.

Leon woke up early in the morning and tried to find the leader of the town. Surprisingly, he was at the church. He was sitting down on a bench, silently praying. Leon walked up to him and sat next to him as he waited for him to finish praying.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t our visitor. To what do I owe the pleasure?” The man said as he noticed Leon’s presence next to him. Leon cleared his throat and pulled out a picture of ‘Tervin’

“I need you to tell me about this. What do you know?” Leon’s brows were furrowed, he was serious. He didn’t come around to play. The man took the picture and stared at it. Something in his aura had changed upon seeing that picture.

“Where did you get this?” The man asked as he looked at Leon with an unreadable expression. Leon shrugged, “I can’t say.” The man hummed and looked back at the altar in front of them.

“Tervin is a gift from God. He was sent as a warning of impending doom,” the man replied in a flat voice. “If he isn’t satisfied, then he seeks blood. We must cleanse this town of impurities and relay a message to God that we are worthy of his Eden paradise.”

Something in that caused a shiver to run down Leon’s spine, but he didn’t show it. He remained serious and calm. Leon nodded once and stood up, feeling like no one will actually tell him anything.

“Thanks,” he muttered before he left the church. When he walked out, he nearly crashed into you.

“Watch it,” you hissed at him. He looked down at you with a raised brow, “I’m pretty sure you meant ‘excuse me’” he crossed his arms over his chest and kept blocking the doorway.

You sighed and looked at him unimpressed, “Excuse me.” Leon rolled his eyes and stepped to the side. As you began to walk past him, you noticed the picture in his hands. Your brows pinched together and you quickly pointed to it, “what’s that?”

Leon looked down at the picture and then back at you, “I’m supposed to investigate this… thing.” He watched you closely, trying to gauge your reaction as you stood there silently thinking.

“You’ll get yourself in trouble if you keep putting your nose where it doesn’t belong,” you warned before stepping inside the church. He saw you walk up to the leader. He exhaled and walked back to the town. When will someone actually help him?

It was somewhere past 11 pm, he was staring at the files he had about this town and his objective. It was impossible to think how he didn’t have any leads. It was the Leon S Kennedy! He always saw that the job got done, always.

He groaned defeatedly and began to walk around the town, he doesn’t even know how many times he’s done that.

The town was awfully quiet. There was a fog occupying most of his vision, making the place look eerie and unsettling. He heard the rustling of the trees and grasses but he paid no mind to that. Not right now, at least.

He saw you sitting on a fountain, staring at your reflection deep in thought. Why were you the only one out here. He walked over to you and spoke in a soft voice, “What are you doing out here?”

You looked over at him and then back at the water, “Could ask you the same.”

Leon sighed and scratched his head, “I just- I wanted to ask questions but seems like everyone just… disappeared.”

You hummed in response as your fingers played with the water, “They didn’t. They’re at the church praying or something.”

His ears perked up, praying at this time? He didn’t want to question it but it still lingered in his mind.

After a few moments of silence, he couldn’t help but ask, “You said you didn’t believe in God, why is that?” He asked in a quiet voice.

You looked at him before motioning for him to follow you, “It’s better if I just showed you.”

You led him through the dark forest, twigs snapping under your shoes and wind howling soft whispers as the moonlight glimmered down you two.

“This town ostracizes those who don’t believe in God. Do you know what happens to nonbelievers?” You looked behind your shoulder to glance at Leon for a brief moment.

“No, I don’t but do tell,” he followed behind you as his eyes scanned the forest for any threats.

You sighed and stopped walking once you’ve reached an abandoned cemetery, you walked up to one of the gravestones and stared down at the name, “Jeffrey Clyle. 1987-2024.”

“Sacrifice,” you whispered. Leon heard you and walked up next to you, your eyes distant and your expression solemn.

“Ever since rumors of the “messenger” started, they’ve been capturing and targeting those whose faith has been faltering…” your gaze remained down at the gravestone and Leon remained silent as he let you talk.

“They’ve been doing human sacrifices in the name of God. They believe that God would forgive them if they kill those who oppose him…” your voice trailed off for a moment before you turned your face to look at him, “It’s evil. Punishing people for not believing in something is inhumane. They’re all slaves to their own fucking religion, that God is not kind and I will never believe in it.”

“Then what are you still doing here?” Leon asked as he stared into your eyes, searching for an answer.

“Because my father is the fucking leader of this whole thing. I can’t just leave,” you mumbled and looked away. “I already get judged for not believing- imagine what would happen to me if I left?”

He remained silent once again. Your father was the preacher and the leader of the town? That makes things even more interesting. Leon never pictured himself to be in this kind of situation- not since Spain, at least. It all seemed the same to him. Religion controlling people, is that all it will ever be?

Then he remembered something from mass he attended,

“Tonight, we must bring our sacrifice and cleanse our souls. We must savor the taste of blood as He has given us a vessel from his sacrifices. We must show him our devotion.”

Leon’s eyes widened as he began to finally realize what might happen. He looked down at you, “You mean to tell me… that your father participates in human sacrifices? Why?” His eyes were narrowed as his breathing became faster.

You looked at him with narrowed eyes, “Because his idiotic self thinks that sacrificing people will help him and his goons reach their heaven.”

Innocent lives were being used for this town’s religion. This didn’t sit right with Leon. He quickly ran out of the cemetery- his heartbeat speeding as his legs carried his body towards the church.

Under the embrace of the moon and the night, a gathering assembled at the edge of the churchyard, shrouded by the shadows cast by the townspeople. Their faces unrecognizable under the dark night, their chants in hushed tones as they circled around a sacrifice.

Bound by chains, a person writhed in resistance, their muffled cries stifled by a potato sack over their head. Leon stood behind a tree as you came behind him to look at the scene unfold in front of your eyes.

The leader of the town emerged, wielding a sacrificial blade gleaming under the moonlight. Each stroke of the blade sent shivers down your’s and Leon’s spine, as the victim's anguished pleas echoed through the night, a haunting presence appeared through the tethered night.

“We give this sacrifice to you, our Lord. Let us repent for our sins and wash ourselves with the blood of those who’ve been cleansed.”

The creature- otherwise known as the B.O.W- emerged from behind the forest and entered the churchyard. Its stature was 11 feet, towering over everyone. Its black glistening skin reflected the moonlight as its pearly white eyes penetrated the group of believers. Its horns swirled upwards, reaching up to the sky. The townspeople all bowed to the creature as they chanted its name, “All hail Tervin.”

Leon’s eyes widened as he saw the B.O.W while your eyes widened at the fact that this “messenger” was indeed real. Leon took out his gun and aimed it at the B.O.W. You quickly pulled his arm down and whispered in a harsh tone, “Are you stupid? That thing could be dangerous.”

Leon narrowed his eyes at you, “I’ve fought those things before, I know what I’m doing.” He shook your hands away from his arm and aimed the gun back at the beast.

The beast approached the human sacrifice and with its claws, it picked up. Almost instantly crushing the human, letting the blood fall down like rain on the townspeople.

“Thank you, Lord, for this blessing”

The B.O.W then ate the human sacrifice after the townspeople showered in their blood. A scene so horrific and disturbing, it twisted your stomach upside down. The creeping sensation of the fact that it could’ve been you in that situation only made it worse.

To feel your rib cage cave in, piercing your lungs and heart as blood trickles down your mouth. Its claws clawing into your body, letting the blood flow like water.

It only made you shiver and writhe in disgust.

Leon then began to shoot at the B.O.W with his gun, drawing the attention of the townspeople. One bullet shot the creature’s eye, causing it to stagger backwards in pain. The group of believers all turned to look at you and Leon.

Their faces unrecognizable- their faces foreign as the creases and eyes all felt like distinct people. The group slowly began to walk towards you two as the monster howled in anger.

“God, forgive those sinners. They haven’t sought your guidance. Let us illuminate their path,”

The leader spoke as they approached you and Leon. Anxiety coursed through your body as you saw the B.O.W swing its claws at the group of believers. People flying left and right. The leader turned around and observed in delight.

“Yes, God, yes! We shall sacrifice ourselves for Eden.”

The whole group then began to chant, “For Eden. For Tervin.”

The B.O.W only had one goal in mind- and it was to kill the person who injured it. As Tervin kept walking towards you and Leon, Leon took hold of your wrist and began to ran. He dragged you through the forest back to the motel he was staying in.

He looked the door to his room and turned to look at you, “What the fuck was that!?” Leon was stressing, all these emotions resurfaced and he felt overwhelmed. Why was this happening, how was this happening?

“I told you, they’re fucking evil when it comes to their God,” you replied harshly.

“Yeah I wasn’t exactly expecting your father to be the leader of a cult with that thing as its dog!,” Leon replied as his hands traveled through his face and hair.

You scoffed and crossed your arms over you chest but just as you were to speak, the ground shook. Heavy footsteps were heard and Leon rushed to the window. He peeked through the blinds and saw the group of believers walking over to the motel with Tervin in following them. They kept chanting as they kept walking.

“We need to get out of here now-“ you said as you began to hurry out the door. Leon, however, stopped you.

“I can’t just leave, I have a mission to do and it requires me to kill that thing. I cannot go home until it’s dead,” he said as he stared at you with a resolved expression.

You could only stare at him in silence for a few moments before sighing defeatedly, “Fine, do whatever you want.”

“Stay here,” he instructed as he took his gun and walked out, leaving you alone in his motel room.

In the flickering glow of the moonlight, amidst the eerie chants of the cultists, Leon stood there, gun in hand as he scanned the group. He needed to be smart. They had a B.O.W to their advantage.

As the first cultist lunged forward, knife in hand, Leon countered with swift precision, deflecting the blade with a punch to the gut. His movements were a blur of calculated strikes and evasions. As he killed and wounded the cultists, they grew more frenzied, their chants escalating into desperate cries of fury. Yet, undeterred, Leon continued fighting.

“We must bring him to God!” They chanted as they kept lunging at Leon.

Amidst the chaos, the B.O.W stepped forward, its twisted features contorted with rage as it charged at Leon. With the gun pointed at the beast, he shot bullet after bullet, causing it to slow its movements.

“God, please forgive our brother for he has sinned. We must cleanse him.”

Leon ran out of bullets and just as the B.O.W was about to strike, he saw you throw a pitchfork at it. The blades piercing the creature’s skin, stabbing it right in the chest.

The B.O.W let out a screeching scream, “No! Our messenger!” The leader spoke in anguish as he watched the creature stumble back, falling to the ground with a thud. Leon reloaded his gun and began to shoot again, this time aiming for the head.

As Leon became busy, your father glared at you and it was like something turned in him, “You bitch. I’ve had just about it with you. You will submit to your God and you will repent!”

You’ve never heard him speak to you this way, so much malice in his voice that you didn’t recognize the man that used to be your father.

He lunged at you, his hands trying to reach for your neck to strangle you. You took a nearby torch and set his clothes on fire. He stood back and tried to set the fire off of himself- to which he fails. He screams and cries in pain as he began to get engulfed in the flames of his sins.

“Forgive me, my children!”

You finally understood everything. There was no God because your father believed he was that God. The flames burned up in hues of blue and orange right before the sparks flew into the night sky.

His skin melted, his eyes became a blobby mess and he fell to the ground. His screech becoming more faint as the life in being burnt away from his body. The flames expanding over the dried wheat of the town, engulfing the town in a pit of fire.

Leon had been too busy to even notice that you killed your father. He’s been shooting the B.O.W, making sure to blow its head off once and for all.

After two rounds of reloading, he finally was able to kill that damn thing. Watching it fall to the ground, sending harsh vibrations to the floor as silence overtook the ghostly town.

Heavy panting overtook the two of you as the silence grew deafening. You turned to look at Leon as he stared at the B.O.W all lifeless. You looked around and saw the bloodbath. Everyone was dead.

Pools of blood stained the gravel he once stepped, the lifeless bodies of the townspeople growing cold. The flames being the only source of light under the dark night.

Leon turned to look at you for a brief moment before looking up at sky as he tried to take deep breaths. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. He couldn’t believe what he was brought into. But he was glad it was over. For now at least.

Leon packed his things and went over to his truck, he looked at you, “Aren’t you coming?”

You looked at him and then back at the town- or what remained of the town. You nodded and walked over to his truck.

Both of you driving down the lane of the rose, exiting the town. Passing by a sign that read, “Please visit soon!”

Unaware of the presence with the white eyes watching you two leave the town.

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon scott kennedy #resident evil #id leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #re4 leon #resident evil fic #re4 remake #resident evil 4 #leon #horror #southern gothic #x reader #re4r leon

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lunememes · 1 year

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🌙 * ― 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 ( a collection of various settings for drabbles or prompts, or both! )

001. a tattoo parlour, buzzing with machinery and walls lined with artwork . 002. a shopping mall, crowded and loud . 003. a cabin in the mountains, taking shelter from the snow storm. 004. an abandoned tea party, occupied with broken dolls . 005. the shooting range, empty casings clinking on the floor and sulphur in the air . 006. a music room, filled with melodies of an instrument . 007. an empty auto shop, hood of a car left open and quiet music coming through speakers . 008. a bright arcade, coins falling from machines and claws grabbing at soft toys . 009. the kennels, filled with barking dogs and excited companions . 010. a restaurant, where everyone is eerily quiet and staff are overly friendly . 011. a riding arena, with trained riders atop proud horses . 012. a mini golf course, sails of a windmill obscuring the path ahead . 013. a zoo, filled with an array of unique animals . 014. the docks of a bay, boats lining the decks . 015. a pond with ducks, seeking food . 016. a museum, displaying ancient bones and pottery of a history long ago . 017. a closed down prison, ghosts of violent history echoing in empty cells . 018. a quiet train station, lights overhead flickering and announcement board displaying errors . 019. the vast desert, scorching heat baring down at high noon . 020. the dark woods, filled with strange hanging symbols made of sticks . 021. a deep hole in the ground, covered by leaves and sticks . 022. a wishing fountain, base lined with copper coins of past wishes . 023. an abandoned picnic in an empty field, flask still warm with coffee . 024. a barn filled with hay and tools, old wood creaking in the wind . 025. a graveyard in the dead of night, wind howling through the trees . 026. a crumbling bridge above a raging river . 027. the refreshing waters of a lake, away from prying eyes . 028. the crossroads, in the middle of nowhere . 029. a cosy bonfire at summer camp, marshmallows roasting on the fire . 030. the top of a radio tower, with the perfect view of the surrounding area . 031. a lone phone box on a street corner . 032. a large elaborate temple dedicated to a deity, offerings still intact . 033. a drive-in movie theatre, cars empty and projector casting only light onto the screen . 034. a strange trail of breadcrumbs on a woodland path . 035. a haunted mansion, ancient paintings watching every footstep . 036. a decrepit mine located out in the hills, believed by locals to have a powerful curse cast upon it . 037. the edge of a cliff, overlooking the rough waves and distant sounds of approaching danger . 038. a road trip across country, music blaring through speakers . 039. a flower shop, filled with bouquets and a sweet aroma . 040. an airport in the early hours of the morning, deprived of sleep . 041. a train on its way to its destination, a sleeping passenger resting on a shoulder . 042. an abandoned shack filled with strange books of the occult and something mysterious bubbling on the stove . 043. an empty throne room, moonlight glimmering through tall windows . 044. an underwater tunnel in an aquarium, fish swimming overhead and sharks looming in the distance . 045. deep within unmarked cave located in the side of a mountain, lit only by a flare . 046. the dusty streets of a western town, watched by wary residents . 047. the back of a vast library, surrounded by books, when a black book falls from the highest shelf . 048. a room of an asylum, an abandoned camcorder left in the middle of the room . 049. the shores of an unknown beach, washed up from the ocean . 050. the deck of an unsteady ship, waves crashing against the haul and rain lashing down from dark clouds .

#setting prompts #rp meme #drabble prompts #rp memes #rp prompts #setting meme

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honestsycrets · 5 months

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hi sy! first things first, you’re a fantastic writer. i am in LOVE with your western series! second, may i request an idea? it’s the 1920s, and miguel is one of the top mobsters in nueva york, while the reader is his mob wife. after an attempted hit from one of miguel’s rivals that nearly kills her and gabriella, the reader decides it’s time to her and little girl to skip town, but miguel will be damned if his family tries to leave him. cueeeee angst, drama, the whole shabang!

canary I: a threat | [miguel o'hara x reader x gabriel o'hara]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader, gabriel o'hara x reader

❛ type | double shot; 5k

❛ tags | non-monogamy, some angst, 1920s inspired piece, irish clan inspired piece, bootlegging and mention of hits, explicit, a depiction of killings, some jealousy, some trad-roles elements, f!reader, 1920s slang and Spanish not translated, time period birth control (cervical cap).

❛ sy’s notes | i have spent weeks staring at this piece. it's a bit longer than my usual works and for that reason i decided to split it up into two chapters. this piece takes on a little bit more of a generalized irish mob approach rather than italian. this chapter is more domestic than the subsequent one will be.

Miguel O’Hara hated it when his kills ran. No matter how many alleyways they ducked into, shoddily constructed fences they tumbled over, or crappy cars they tried to hitch a ride in, he always found them.

His fingers were blisteringly tight around his kill’s throat, sure to leave certain bruising if the man made it out alive. He wouldn’t. Not based on the blood that seeped over Miguel’s tanned hand. He gurgled underneath Miguel’s hand, the kill messier than he imagined. Any number of his hitmen could have carried out this contract but instead, his crisp white top was slathered in the contract kill of the week. He recalled the sudden memory of his hand on your slight waist, the kiss on the top of your head with the promise of his night. He snarled the memory away.

Should’ve just shot him, Miguel thought. Mierda.

With the fading of the man’s life, his choked grunts drifted into silence. Miguel allowed the man to slump over. Silence fractured, his world bursting with sound. The salt-laden wind whistled past his hair as ships sailed into the pier, carrying cargo, and his latest shipments. Bootlegged booze had its own benefits-- poor training and numbers among agents, for example. A crackle of an engine sped down the road was followed by the bright beams of an electric headlamp.

“¡Oye, Miguel!”

Of course. Under the bright moon that shone arrogantly in the dark sky, the figure came into focus. His polished suit was just a tad too big for his toned, but hardly muscular frame. Even in the darkness, he had the kind of smile that made people feel like they were the special ones. It matched the gentleness in his eyes behind that swoop of chestnut brown hair. If the feds published men of their color on army recruitment posters, he’d certainly make the cut. Handsome, but not too handsome. Strong, but not too strong.

“Gabe,” he breathed. “The lights.”

“Lights? The lights!” Gabriel looked back at his shiny black car. He bounced back toward the car, bellowing. “This a Spot boy? You did a number on him.”

“You sap. Could you be any louder?” Miguel threw aside. “Why are you here?”

“Thought you could use me tonight, big shot,” Gabriel said in that sugar-dipped tongue of his. It works less on Miguel than it had on you. It was oddly discomforting. As the days wore on, he loathed his brother’s silver tongue.

“I could use someone watching my girls.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I was. They're sleeping." Gabriel booted the man, more than minced meat when Miguel was done with him. “You had some beef with him, huh?”

“No.” Miguel mumbled, looking at the man’s body rather than his own, something sharp hovering there. There was nothing he wanted less than to stand in the biting cold listening to his baby brother prattle on a moment longer. He wiped his blade on his once-was-crisp slacks and slid it back into its sheathe. “Let’s hit it.”

“Jake,” Gabriel said, an annoying rendition of an okay. Gabriel was full of shitty terms from his stint in the big house. Almost as many as he picked up at Miguel’s speakeasy.

“Say. Miguel?”

Gabriel’s voice was soft, almost strained. Miguel caught his eyes, knowing subconsciously what his brother would say. He sucked in a breath to calm himself from a reaction to thin, sharp words. They balanced on the point of a knife as Gabriel spoke them into existence.

“They're our girls.”

This setup wasn't going to last. One day, you'd probably settle with Gabe. Miguel jerked up to the sensation of your fingers ghosting his chest, twiddling around his inky black chest hair, gliding across scars. He senses the source of his disquiet, your small frame draped over his side, watching him with a foreign curiosity.

“Muñeca?” he murmured sleepfully, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. “What's it? Did Gabriel sleep in?”

He finds it hard to believe that his chirpy brother would do such a thing. Mornings were notoriously his favourite part of the day. Unlike Miguel, who shunned the light that streamed in from your thin curtains.

“Coppers took him in for questioning,” you murmured, leaning in to lay a small peckish kiss on his lips. That was quick. His eyes swept down to your lips, lingering there as you spoke. “Gabi said you’d come with me to iglesia.”

“Chingado. He passed the buck onto me.” Miguel groaned, dropping his head back onto the pillow, weighed down by such a stupid request. You thumbed the golden necklace he’d forgotten to take off, gliding one of your legs up his hirsute thighs. He finds himself hiking your leg higher up his thigh. “That’s what you woke me up for?”

“‘Course not,” you muttered. “I missed you last night. Where’d you go off to?”

“To finish intake.”

You didn’t believe that.

“Promise it didn’t have nothing to do with what Gabi got carted off for?” He holds you in a working gaze, something that tells you he isn’t about to answer something like that. You are his woman. Yet, some secrets aren’t ones that he’s willing to disclose. It could put you in a compromised position. Most men, namely the Italian boys, had enough sense not to drag a man’s family into problems between the mob and the clan but in this world, not everyone had sense.

“Miguelito, you’re scaring me.” Your breath quickened, palpable with your chest against his. His large hand encompassed the middle of your back, guiding small, consolatory circles.

“Some things you’re better off not knowing,” Miguel worked at an explanation. Some things like the amount of hits he was getting for Spot boys. The booze going missing from the speakeasy. Some of his girls licked off the street. Just-- some things. “Got it?”

“Long as it’s not another dame,” you mumbled, fisting his necklace around your fist, dragging him forward for emphasis. A smile tugged at his lips, somehow pleased with your response. “What? You been out the house more times than not.”

“I share you with my brother,” Miguel worked the back of his neck. “Better that I skip town than hear you moaning for him. Might hem him up one of these days.”

You laugh-- but Miguel doesn’t find a lick of it funny.

“You got me now,” your hands drifted up to Miguel’s massive shoulders. “How ‘bout this. You fill me all up for church, wear that spiffy dark blue suit. Then we take Lyla out to get her some cherry coke at the apothecary’s. Maybe I’ll even sing you a whole song today if you’re lucky.”

Church, again. Miguel rattled a groan. Of course, he couldn’t have one day off from frateurinizing with people who hated the fuck outta him. Church folk. He didn’t know why you insisted on going with people who openly called you loose.

“Can do without one of those things.”

“If you want me, you go to iglesia, Miguelito.”

West-Side Violence at All-Time High! Italian Enforcer found dead! The West clan’s Gabriel O’Hara facing added charges on suspicion of--

Tch. You interrupted the scowl on his face with a well-placed kiss to his cheekbone, sliding a piping hot mug of Joe before him. Wafts of steam warmed his cheeks. You set down his morning’s breakfast, a plate loaded with fats. No tamales today, but baked beans from a few well-established Irish wives in the area. You wiped your greasy fingers off on a dirtied apron. Miguel stabbed a hunk of sausage as you spoke.

“Gabi’d never do that. They’re trying to hem him up like that capo last month,” your voice quaked, strutting back toward the cabinets. “It’s too personal. He’d… fill ‘em up with lead sure, but a stabbing? It just don’t make sense.”

Sure didn't. Miguel dropped the paper to the side of the oak table, tracing lines of worry that grew into spiderwebs of panic across your forehead. You spoke so feverishly in defense of Gabriel, whose absence was palpable. He often talked about the latest hired singer, sneaking behind your waist for kisses on your nape when Miguel could barely drag himself out of bed in the morning after pulling all-nighters.

“I have someone on it.”

“I bet Papa did it.” His daughter-- or Gabriel’s-- they were never quite sure. He glanced to his foot where Lyla sat. A full seven-year-old, Lyla was a spitfire of a thing, her hair in a bouncy bob topped by a silky ribbon. She glanced up from the dreidel she was spinning around and around. His lips pulled into a minced smile. “What? He’s a liar.”

“Miguel.”

Couldn’t even eat in peace.

“Lyla,” Miguel gestured toward the door. “Go wake up Maeve. Go on kid, get.”

That kid had a smart mouth. He watches her roll her eyes, only budging when you supply her with a hunk of pan dulce. She takes a mean bite, eyes locked on Miguel as she hopped out, somehow less bothered than she was a few seconds ago. You closed the metal door behind your daughter, a hand balled up on the bend in your waist as you watched her skip down the stairs and out of view.

“Most girls don’t talk like that about their papas,” you mumbled. Your arms crossed one over the other for support. “Does she hate him that much?”

“Most girls don’t grow up in the life.”

“Mi culpa.”

With his breakfast all but spoiled, Miguel pushed the plate away. His hand was soft on your waist, nose burrowed into your hair, tracing the notes of jasmine and rose, vanilla and sandalwood. The scent was unmarred by the stench of speakeasy smoke so early in the morning. Your hand came over his, steadying yourself from the rushing thoughts by leaning into his touch.

“I need a girl at the speakeasy tonight.”

Unlike his brother, Miguel’s requests rarely offer a tone of choice. It rolls off his tongue dry and hits your ear like a spike. Nothing about your relationship with Miguel was easy-- it was marred by the rivalry among the brothers-- and as you suspected-- interloping from your grandfather.

“Y Lyla?”

“Maeve is her nanny.”

“How can I step in there without Gabi?”

“He’d want you to. And I want to see you out of this dumb apron.”

“It isn’t dumb,” you pursed your lips, somehow more convinced despite your reservations. Most days, you spend the day in the house-- isolated from any life you came to Nueva York for. Any half-formed excuse that was on your tongue flopped. He nearly has you. “It is right dumb, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. What happened to my canary?”

“She met a pair of terrible brothers who don’t care for pulling out.”

“Don’t blame me.”

He pushed himself against your back, twiddling your fingers against the pantyhose that clothed your thighs. A smile tugged on your lips as Miguel leaned over to kick the front door shut, dipping onto his knees. It wasn’t often that he allowed you to ruin his perfect face before work. Today is a special treat.

But… if you thought back, you really should have.

Took a long time to get any mail from the island. Almost impossible.

In your hands is a sloppily penned letter-- You should be married to one of those boys-- your grandfather. He isn’t stupid enough to think that you’re opening this for the first time tonight, here and now, right in front of him. If you’re ‘reading’ it, you must be wanting him to take a hint. Miguel bent down, placed a kiss on your temple, gliding his hands over your own to place the letter onto the vanity.

He used those very same hands that were meant for maiming against the clasp of a set of pearls around your neck with gentle precision. His fingers coursed along the curls at your nape as he clasped them together.

“How long before your set?”

“Half an hour… maybe.” You stood to face him, pursing ruby-red lips, whispering in his mother’s tongue. He never liked it when his mother barked at him in Spanish, but when it's off your tongue, he knows how sweet it could be. Your hand inched its way over his chest, tracing the fat knot against his throat.

“What’s the issue?”

“I don’t-- feel very perfect. You have all these shebas out there--” women who not only knew how to sing but weren’t terribly mottled by stretchmarks or burdened by the eviscerating effect of motherhood. They’re beautiful, free canaries when they sing in his speakeasy. As much as you loved singing-- you felt shy on that ruby-red stage lately, before a dozen ruby tables and the hopping band.

“They’re to bring in the sugar.”

“Uh-huh, bring in the sugar until they take you away.”

“I’m satisfied.” Miguel took a step up, communicating the way he knew how, by settling his large hand over your jaw. His strong hand glided to your chin, urging you to look him in the eye. “I’m not going anywhere. Tied me down with Lyla as it is.”

“Words are just words. Why buy the…”

“Cow if you can get the milk for free, sí, I know what your grandfather says.” He slips into your chair. “Què quieres?”

“I don’t know, Miguelito. A promise. A marriage. Algo.”

“You want me to wife you up? Don’t remember ever talking about this.” He gestured you to come closer. You stepped up, knocking between his legs. Miguel’s gaze falters, chasing the glint of your tassels as they come to a stop.

“What’s the issue?”

“Nothing. I thought you’d ask Gabe.”

“Gabe gets around.”

“You believe those rumors.” You slap his large hands groping up your thighs, climbing over his lap like it was your throne. His massive frame eclipses the chair, suppressing your comparatively smaller frame. “And don’t think I do?”

“Do you?”

“No,” he laughs. Or, not recently. It’s hard being a father-- harder when he has a whole ass business to keep on top of. Most women wanted those things: jewels, a new pair of silk knickers, and a home. “If that’s what you want, you got it.”

“Oh Miguelito,” he suckled your neck, drawing horrendous marks to the surface. Marks of his ownership in the absence of a ring. He hears the pleased hum of your voice, low and sweet, and knows that’s exactly what you wanted to hear.

“I haven’t put in my cap,” his fingers danced across the outside of your thighs, slipping past your stockings to your silken shorts. He slotted his fingers underneath the fabric, grazing his fingers through your neatly kept curls. Your breath came in deeper bursts as he melded his hand over your vulva, expecting you to grind back on him. You did, ever so eager for him.

“Don’t bother me with that,” he said in a low, husked voice. “You know how I feel about your birth control.”

It was your idea, primarily. Gabe was ever too content to simply be with you-- he didn’t need a large family like the rest of Miguel’s Irish clan. Four, six, sometimes more. Unlike Gabe, Miguel wanted the exact opposite. You shifted over his thigh, obeying his desire to have you ride him. Miguel urged your hips down, working his thumb over the precious button as you did. Miguel’s leg trembled up against your slit, bursts of warm friction warming your hungry body. With his slacks freshly cleaned, you worry about soaking them, soaked in lubricant as you were.

“Come here,” you surrendered a soft moan to him, leaning forward now, less to ride his thigh than the bulge in his slacks. He does not quite care for the idea of ruining himself inside the confines of his pants, but if you want to feel him, he has no reason to deny you. You’re wonderfully spoiled, juddering your hips over him like any whore walking the streets in exchange for a coin or two. What he’d give to have this to himself.

It donned on him-- he could have it to himself. This time, he’d be certain of who the child belonged to. He adored his Lyla, though his irritation with her quips was ever palpable, this-- right here, the ability to fill you and be certain filled him with fat hunger and possessive need to burst into his slacks.

“Stop-- Muñeca-- stop,” Miguel tipped his head back, gathering his focus by digging his hand into your hair, stopping you immediately. His harsh grip loosened, followed up by loosening the button of his slacks and shoving them below the curve of his ass. His cock slapped your silken shorts, beads of his desire dripping from his cockhead. “Take those off. I’m finishing inside.”

“Miguelito,” you slipped onto shaky feet, enough that Miguel could force the shorts underneath your dress to the floor. “We agreed that babies would be--”

“You asked to be my wife. Ain’t this what wives do?”

“I know bu-- not there, deja, let me,” you stopped. His cockhead clumsily poked here and there, until finally, your hand guided him properly. Your mouth fell into a hazy moan when Miguel’s cock shoved forward, breaching your cunt with a snap of his hips. You seated yourself back onto his fat cock, reminded of the absence of your cervical cap in your cunt.

For all your talk, you ached for him, dipping your intertwined hands down to your mound. The rhythm was as sloppy as whatever singer was on stage right now, her voice giving way into a distinct crack. Whatever-- if it bought him more time to properly seed you, he didn’t mind.

He buckled forward as you clenched down upon him, holding him prisoner deep in your body. Liquid soaked his slacks-- and Miguel huffed, puffs of hot air warming your back. That was going to be fun to walk out in. His wife’s cum soaking his crotch.

“Hold still. It’s almost showtime,” Miguel’s voice was thin, his hand splayed on your waist as he used you less like his woman and more like a toy for his pleasure. It didn’t take long for Miguel to find a proper rhythm, his muscles flexing against your back. You were preoccupied as it were with the pain of Miguel’s teeth sinking on your shoulder, spiking hot as his pleasure crested. Soon enough, you felt his warmth fill your core, your head lulling back against him only after his thrusts ebbed.

“Don’t clean up, go on stage leaking.” Miguel held out his hand for you to take, allowing you to pull your shorts back up your ass, nestling his leaking cum in the fabric. It helped ease the anxiety of having you on stage, somehow, to see you in such a state.

“When you knock me up, you’re telling Gabi. I... can't.” You told Miguel, smoothing your dress over your shorts. There was a nervous flush in your eyes-- shame, he placed the emotion. He scrubbed the smile from his face. He had at least a few weeks.

“Sure thing.”

There was a certain delight in seeing you dressed up in that little black dress, all bright red lips, and sultry song. Not that you didn’t look tasty in that stupid apron you wore not to dirty any one of the pretty dresses you wore to church-- like you weren’t a heathen for warming the bed of two O’Hara boys. The people knew it. The church knew it. Damn well, the town knew it.

“Pal, that’s her on stage,” went an Italian boy. An allied family through nothing but contract killing and coin, he was safe here for the time being. One little lapse in a contract could shake it all. “That’s their kitten.”

“She married?”

Miguel turned his gaze back to you for a long moment. Your warm, sweetly lidded words slipping off your tongue, making his mind sluggish and relaxed after a long day. He captured your eyes, minding how your hands fell to the tasseled ends of an already short skirt, daring to expose your skin obscured by pantyhose to the crowd. You knew the game, how far you could lift your skirt without your would-be husband jumping his cage.

“Don’t be goofy. Miguel’d get sore if Gabe tried. She has ‘em both around her finger. Has a kid by one of them. No one knows whose. I got my money on--”

Stupid kids.

“Kid, I’m gunning for another.” Miguel cut the boy off, eyes crinkling at the edges. Something in the way you moved on stage reminded him of Lyla’s pregnancy, perhaps the glitter in your eyes when you met him at his table, instead of backstage, holding his large hands in your own. Some sparkle in your eye, a ginger announcement in his ear. Half elation, half… something else. Something, not quite fear, swirled in the boy’s eyes. Miguel watched with a keen interest as the boy flushed.

“Right on, big shot.”

Miguel brought his cigarette to his lips, letting his eyes flutter closed and his mind wander to the past. He should have known you were hands-off from the moment Gabriel wouldn’t beat it with the idea of adding another girl to their speakeasy.

The best time to tell Miguel about his new girl in the speakeasy was when he was in a good mood: catching any bootleg thief put him in a good mood. Not that he was particularly partial to grey matter and blood spraying him like a fresh pinata, but… he was more partial to money in his pocket and a good reputation. His boys cared for much of the violence in the West of this shitty little town.

“You hired a new girl?” Miguel repeated, drawing a long hit of his cigarette with blood-smattered fingers.

“Spanish girl. Like us. We don’t have a Spanish girl in this joint.”

“Gabe. Most of our clients are Irish. They don’t speak Spanish.”

“You should see her Miggy. She’s got this angelic little face,” Gabe whacked his elder brother, his grin growing ear to ear. There it was, his baby brother got blinded by his dick again. “When she sings you-- well, you get all twisted up.”

“Angelic face,” Miguel mumbled under his breath, tapping excess off of his cigarette. For the price he paid his girls, she had better have the face of Mary herself. The last few Gabe had pulled were mistakes. Some drug-addicted. Others whose husbands always caused a mean stir. He drags his hand down his face, weighing the costs. “She another dumb--”

“She’s Daniel’s littlin’. You remember Daniel? Taught you how to use a kn--”

The sigh that sat in his chest dissipated like vapor, perfusing into his tissue. Miguel looked at the paper Gabriel set in his blood-tinged fingers. He rotated it, gave it a look with his tired eyes. Talk to Gabriel. That old man knew just what Miguel would have said: get your ass back on a boat and go home to whatever rinky-dink island you foolishly sailed off of for this shitty city.

“Lemme see her sing.”

He doesn’t pay attention when Gabriel introduces you onstage for the first time, focusing on the paper ledgers Peter arranged for a review. Unlike his Italian connections, he don’t mind mixing it up with the Jewish boys. They’re twice as smart on the books and twice less likely to be hauling in trouble. Bootleg booze was one thing— the opium, the heroin, the cocaine, and morphine another. It packed too much heat from the coppers.

He hadn’t meant to look up.

It didn’t occur to him that you could have a sickly sweet voice, tempered by the rich Spanish on your tongue, only rivaled by those beautiful looks. His abandoned ciggy threw smoke into the air. He slumped back into the chair with a heavy thud, unclenched his tense jaw, and listened to a siren’s song that felt both familiar and distant all the same.

You had the sort of eyes he swore he’d met before, despite knowing he’d never seen a face like yours around. He’d remember sinking his teeth in that delicate neck that sat under pearls that he supplied most of his singers for their performances. His eyes hungrily cantering down your tassel dress. Not one he provided, no, he knew most to all the pieces in the back. There was a simple beauty in the gown.

You were trouble. He caught your eyes with an intent expression and expected you to blush and look away. You smiled. He wasn’t sure if it was for him or Gabriel, who flicked a grade-A smile, and a twiddling wave of your little fingers. He wants to feel them scratching down his back.

“--anyone home? Miggy? Miguel. Don’t tell me you’re already stuck on her.” Gabriel teased, elbowing Miguel in the arm. “You are! Told you she could sing.”

“Pipe down.” He jammed his ciggy in the dish.

“Sorry.”

He watches you a moment more, the slide of your legs to the tune of the band. The way your laugh resonated through the speakeasy when a patron stumbled onto the stage for his take on some stiff-legged swing. Most women would push them off, look to him for help in the swing, but you ran with the twirl the drunk led you into. He hated to admit that Gabriel was right. Among all the girls in his speakeasy, you brought a lightness to the life of a drunkard he’d not seen in a while.

“Gabe,” he mumbled, standing up and whirling his suit jacket over his broad shoulders.

“Yeah?”

I told’ja so, Gabriel’s voice sounded in his head. He could already feel the stiff annoyance that would be Gabriel’s fist connecting with his shoulder. Why did Gabriel have to know him so well? Miguel spoke with an undercurrent of annoyance.

“Let’s keep her.”

“You don’t gotta tell me twice.”

A hail of loud pops ruptured his sweet, distant memories. He reaches out to snatch his gun from the table, settled between the fresh flowers he plucked for your show. For an instant, his world wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t sounded out by the deafening assuredness of a kill, but very real panic under the singled out by the shrill of your scream.

They're going to push up on us, Miguel told Gabe. He never did take anything outside the speakeasy seriously.

Except tonight, there was no Gabriel. Miguel clasped his hand around his gun, whirling for the source of the flame. The barrage of gunfire is put down as quickly as it began. With a host of Irishmen in the bar, he should be so unsurprised. One of the Italian kids slumped over on his table.

There’s blood-- a lot of blood. Hysterics bound all around, some soothed by their partners or friends. The other Italian boy just stares-- lips slightly apart-- jarred by whatever horror was before him. Miguel finds it hard to believe that he hasn’t seen worse. Others burning his ears like the morning sun in his eyeballs every day you forgot to pull the curtains closed.

“God damn it, Peter.” Standing there is the scrawny little devil of a bookmaker himself, smiling cheesily.

“Hope that’s a good god damn it.”

He shoved his way from the tables, numbing out the complaint of the Italian boy. You were long since gone, probably a good thing that you weren’t here, that’s for fucking sure. It’d been the first time since Gabe’s incarceration he managed to drag you out of there and now… you were somewhere, undoubtedly frightened. Maybe even hurt.

“Boy, wonder who this kid crossed. Say, about Gabe, I got good news--”

He seized a chair, flicking it past Peter, a sure hiss for him to shut the fuck up about his baby brother in the can. Peter put his hands up reflexively, tracing Miguel’s rising shoulders.

“She ran to the back.”

The slender hallway down to his office is cold, only illuminated by the occasional pull-pin light bulb swinging overhead. He came here most days that he wasn’t on shift, taking a hit, or caring for his boys. Keeping track of everything was the best way to stay ahead. And even still-- he missed something from one of Spot’s boys.

You didn’t bother to close the door, balled up in a corner of his small office. He has a glorified cot for a bed in a corner, a heavy desk that nearly killed Gabe trying to hike it down the stairs years ago, and a rack stuffed with any number of books.

“It’s me,” his voice filled the room. You peered up from behind your arms, wrapped around your knees. What a stupid oversight, he thought, whoever was in charge of the damn door let someone in that was… going to be a problem. He was good with Lucky’s crew. Now he was gonna have to pick up that wired phone and tell him some kid was dead.

Your heels scratched across the ground, scooting back to the cool wall. You weren’t hurt-- just, sort of shocked. Maybe being conned into church with you panned out somehow.

“Muñeca.”

“That ain’t… ever happened with Gabe before.”

Gabe. Dy by day that he heard his brother’s voice, it became more of an annoyance. It wasn’t fair to make the comparison-- Gabe caring for most things that went on in the speakeasy, Miguel caring for interpersonal deals and security. With Gabe away, he’d not… it didn’t matter.

“It won’t happen again.”

“If Lyla were here--” You’re a shark-- going after the one thing you knew would hurt. The little girl back at home who he went to great lengths to make sure was safe. She was… his, even if he felt was his brother’s, putting more salt into an ever widening sinkhole that was his irritation.

“She wasn’t.”

“But what if she was?”

“Cállate,” he barked.

“Fine, I’ll beat it. You can holed up all alone down here like you like to be, you-- you-- big lug.” You recoiled for an instant, before forcing yourself up, rubbing at heavily fallen tears in your pursuit of the door. Your cheeks were kissed by raw agitation, all pink and in any other situation, beautiful. Miguel swayed to catch your elbow.

“Discúlpame,” he murmured, a rare apology if you could even call it one to begin with. There was a long pause, and he wondered if you would be upset with him for the rest of the day. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

He knew he made it damn hard not to.

That was the thing about Miguel. He made it hard to get close, but even harder to leave. No matter what he did, you wanted to stay there right by him-- because he was the complicated brother. The one who… well, hell, you wanted to be about. Gabe was good and easy, your Miguelito was…

“Dios mio, Miguelito. This hinky stuff ain’t happening again. Or-- Or I’ll leave you both. Take Lyla right back to the island I came from and marry a man who isn’t in wrong with the police.”

You should have known the day that you gave birth to his daughter that something like that wasn’t going to happen.

#miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #atsv imagines #atsv imagine #miguel o'hara/reader #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara imagine #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara x reader

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cordeliawhohung · 5 months

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hello, how are you today? :D last time i checked i saw your requests were open so i wanted to ask if you could write a reader and cowboy!gaz piece?

i was watching western shows with my granny the other day (it's her pastime and honestly some of them are pretty interesting) and there was this part in an episode where a woman and her cowboy husband were doing the laundry together until someone came over to their house which was by the town and started to bother them and it escalated until the husband ended up fighting that person in the middle of the street... anyway, all the laundry that was up on the drying line was ripped and thrown to the ground in the tussle and the couple just look at each other after the whole ordeal and are just like...welp. more laundry again

but yeah that's sort of what happened, if it's possible, could you incorporate that plot with gaz and reader? it'd mean a lot to me and i think it'd be a little hectic but sometimes people find peace in all that chaos.

thank you!

oh my sweet sweet anon this idea rotted my brain and i wrote this in a day (: pardon any mistakes i wrote this half awake and sorry my brain was in the damn GUTTER the whole time but i hope you enjoy!!! thank you so much for this request it was so much fun and made me think about things i.... never have a;lskdjf

masterlist

You and your husband live a quiet life on the outskirts of town, that is until a misunderstanding ruins your calm day of doing laundry. At least your husband is there to help pick up the slack.

warnings: fluff! not much else!! core went overboard again! slight suggestive language. 2.6k words long.

Summers on the outskirts of the Rocky Mountains were always dry and warm. Blistering rays of sun soaked the fragrant sagebrush around you and you intermittently wiped sweat from your brow as you hung freshly washed laundry on the line to dry. The nice thing about the sweltering weather was that the unblocked sun and gentle breeze would make quick work of it.

Once you were half way through your pile, the familiar sound of a horse clomping their feet on the dirt road past your home caught your attention. After you finished pinning up one of your blouses, you paused and turned your gaze towards the road. Your husband, Kyle, meandered along on his horse not too far off in the distance. Grinning, you wiped your damp hands off on your apron before skipping off towards him. You had sent him off not too long ago to head into town to purchase a few things for dinner that night; one of the nice things about living so close to town was that errands never took him too long.

“You started the laundry without me!” he called out.

His horse, who he had named Cisco but you called Spot due to its domino-like pattern, snorted as they approached the gate you found yourself leaning against. Kyle hopped off in one smooth and rehearsed motion before he worked on parking his horse on the post. You innocently tilted your head at him as you watched his fingers diligently tie the reins around the wood. You watched the tendons in his hands flex as he worked, and you found your own hands busying themselves by toying with the strings of your apron.

“Figured I’d get a head start,” you explained.

“Head start?” he asked as he sauntered towards the gate. “Looks like you got half the load done already.”

You loved listening to him talk, and could never get enough of his voice. Not only the dark timbre of it, or the way he always crooned at you, but his accent. His family had immigrated from England when he was a young boy, and despite the time he spent in the American West, he still held onto bits of his accent. When you had first heard him speak, you thought it was silly the way he pronounced certain words, but you found it awfully cute hearing American terms from him.

“Sounds like you’ll have to make it up to me later,” you teased as he entered through the gate and closed it behind him.

He held out a small leather pouch and gently shook it in his hands as he approached you with a boyish grin. “Oh, was getting ingredients for supper not enough?” he teased.

You tilted your head again as you snatched the pouch out of his hands. You hummed as if considering his words. “I’ll have to think on it.”

Without another word, you turned around and began to make your way back towards the clothes line as you threw a teasing glance over your shoulder. Kyle stood there with his thumbs shoved in his pockets and a cheeky smile on his lips, and you weren’t oblivious to the way his eyes roamed down your legs, hypnotized by the sway of your hips.

You placed the pouch in the pocket of your apron as you approached the line again, and you felt the light weight of it swing around as you bent down to grab more clothes. Not far behind you, Kyle assisted in finishing the laundry, and the two of you worked quietly in finishing the mundane chore.

As you worked, you couldn’t help but steal a glance or two at Kyle. Alright, more than a glance or two, but you couldn’t be blamed. Not when he was as fine of a specimen as he was. A proper cowboy, he sported a thick pair of jeans that hugged his thighs and a long sleeved maroon shirt. His attire was a bit more relaxed as he wasn’t working with the animals, yet he still wore his black cowboy hat to keep the shining sun off his face. Even through the fabric of his shirt you could see the way his muscles flexed as he shook out one of your dresses before reaching up to pin it on the line. The way his waist tapered at his hips should have been illegal.

When a quarter of the pile was left, the furious huffing sounds of a horse could be heard galloping down the road at full speed. At first you didn’t pay it much mind, as plenty of people used the road outside your house to get to other ranches, but when the horse started to slow, you knew you had a visitor.

Mr. Davis was a kind enough man, albeit a bit thick skulled and old enough to watch the birth of the world. Kyle often said the man couldn’t tell a pig from his own mother, and though you chastised him and told him that was rude to say, you knew he was right. You had once gone into town to shop at the store he worked at and watched him struggle to figure out how much change he needed to give back to you. Instead of holding down the shop like he was supposed to, he was on his horse, very red in the face and speeding towards your home.

“What else did you do while you were in town?” you questioned as you held a damp pair of jeans.

Previously unbothered, Kyle stopped what he was doing and turned his attention to the road. The soft smile on his face vanished and was replaced with confusion. “Nothin’ that would warrant him showin’ up here.”

Sighing, Kyle quickly dried his hands off on the thighs of his jeans before resting a hand on the small of your back. Even through the fabric of your blouse you could feel how the warmth of him bleed through into your skin. The two of you stood there absolutely dumbfounded as you watched Mr. Davis struggle to park his horse next to Spot. It was lazy and half-assed work and you watched the reins slowly begin to unknot, but he stormed up the path anyway, up through the gate, and started to shake his finger as he approached you and Kyle.

“Mr. Davis!” Kyle greeted, a bit tense as he took a few steps towards the man. “What can I help you with?”

“Help? You can help by returning my bell!” the man shouted, his hoarse voice hardly carrying over the distance.

He stopped just short of the end of the clothes line and he crossed his arms over his chest. Sweat laid in heavy beads across his forehead, and his breathing was far more labored than it should have been. His lips sat in a thin line and you noticed how his eyebrow kept twitching as he stood there glaring at your husband.

“I apologize, but I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talkin’ about,” Kyle admitted as his thumbs dipped back into his pockets.

“Don’t play dumb,” Mr. Davis snapped as he pointed his finger. “You snuck it into that bag of yours, didn’t you?”

Instinctively, your hand clutched at the pocket of your apron where you kept the pouch Kyle had used to store the items for dinner. It was mostly spices and small vegetables; certainly nothing that could have been confused with any bell. Mr. Davis must have caught sight of your reaction because he took another step forward in an attempt to walk around Kyle.

“Yes! That one!” he exclaimed. He held his hand out with the intention of snatching it from you, and you found yourself stumbling backwards. “Hand it here, girl!”

Before the man could get close to you, Kyle’s hand shot out and grabbed Mr. Davis by his wrist. The only other time you had seen Kyle that angry was when someone had spilled bourbon over his brand new chaps. It took ages for you to help him get the stench of alcohol out of them, and a rumor had started going around that he was a drunk because of the stench. But the fire in his eyes then was nothing but a small spark compared to the raging storm that ate up the sweet brown hue of his irises.

“You best remember who you’re talkin’ to,” Kyle warned. “That’s my wife and you’d do well to treat her with respect.”

As if the store clerk wasn’t riled up enough, being grabbed by Kyle certainly pushed him over the edge. He tried to wrestle his arm out of your husband’s grip, but Kyle was infinitely stronger than the rather fragile man. All he had managed to do was flail his arms until his hand caught on the collar of one of Kyle’s work shirts. Pins came flying loose as the clothing was tossed down into the dirt on the ground.

“Respect?” Mr. Davis repeated incredulously. “Awfully interesting of you to request respect when you stole something right under my nose!”

“Mr. Davis, please,” you tried to reason, “I’m not quite sure what it is you’re looking for.”

“My bell!” he shouted in response, arms still flailing against Kyle’s grip.

“Well, yes, but perhaps if you took a moment to breathe and explain-”

“Or your lying husband could give back what’s mine!” he interrupted.

“Alright,” Kyle warned, “that’s enough outta you.”

What unfolded in front of you was so confusing you didn’t have the words to explain it. Mr. Davis wasn’t an insidious man, by any means, just extremely dense, so when Kyle tried to drag him off your property, he did his best not to hurt the man. Though the man had nothing on your husband's strength, he certainly knew how to flail. Shirts, dresses, jeans; several articles of clothing flew to the ground as Mr. Davis managed to tangle himself in the clothing line. If you hadn’t spent the better part of the last hour or so washing them by hand, you would have thought the sight was a bit comedic. Instead you found yourself cringing at the awkwardness of it all.

Your only saving grace through it all was that another horse galloped at full speed towards your home. Clay Turner was the owner of the store Mr. Davis worked for, so it only made sense he was the one you saw racing towards your home. He was a fine and charismatic gentleman, but you had caught him sneaking fresh produce into his pockets on several occasions. You weren’t sure how a business could be as successful as his when he shoved his mouth full of his product any chance he could get, but you weren’t one to judge too harshly when the prices were so cheap.

“Whole damn town coming to visit?” you mumbled to yourself.

“Mr. Davis!” he called, nearly tossing himself onto the ground as he rushed through the gate. “Stop harassing these poor folks!”

But the man was still too busy tussling with Kyle to pay much attention to his boss. Clay shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small metal item that he held lazily up in the air. Upon closer inspection, you realized it was a small bell; the type to put on a desk or counter in order to call someone over. Was this the item Mr. Davis came all that way to accost your husband over?

It wasn’t until Clay started to ring the bell that the man stopped struggling, but even then his eyes found you as he pointed at you once more. “Ah, so you do have it! Give it here this instant!”

“Oh, you senile old man,” Clay muttered. With more force than needed, he yanked Mr. Davis away from Kyle and shoved the bell into his hands. The man looked down, completely astounded. “Maggie’s boy snatched it off the counter, you idiot. Now get on your horse and get back to work.”

Burning red shame on his face, Mr. Davis looked up from his bell, to Kyle, and then to you before watching his feet as he walked back towards the gate without so much as an apology. Sighing, Clay offered the two of you a short smile as he wiped his hands off on the front of his shirt.

“I apologize for that delirious old man,” he said sincerely. “He bought a desk bell for the front counter and brought it into work today. Says it’s easier to keep track of customers while he’s doing inventory. As you can tell it’s… very important to him.”

“So I noticed,” Kyle deadpanned.

Clay’s face tensed as he glanced at you and then to the ground. A myriad of clothing was scattered everywhere with heavy amounts of dirt smudged into the fabric. On the front of your favorite blush pink blouse was a large footprint. You’d be lying if you said that sight didn’t upset you a little bit.

“I apologize for the mess, Mrs. Garrick,” Clay continued. “I’ll make sure to give you a mighty fine discount next time you visit the store.”

One short and awkward farewell later, Clay and Mr. Davis slowly faded away down the road. Dumbfounded, Kyle turned to face you with a small shake of his head. His hat had been knocked off in the midst of their argument, but had been caught by his stampede strings and rested against his back. A few buttons had either been torn off or came loose because the top part of his shirt was open, exposing his sternum. Glistening skin laid underneath, and you found your eyes drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

“Knew I should’ve gone to Clancy’s,” Kyle sighed. “Why don’t you head inside and start supper? I’ll clean up out here.”

Humming, you reached for him and rested your hand on his chest. Sweat covered his skin in a thin sheen, and he felt warm to the touch. Whatever irritation that had been on his face melted away into a smirk as he rested his hand on top of yours.

“What?” he teased, smirk morphing into a grin. “You asked me to make it up to you earlier, didn’t you?”

“I had something a little more fun in mind than you doing chores,” you admitted.

As he thought for a moment, your hand slowly trailed down his sternum, only stopping when you had been blocked by the closed buttons of his shirt. Kyle took the stampede strings from around his throat and grabbed a hold of his hat before quickly placing it on your head. It was a few sizes too big and fit oddly on your head, and you found your hands flying up to keep it on straight.

“How about we wait to have fun until we’re sure we won’t get any more visitors?” he suggested.

A part of you wanted to say you didn’t care, but you knew that if Mr. Davis came by again to pitch a fit while you were trying to spend quality time with Kyle, the sheriff would be investigating a murder. So you huffed in agreement before crossing your arms.

“Alright,” you conceded. “Suppose I might as well put these ingredients to good use after all the trouble you went through to get it.”

Kyle’s hand came up to your chin and tilted your head upwards. He placed a short, chaste kiss on your lips before diving back in for a deeper one. A part of you almost wished he hadn’t because that only made your desire for him grow stronger. It took everything within you to keep your hands to yourself, and you instead busied your fingers with the task of keeping his hat on your head. You still felt him lingering on your lips in a pleasant tingle even after he pulled away.

“Atta girl.”

cowboy hat rule cowboy hat rule cowboy hat rule

#gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #cod gaz x reader #cowboy!gaz

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vanessagillings · 26 days

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Please talk about your favorite animated movies and what makes them special to you! I'm really curious about what you enjoyed about them both in the past and now?

haha, okay you asked!

I LOVE animated movies. My theory on this is that it took me a long time to emotionally relate to most media growing up, where I felt next to nothing watching most movies and shows as a young kid, and didn't relate to books until I was quite a lot older (I read picture books until I was around 10, and then suddenly in middle school, I hopped right to adult novels like 1984 and the entire Darkover series by Marion Zimmer Bradley, ha). But even before I emotionally related to fiction, I really enjoyed watching animation. It was nice to look at, and I enjoyed watching everything move and change. I grew up in the 90's where animated movies were largely 2D, and I spent hours watching and re-watching my favorite movies just studying how the characters moved -- it's definitely a lot of where I got my understanding of human expressions from. But I also think as I got older and started to relate more to fiction, animation was easier to parse emotionally than live action. The body language is clear. The stories are direct and not as forgiving of bad human behavior (I get frustrated sometimes with the defeatism in adult media, that assumes that People Just Act Badly, and that just needs to be accepted). Facial expressions are also exaggerated and more stylized -- think of a single arched eyebrow, for example, an expression that's commonly drawn to express one particular emotion in animation/illustration but which you next to never see on a real human face. My first introduction into serious reading was also manga -- a highly visual medium -- which uses a lot of the same tactics stylistically as western animation: big, expressive faces, bold gestures and big stories. Compare manga with western comics being printed at the time and it's even more obvious to me why I didn't particularly like comics until I was given manga as an option -- and thankfully I lived close to a kinokuniya, so I could spend all my allowance on untranslated books and magazines, which is also where I learned Japanese (もうたくさん忘れてしまいましたけど).

As far as my favorite movies? THAT IS SO HARD. The first animated movie that BLEW MY MIND was The Lion King. I saw it in theaters when I was eight and I was obsessed; it was definitely one of my first special interests. I know that entire movie line by line, frame by frame, and I had the stuffed animals and the trading cards and the clothes (man, was I teased for those clothes!). My other favorite movies as a kid were The Land Before Time, American Tale, and The Secret of NIMH (I was a big Don Bluth fan!) which have left deep impressions on how to approach storytelling for children; I warn you, I go hard on emotions for kids, because I needed that as a kid, and I know I'm not alone. Some of my other favorites are anything Miyazaki but especially Howl's Moving Castle (I relate to Sophie a lot), Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs (what I watch when I'm In A Mood), Ratatouille (a huge source of echolalia for my husband and me, we often detect nuttiness, let me tell you), Wallace and Gromit and Fantastic Mr Fox, which I watch every fall as an autumnal tradition. Even as an adult who likes live action, too, I still tend to like slightly over the top directors like Wes Anderson and Guy Ritchie, or movies that are highly cinematic like Road to Perdition, which is still one of my favorite films of all time.

In my opinion, animation is a super important medium outside of it being a very beautiful one. I truly believe it helped me access and understand emotion better as a child, and as an adult, it's a massive source of inspiration in my own work 💛

(Sorry for length, but you did ask!)

#actually autistic #asks

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venerablemonk27 · 11 months

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I've done a lot of birding the past couple months and not a lot of posting, so I'm going back to our Tucson, AZ trip from April. I hadn't been to the Western US since picking up birding or wildlife photography, so I knew I was going to pick up a ton of lifers. One of our target species for the trip was also my fifth Owl species ever: the Burrowing Owl.

[ID: A Burrowing Owl stands on a mound of dirt. They are facing left and looking toward the camera. The sun is low in the sky off to the right, which illuminates the right side of the Owl's face and their back, while casting the rest in shadow. They have striking yellow eyes and a furrowed brow that gives them the appearance of a permanent scowl. Their oval-shaped head transitions naturally into a slender cylindrical body covered in mottled tan and white feathers. About half the bird's height is body and folded wings, with two naked grey legs planted on the ground. End ID]

This was the morning we had picked for me to do some solo birding, so I drove out to a spot west of Tucson where eBird indicated that Burrowing Owls were likely to appear. It was just after sunrise when I found the road cutting between farm fields where the Owls were reported. I drove slowly down the side of the road in my rented Dodge Charger, stopping occasionally to inspect a suspicious clump of dirt with my binoculars. I had not seen any sign of the Owls when a Land Rover pulled up behind me. A group of three folks in their 60s with binoculars piled out of car, clearly more birders here to do exactly what I was doing.

[ID: A Burrowing Owl stands on a mound of dirt, facing the camera. The sun is still low in the sky, but now the bird's face and chest are more brightly lit, showing the transition in feather colors from tan to mottled tan to white as they progress downward from collar to belly.]

They introduced themselves as coming from the UK, and had been visiting Arizona for several weeks in search of all the unique birds the state could offer. The driver was particularly puzzled about the location of the Owls, saying he was "absolutely foxed" that this place with no real habitat could host Burrowing Owls. I showed him the recent sightings on eBird and explained that it was possible the birds just hadn't emerged from their burrows yet.

After another 15 minutes of searching the fields, I offered to lead them to an alternate site nearby. We got in our cars and slowly drove back the way we had come. Just as we were approaching the end of the road, I spotted a small tan creature standing right on the edge of the irrigation ditch along the near side of the field. A Burrowing Owl! I swung the Charger around and flagged down my companions, who had also spotted the Owl.

[ID: A pair of Burrowing Owls stand on a mound of dirt. The one in the foreground looks decidedly sleepier and plumper than the one in the background (seen in previous images). Both Owls are similar in coloration, but the one in the foreground has an aluminum leg band for identifying them. End ID]

We got out to take a look and grab some photos from long distance, then slowly crept forward with my Charger as a rolling blind. There turned out to be four Owls spread out along the irrigation ditch, likely close to their burrows which were out of sight. They were surprisingly unbothered by the cars rolling up to them, probably because they see trucks and farm vehicles driving past all day every day. Once we were directly across the irrigation ditch from the closest pair, I climbed into the passenger seat to take some better photosm. Mostly the Owls just stood on their tiny hill and looked around. Though I did witness one of the pair above fly down to pounce on a grasshopper, then return to feed it to their partner.

[ID: A pair of Burrowing Owls stand on a mound of dirt. This photo was taken midday, with the sun directly overhead. At least one of these individuals is different from those above, as they have two leg bands instead of one. It's also apparent in the photo that the Owls are standing at the edge of a farm field from the row of green plants out of focus in the background. End ID]

I had such a great view of the Burrowing Owls that I had to bring my family back to see them on our last day in Tucson. Because we were heading out of town in the middle of the day, I was confident we'd find them right away and avoid testing the patience of my kid. It turns out I didn't have to worry. Not only were the Owls right where I left them, but the kid had fallen asleep on the drive, so we had to wake him up to see them! And seeing as I already had the camera within easy reach, I had to take a few more photos.

[ID: A Burrowing Owl stands on a mound of dirt. This one is looking alert in the midday sun, standing and scanning the area around the edge of the farm field. End ID]

On a trip full of exciting views, long hikes, and thousands of photos, it was nice to finish the trip quietly sitting in the car just a few yards away from such a compelling bird. And it always feels good to track down a lifer and share that experience with others!

#bird #birding #birds #bird photography #birdblr #birdlife #photography #birdwatching #close encounter #original photography #original photography on tumblr #owl #burrowing owl #arizona #there's simply nothing around here that looks like habitat

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erisenyo · 8 months

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of the beaten path Zukka author/fic recs please? Zukka fic is the thing standing between me and a meltdown these days

Let's see, off the beaten path definitely depends on the personal rabit holes you've fallen down, but some maybe less known fics I haven't seen mentioned as much:

The Best Laid Intentions Series by amidsizedfrog - a really fun, snappy, hilarious writing style, and a great Katara-Zuko bestie-ism dynamic throughout

How To Not Deal With a Fuck Or Die Situation by anarchycox - hilarious premise, hilarious execution. Anarchycox has a real talent for fully exploring absurdity in a way that feels approachable and real, I'd recommend all their stuff

Bae's Anatomy by aiyah - a fun established relationship dynamic in a Modern AU, and fun smut

The Road Between Action and Inaction by Donvex - a slower burn roadtrip AU, the way they got to know each other and got comfortable with each other was such a delight to read

i hate accidents except from when we went from friends to this by triplefire - a 5+1 full of accidental proposals and low-angst miscommunication, my favorite things lol

Mark Time by foil - this might be more on the beaten path, but if you want your heart ripped out of your chest, this will do it. Mind the tags though, it deals with some heavy topics (tastefully and well)

At The Top of the World by Lady_of_the_Flowers - might also be more on the beaten path, but I can never do a rec list without mentioning Lady of the Flowers amazing work. This is a Modern AU with such a great interpretation of the characters and canon dynamics into our world

Young Love by Kalira - I love me an external POV, and seeing the Zukka relationship through Hakoda's eyes in the Western Air Temple was so much fun

Also this list by @zukka-simp of Zukka authors who deserve a raise has been keeping me in fics for weeks now, checking out authors I hadn't heard of before

Anyone else have any to throw in the ring, too? I'm also looking for good fics off the beaten path too!

#rec lists #Zukka #Zukka fic rec

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brujahinaskirt · 1 year

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Just some lil' thangs you might not notice about the level of detail RDR2 puts into Arthur's interactions with horses if you aren't personally experienced with horses:

[Sorry if this has been done! I couldn't find a post like it in recent tumblr history, and hope I can at least add some thoughts that haven't been analyzed to death already!]

(First, a note about me: I was raised on a quarter horse ranch and trained by a cadre of old-school cowboys in the Western tradition. Some of them were excellent teachers and some of them were crabby-faced bastards who thought "horsemanship" = engaging in a constant war with your horse... which gives me a little insight into positive and negative horsemanship styles on display in RDR2.)

(Second, thanks to fellow horsegirl @mangocats for helping me compile this list!)

(Third, a simple note to say that although I playfully use the term "horsegirl" in this post, the notes here apply to any gender. Same goes for the use of terms like "horsemen," which is not commonly used in the Western equestrian world to indicate a rider's real gender.)

Now, without further ado:

Press X to Calm. Arthur uses a tried-and-true low-stress, gradual escalation method of approaching and calming a spooked horse that begins with establishing physical contact with one hand and slowly increasing contact until the horse is fully calm and is once more amenable to human direction & commands. This is usually a preferable method to getting a frightened horse under control imo, but it's a "soft hand" method, and not something you always see in machismo-loaded equestrian circles. I've written about this a little in another meta post, so I won't get too deeply into it here.

Overall Horsemanship Style. You'll notice that while he does occasionally drive them hard in emergencies such as escaping the law or chasing a train, Arthur never "forces" his horses to comply with commands; in other words, he doesn't use his strength to try and bully a horse into doing something, like crossing a river, or physically punish a horse to "desensitize" it. "Forcing" horses to do things using tack designed to create discomfort or using raw bodily intimidation + fear & pain-motivated negative reinforcement is a tragically common tradition in old-school Western riding (and still advocated by some popular TV equestrians whom I think are straight-up animal abusers... if you know you know). It's dismal, but for a lot of the cowboys I know/knew, when a horse isn't obeying, you need to "show it who's boss." Arthur never approaches animals this way. By contrast, especially for the time period, he is exceedingly patient with horses and animals in general. We can even see this in his dialogue to wild horses; when they gradually calm down after the initial "breaking in" process, Arthur usually says something companionable like, "See, we're friends now."

And a sub-point on that: Horsemanship Temperament. Arthur never gets mad at or yells at his horse. Even when he gets chucked to the ground, he'll yell DAMN, THAT HURT, and then it's back to trying to calm the spooked horse. Which is exactly the right attitude to have. (Though if you've never been hurled face-first into a pile of sun-baked manure because your horse saw, idk, a twig on the road, you might not appreciate how even-tempered a character Arthur is for never succumbing to the temptation to yell, "COME ONNNN GIVE ME A BREAK IT'S A STICK YOU SILLY BITCH!")

Horse responsiveness. The horse emotional cues in this game are incredible, from their reactions to other animals and weather events to their reactions to Arthur. You can see the horse's neck muscles tense and relax when being calmed, their eyes changing in size, their head drop and raise in response to the reins, and their annoyance seeping through with stomps and pinned ears well before they start to spook. When Arthur speaks to his horses, you can even see a subtle ear flick backwards as they listen to him. When he gives certain commands (such as a mild squeeze of the knees to speed up a bit), a calm and attentive horse will often issue an affirmative snort; this is incredibly lifelike and essentially a "roger roger" between horse and rider. I was also impressed that Arthur uses his thighs and his knees to cue his horse more than his heels. Usually you just see the dramatic heel cues in in video games, but in real life, a rider gently but firmly squeezes their knees/thighs far more often than laying into their horse with boot heels, which is a fabulous way to get sent to the moon. One thing I would have liked to see is more riderless idle horse animations. Lazy or bored horses do a very classic pose where they rest their weight on one side, cock a hip out, and jauntily kick a back hoof up. It would have been right at home at the hitching posts in RDR2, and the horses are otherwise so lifelike, I find myself missing this little pose.

Historical bits. As players, we don't have much choice with this, since Rockstar matched bits to saddles rather than letting us customize them. With that disclaimer out of the way: Arthur uses a wide range of bits, some of them much harsher than others, designed to offer more control over a difficult horse's head through pressure points within the mouth. This is historically sound and far from obsolete in modern horsemanship, though I would certainly avoid using some of the harsher bits in RDR2 on my horses to avoid hurting them accidentally. That said, it's important to note that "harsh" control bits (like those wickedly straight-shanked bits you see with some of the cooler saddle styles) aren't instantly or automatically painful. While many of us modern horsegirls may frown upon the just-for-the-hell-of-it use of many styles of old-school, Wild West bit, in the hands of an experienced horseman with a good sense of appropriate rein pressure (which we can assume Arthur is), even a curb bit should not be a tool of pain. In the hands of a novice, however, some of those bits would absolutely hurt a poor horse's mouth and are typically reserved for troublesome (potentially dangerous) animals who may need to be curtailed quickly. I'm assuming Rockstar chose them for style more than characterization... but I do wince when I see those hard stops with the straight shanks, every time.

Horsetalk. We all know Arthur baby talks horses, and that his babble to his horse increases in affection with bonding level and varies a little depending on the horse's sex. But he also does something peculiar and frankly delightful with his vocal modulation on certain horse chatter lines. In those moments where he seems to go a little vibrato, warbling his voice as he talks ("waiaiaiaiaiaiaiat! come bahahahahack!" he calls after a fleeing mustang), Arthur is actually mimicking calming/positive horse sounds (usually a friendly nicker or a greeting whinny) in an attempt to communicate in horse language. While I think a TON of horsegirls have secretly nickered at our horses when no one else is around the stable, making horse noises at your horse is not a "traditional" training technique, and imo is something other gang members would definitely make fun of him for. It is also very adorable. I wanted to add that while horses are excellent at noise commands (like whistles, clucks, kisses, etc.), they usually aren't very good at identifying spoken word commands, including their own names. Therefore, the majority of the talking Arthur does to his horse is just free companionable chatter, much like we babble to our house pets. The command is in the cluck, the leg pressure, the yah, the rein slap; it's not the spoken, "Come on, girl, here we go!" That's just Arthur being a horsegirl.

Saddle checks. If you pay close attention, in cutscenes and in the map, Arthur will occasionally reach down and test various pieces of his saddle. This is particularly true with checking the cinches (those big straps that loop behind the front legs and under the belly), which good riders often do, as saddles can adjust during a ride. Straps that are too tight or too loose will cause a horse discomfort, since they change the way the saddle rests upon them and distributes the rider's weight. You can even watch the saddle shift when Arthur mounts and dismounts, reflecting the changed distribution in weight! This honestly floored me the first time I saw it. Rockstar really consulted people who know their stuff.

Bad Habits. IMO, Arthur's a little slouch-backed in the saddle. This is noticeably worse if he's hungry or sleepy, but even well-fed and rested, his shoulders drop and curve out his spine more than is ideal. This won't hurt his horse, but it will come back to bite him directly in the lower back as he ages, and I argue it's probably biting him in the ass a little now. (More on that below.) Arthur's "behind the horse" etiquette isn't particularly lifelike. In RDR2 (as in life), sometimes idling or benignly messing around behind a horse will cause them to randomly kick, and any equestrian knows not to hang out aimlessly in the kick zone. IRL, if you're about to walk close behind a horse, it's good etiquette to reach out and gently lay a hand on a horse's hip to let them know you're going to pass behind them before you step into the kick zone. I would have liked to see an animation for this, but I'd guess this would have been a real pain to animate without "locking" Arthur in place (as with the petting and brushing animations), so I can't really count this against him in good conscience. He also holds his reins in a full fist rather than between the appropriate fingers. This is a novice mistake, but I'm guessing this is an animation choice more than a characterization one, because I can't imagine getting those wobbly rein physics to rest perfectly between a model's wee little fingers. Which brings us to...

Reins. Arthur keeps a pretty tight (though not oppressive) grip on the reins when he has a horse in motion, facilitating quick communication from rider to horse and increased emotional response from the horse, and he tends to use both reins when he isn't holding something else. This increases control and often allows for clearer communication between horse and rider in comparison to the laxer "rein knot" one-handed Western style. More on that point: Arthur sometimes holds the reins in one hand. This is not lazy horsemanship, but rather a mainstay of the Western riding tradition; holding the reins in one hand allows for a rider to keep one hand free for whatever they might need... usually rope/weapons. Using two hands, one rein in each, does deliver much more refined control (especially with a nervous or inexperienced horse), which is why you often see Arthur switch between one- and two-handed riding. Rockstar also makes the clever choice to make reins “stretchy” so they move with the neck and simulate rider give and restraint, rather than having them just flop around at a static length. This makes reining feel a lot more dynamic and responsive, in my opinion.

Bareback vs. Saddle: To Rockstar's credit, riders' carriage when bareback is entirely different from the saddle carriage animations, and displays a lower center of gravity.

This note is a bummer, but it is, I feel, an important one to know. Arthur is WAY TOO BIG to ride a significant number of horses in the game. Horses are not bikes or cars. In real life, it's extremely important to consider a rider's weight and height and general carriage when matching them with a horse, especially for long-distance rides... and unfortunately, Arthur is prohibitively huge. If I saw a man Arthur's size astride that teeny little Morgan, boots tips damn near dragging, I'd give him a piece of my damn mind. That said, it's just a video game, so if you love that white Arabian or that sweet little Morgan, ride without shame; you are not hurting a pixel horse! But if you're into max realism or a horse an experienced rider like Arthur might conceivably choose for himself, go for something larger, leggier, and stronger. Though Rockstar fictionalized their breeds a little bit, I think one of their taller well-balanced styles like the Dutch warmblood, standardbred, Hungarian, Andalusian, or even one of those svelte Americanized Belgians suits Arthur much more comfortably. Online's Kladruber would also be an excellent choice for Arthur. (Ain't nobody saying SHIT to Arthur Morgan on a heavy breed like a Shire, though they aren't well suited for everyday long-distance all-terrain riding, and I feel sympathy pains about that leg spread just thinking about it. Speaking of...)

Real talk about Arthur's "swagger": Though I'm 100% sure it's a dominance thing for some crusty ol' cowboys, most equestrians don't saunter around Like That TM because they are listening to Rod Stewart croon If You Want My Body And You Think I'm Sexy at all times. That "swagger" is just... well... to be blunt, it's sort of what happens to your gait after you spend all day with your legs straddling a big animal moving on rough terrain. Hang out with some adults who have ridden horses daily since they were wee beans and they'll tell you allllll about what it can do to your posture. Contrary to cowboy jokes, it's not so much about being bowlegged (which is massively exaggerated as it pertains to horseback riding) as it is about lowering one's center of gravity to compensate for things like muscle strain, spinal compression, and lower back pain. Due to the high impact nature of riding, many career horsepeople develop chronic back problems and "swaggers," and for some it's eventually more comfortable to ride than to walk. Not saying you can't hc an Arthur who struts his stuff, of course! Just saying that, for those of you who might struggle to reconcile Arthur's blisteringly low self-esteem in his physical appearance with his "swagger," here's a horse world answer.

Knights Templar'ing it. This is another bummer for a ton of cute fanfic scenes, but riding two-to-a saddle is really not good for a horse. It's not just about raw weight, but about the distribution of that weight and where the pressure rests on a horse's back/organs. A bean like Little Jack sitting right in Arthur's lap isn't going to add too much stress to a horse big enough to carry a tanky dude like Arthur comfortably, but a whole second adult sitting behind a saddle is a very different story. Imagine the difference between carrying someone piggyback versus having someone stand on your spine! It's all about the position. Larger breeds can tolerate riding double for a while, but it should not be done for long distances, and it definitely should not be done if a rider expects to need heavy exertion from the horse. Adults riding double doesn't happen too often in RDR2 (usually just during an emergency), so this isn't a critique of Rockstar or Arthur; it's more so a helpful realism note for fanworks. An experienced horsegirl like Arthur is sure not to ride double casually. Pro-tip: If you want someone to teach your (non-bean-sized) OC how to ride a horse, consider having the teacher controlling the horse from the ground via a lead/lunge line while your OC sits in the saddle.

Oof, that smarts... When Arthur picks up hay bales with short sleeves on/bare hands, he makes a soundless "OOF OOOH EEEE OUCH" face. The first time I saw this, I absolutely lost it with glee. Anyone who has moved hay (or straw; they're different!) with bare arms knows how prickly and scratchy and itchy it is, and it's loving little touches like this that make RDR2's horses feel so darn real.

That's all I can think of for now! I hope this list was at least somewhat helpful, even if it's far from an all-encompassing resource on horsey stuff in RDR2. Happy riding, meatverse horsegirls & virtual horsegirls, and remember to always thank your horse :)

#rdr2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #horsegirl gamergirl hours #long post #redmeta

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soapskneebrace · 1 month

Note

Do you have any recommendations for longer cod fics with plot?

Yeah, plenty!

A few from @391780 (and their ao3) (if you decide to explore their other fics PLEASE read the tags first, early writes some very dark work that may not suit you):

The Arrangement

The ad reads "Looking for a woman (25-45) to enter a discreet and unusual arrangement, with monetary compensation. Must fill out application and send photo.", and for some reason that you can't even fathom yourself, you apply. AKA John Price, who knows better than anyone what a liability having a spouse or partner is, decides that the only way he's going to find a beautiful soft woman to put up with his absurd schedule and dangerous job is to simply hire them.

the space in between

a shortcut through a construction site at night leads you to a run-in with john price, leader of the local crime family. (or, mafia Price romance with a desk jockey who didn't sign up to be a crime boss' obsession or sole confidant)

Into Your Veins

Ghost is a vampire during a zombie apocalypse, sent on a mission from Price to recruit you to join the little gated community of survivors that he's rounding up. You're a survivor who just wants to be left in peace to tend your garden and occasionally clear out your moat and booby traps of the undead. Neither of you gets what you'd planned on.

Then we have milk0 on ao3

Incompetent People

You share a group chat with your team and you sometimes wish you didn’t. (or, a very fun fic that started as a group chat piece and has evolved into a poly 141 romance. Otherwise known as my favorite fucking trope ever. The reader character has such a fun voice, I adore this fic.)

Next of course is @ceilidho (emphemeron on ao3) (same deal as with early—read their tags if you explore more of their fic, they also write darker work)

take me home, country road

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au

Following up with @alittleposhtoad (smoggyfogbottom on ao3)

"it's gonna get me by the end of the night"

A year after the attack on the Urzikstan embassy, Stacy Davidson struggles to move on. Whumptober Prompt: No. 23: “It’s gonna get me by the end of the night.” Shadows | Stalking | “Who’s there?” Note: I picked Gaz x OC because this ship doesn't exist on ao3, and I wasn't sure how to classify it for searching purposes. Stacy has a minor role in the game!

oh bury me not on the lone prairie

You are a doctor on the frontier, recently widowed and left to fend for yourself. You cope by keeping a strict routine, one that is threatened by the arrival of four strangers one hazy summer night. (141 western AU)

a handsome stranger on a cold autumn day

You work at a small-town library doing the same thing day in and day out, until a handsome captain approaches your desk.

rounding out this list is @lunarvicar who is on hiatus but still fully worth reading. (you can find them here on ao3)

exit row

ghost is that hot guy at the airport you wish you could talk to. good thing your seats are next to each other on the plane and you can fantasize alllll you want. (or, you hook up with Ghost in an airport and meet, months later, after you join the 141. he is not happy about it. or is he?)

to the flame

Moth has barely escaped her first captors, but tumbles headfirst into the care of the 141. She has to decide whether to trust them and their prickly leader, Captain Price - who also happens to be the sexiest motherfucker she's ever met.

a stranger at the table

tudor era AU. John Price is an old friend of your new husband's, come to help on the farm for a season. Your vows are tested in ways you could never have imagined.

All of these I've listed are multichapter fics, but every single author's one-shots are just as good. I highly recommend reading those too!

Now I'm just going to list a few writers who you really should just take the time to go through their masterlists, because you can't go wrong with anything they write.

@yeyinde

@peachesofteal

@moondirti

@charliemwrites (dark fiction, be aware)

@ohbo-ohno (also dark fiction)

honorary mention of @guyfieriii who has removed most of her cod fiction from tumblr due to a frankly disgusting amount of harassment, but I'm sure if you ask her very very nicely she'll send you where you need to go. (seriously. be nice. or you'll see me in your bedroom holding a knife at midnight)

P.S. if you're reading this, and i've expressed love for your work in the past, but you are not on this list, it is NOT intentional exclusion. It is my absolutely horrible memory. I love you and please link your own work if you'd like!

#answered #happy reading anon!

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creepzkilla · 10 months

Text

[BRIAN THOMAS, TOBY ROGERS, TIMOTHY WRIGHT x FEM! READER]

chapter warning. gore, death, mutilation, maggots, talk of killing an animal, gutting an animal.

wc. 7860

authors note. this fic gonna be long asf so buckle up. sorry its lowkey boring up yk its building suspense. any questions about the fic or concerns please submit an ask!

important, read. even though this is implied to be a female reader that has she/her pronouns, I suggest downloading this extension for Microsoft edge to replace [Y/N] as your name and to replace she/her with your preferred pronouns to make you feel more comfortable if you do not identify as a female.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏: 𝐇𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐀 𝐒𝐘𝐑𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄

meaning. a mushroom that grows over decaying bodies

As the sun rose above the eastern horizon, casting its golden hues across the land, a lone car ventured forth on the winding roads leading to Grove, Oklahoma. The engine purred softly, its rhythmic hum blending harmoniously with the melody of nature. With the sounds of soft rock and country preoccupying the silence that the car held in its void. The silence was filled with the songs of Linda Ronstadt, and Deana Carter; two maestros of musical storytelling, graced the airwaves, serenading the passenger with a poignant repertoire of cherished memories. The tunes resounded with the recollections of sun-drenched summers spent in the Western fields, where her mother's berry farm unfurled its emerald charm.

[Y/N]’s mind wandered back to the days when the weathered white barn stood as a sentinel, and the family's nearly antique truck nestled alongside, an endearing relic from bygone eras. Each note carried her back to the sight of verdant paint curling and surrendering to the passage of time, revealing glimpses of raw metal beneath. She vividly recalled the delicate act of running her nails over the lifted layers of paint, peeling them away one by one, as if uncovering the hidden stories embedded within the truck's weathered facade.

In nothing but her nightgown, [Y/N] ventured out, her bare feet delicately dangling just beyond the worn-out Ford logo adorning the truck bed. Wandering through the fields, she traversed the rough terrain, her feet bearing the brunt of her barefoot journey. The berry saplings, a recurring sight in spring and summer, had now blossomed, displaying their succulent fruits as late summer approached. Yet before their transformation, the bushes stood tall, their leaves pointed and vigorous. Her path, confined to the Western fields, beckoned her toward the barn. Basking in abundant sunlight, the western expanse fostered accelerated growth, causing the saplings there to sprout thorns at a rapid pace. As a consequence, the girl’s feet endured the accumulation of mud and crusty blood, an undeniable testament to her traversing the formidable fields.

With dirtied feet and a stained nightgown, she embarked on her ritual every morning, just before the sun's radiant glow graced the sky. Ascending the antique truck, she found her perch, eagerly awaiting the mesmerizing spectacle of the sun's rays stretching across the vast expanse of land. Yet, amidst this ethereal beauty, her heart danced with anticipation for a different kind of awakening.

As the first glimmers of light began to peek over the horizon, a familiar melody filled the airwaves, heralding the start of a brand new day. Soft country tunes, like those sung by Tanya Tucker and The Judds, tenderly embraced her senses. However, her ears strained for one particular tune, a treasure she yearned for each morning at 8 AM.

And then it happened—John Denver's timeless classic, "Take Me Home, Country Roads," resounded through the airwaves, soothing her soul with its heartfelt lyrics. Sitting atop her vantage point, she became a symphony of joy, her voice bursting forth despite its imperfections. With every note, she poured her heart into the song, her little lungs valiantly attempting to reach every high and low.

Though [Y/N]’s singing may have lacked finesse, it mattered not, for her spirit soared with unbridled enthusiasm. Without pausing for breath, she sang the entire composition, as if on a sacred mission to carry its melody across the rolling hills and valleys. In those precious moments, the world was her stage, and she, the star of her own enchanting performance.

Queens ensemble of trumpets and brass instruments harmoniously faded into a gentle hum, merging with the engine's subtle vibrations. With every turn of the wheel, a captivating journey unfolded, transporting her to an enchanting realm where time lost its urgency, and the world transformed into a vibrant symphony of colors.

[Y/N]’s grip on the steering wheel remained relaxed, a testament to her confidence in navigating the road ahead. However, the weight of exhaustion was evident beneath her eyes, concealed by bags that hung like heavy burdens. Her gaze alternated between the winding road and the small, blaring red text of the clock on her car monitor: 7:59 A.M.

Anxiously, her fingers drummed against the supple leather steering wheel, mirroring the racing beat of her heart. Her eyes darted back and forth, desperately seeking confirmation of the fleeting minutes. As the hum of the engine threatened to engulf her senses, its dominance was suddenly overpowered by the opening notes of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads."

In that moment, her attention was captivated by the red letters once more, and they revealed the time: 8:00 A.M. A gentle hum escaped her lips, akin to a sigh of relief, as she muttered along with the song's lyrics, embracing them with unwavering devotion. Without pausing to catch her breath, she sang along, infusing her voice with the song's nostalgic melodies.

The road stretched out like an asphalt ribbon, carving its way through sprawling meadows and rolling hills. Fields of emerald green extended as far as the eye could see, adorned with delicate wildflowers that danced in the gentle breeze. The air, crisp and invigorating, carried with it the scent of earth and the promise of new beginnings.

As the car glided forward, the scenery unfolded like pages in a vivid tapestry.Towering trees lined the roadside, their branches stretching toward the heavens like ancient sentinels. Leaves shimmered with a kaleidoscope of autumnal shades, painting the landscape with fiery reds, burnt oranges, and golden yellows. The trees seemed to whisper secrets to one another, their rustling leaves creating a symphony of nature's own design.

The road wound its way up and down gentle slopes, revealing panoramic vistas that stole the breath away. Mountain ranges stood majestically in the distance, their peaks kissed by the wisps of ethereal clouds. They stood as guardians of the landscape, their stony faces etched with the stories of ages gone by. But nothing could compare to Grand Lake.

The bridge, spanning what felt like endless miles, gracefully arched over the water, its reflection shimmering in the gentle waves. As if in a dance, a multitude of boats navigated the water's expanse, trailing wakes that glistened in the crystalline depths, mirroring the celestial azure above and the passing cars on the bridge. The radiant spectacle transformed the water into an irrefutably luminous spectacle. It seemed as though liquid silver veins intricately intertwined with the land, carrying the harmonious melodies of life and the captivating tales of the creatures that resided within its mysterious depths. Geese gracefully etched invisible patterns against the vast canvas of the heavens, casting a mesmerizing spell on the onlookers below.

The scratching of gears wound up, blending into the symphony of sound, as the window glass slowly rolled down. The mechanical protest produced a terrible screeching sound, reminiscent of an animal's anguished cry, piercing the air and capturing her attention. Her eyes widened, captivated by the scene that unfolded before her.

Inhaling deeply, she savored the dewy summer air that gracefully entered her lungs, infusing her with an ardent fervor. Each breath became an embrace of life itself. The atmosphere, cool and revitalizing, carried a tangible energy, blending the essence of earth with the promise of new beginnings. The aroma of raindrops and freshly cut grass intermingled, filling her senses with a harmonious fragrance that evoked a sense of contentment. As she exhaled, a sigh of satisfaction escaped her lips, releasing any lingering tension—contentment.

The car engine purred in agreement at the sight of landscape, the tranquility of and complete beauty was simply enchanting.

In a graceful display of poise and determination, she effortlessly steered the sleek vehicle away from the confines of the bustling main road, opting instead for a captivating detour onto a secluded single-lane path. As the tires glided over the uneven terrain, the verdant canopy of lush green forests enveloped the winding road.

Along this path, a humble dirt road emerged, veering away from the well-trodden route. Its weathered surface, pockmarked and rough, dictated a slower pace, Each jolt and tremor sent ripples of anticipation coursing through her veins, heightening her senses as she pressed on with unwavering resolve.

Gradually, the path unveiled a breathtaking vista, an opening that seemed to materialize from the very fabric of a storybook. A small pond, its crystalline waters shimmering under the gentle caress of the sunlight, beckoned with an irresistible allure. Nestled harmoniously by its side, a resplendent cabin emerged, a captivating testament to rustic beauty.

The cabin, although once a haven of tranquility, now appeared as a relic of forgotten memories, as if time itself had woven a shroud of neglect around its weathered exterior. Weeds triumphantly sprawled across the surroundings, their emerald tendrils dancing in the wind, while determined vines conquered the cabin's weathered facade, gracefully ascending its walls in a seemingly eternal embrace with nature itself.

In this serene tableau, the intrepid traveler found herself drawn to the essence of this forgotten refuge. Its dilapidated state only served to enhance the mystique, inviting her to uncover the tales that lay dormant within its timeworn walls. She sensed that beneath the encroaching foliage and the fading echoes of life, whispers of untold stories and echoes of forgotten laughter still resonated within, yearning for someone to listen, to breathe new life into their cherished existence.

As the shadows danced amidst the rustling leaves, she stepped out of her vehicle, her footsteps cautious yet filled with reverence as the gravel beneath her crunched. The air seemed to hold its breath in anticipation, as if the surroundings acknowledged her arrival, recognizing the significance of this encounter.

As her boots pressed against the gravel roadway, their crunch merged seamlessly with the harmonious of natural sounds that enveloped the picturesque surroundings. Advancing towards the cabin, each step resonated through the ancient floorboards of the front porch, releasing a melancholic creak as if the timeworn planks were exhaling with a subtle sigh. Weathered by countless footsteps, the wooden planks bore the indelible marks of their enduring journey, their once vibrant hue now transformed into a rich, dark oak shade. Inhaling deeply, she absorbed the essence of the place, her hand gravitating toward the doorknob of the screen door. For a fleeting moment, her gaze caught the old rocking chair, swaying gently in response to the playful caress of the breeze that meandered through the air. Finally, [Y/N]’s turned the the doorknob as the screen door creaked open—exhaling.

She inhaled, the sharp fragrance of pine and bleach wove its way into her senses, its pungency tugging at her nostrils. Their potent combination was not without consequence, for it provoked a reaction within her, eliciting a gentle scrunching of her nose.

The house exuded an eerie aura of both familiarity and enigma. She found herself standing in an expansive, open area cabin, devoid of hallways, which seemed to beckon her further inside. With each step, the immaculate cleanliness of the interior revealed itself, creating an almost surreal ambiance.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to the second floor, with its single set of stairs ascending like a mysterious gateway to another realm. On the ground floor, to her right, lay a quaint and compact kitchen, an intimate space that appeared to have witnessed the preparation of countless meals and conversations with its worn down appliances.

To her left, the living room stretched before her like a tapestry of memories. A comfortable couch adorned the space, an inviting haven where the occupants must have spent many hours engrossed in captivating tales or deep contemplation. In front of the couch, the heart of the room resided—a grand fireplace. Its flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, seemingly whispering forgotten secrets.

Perched atop the fireplace, an old flat screen TV served as a window to the past, where characters from era that might have come alive came alive, momentarily escaping their scripted confines. The juxtaposition of the antiquated screen and the modernity it once represented painted a vivid portrait of the house's intriguing history.

Yet, despite all the intriguing elements that adorned the room, her gaze eventually shifted downward to the very foundation of the space. The wooden floor bore the weight of countless footsteps and stories, its grainy texture inviting her to feel the past as she walked upon it.

In the realm of her consciousness, she possessed an intimate knowledge of the house's history. In the era preceding her own, her beloved grandparents had entrusted its care to a man of enigmatic nature, one by the name of Willard Tucker. The townsfolk, adorned with tales and whispers, had deemed him a peculiar figure, cloaked in the shadows of perceived insanity. Yet, the precise details eluded her, veiled behind a shroud of uncertainty. All that remained were fragments of narratives whispered through the winds of time—stories suggesting that the man, his heart shattered by the loss of his wife, had departed for the fertile lands of West Virginia, seeking solace within the embrace of family ties, all while taking up farming.

She had guessed that Willard was the reason for the foul smell of cleaning products. Cleaning and scrubbing off residue so as to not leave it behind for the next tenant. That being her—a girl from small town Kansas in the depths of the west. However, she secretly cursed Willard for using so much of the cleaning product.

Upstairs and to the left, In the midst of simplicity, her bedroom exuded a quiet charm. Nestled against the wall, a regal queen-sized bed commanded the center stage, flanked by two modest nightstands. On the left, a generous window framed the wall, revealing a glimpse of the wooden sanctuary beyond.

As she gazed through the window's translucent pane, a tingle of anticipation caressed her being. It was as if the wistful tendrils of nature, woven into the fabric of the scene, beckoned her. The sheer simplicity of the room was deceptive, for within its unassuming boundaries. A shiver traced its delicate fingers along her spine, electrifying the air with a gentle chill.

She shook it off as paranoia.

As she ventured into the confines of the bathroom, her delicate fingers gently placed the small pills of respite into the trinity of mirrors ensconced within the cabinet. Ambien, a faithful companion in her torment against insomnia, found solace in this sanctuary. The affliction had haunted her since the early years of her high school debut when a merciless onslaught of ghastly nightmares infiltrated her slumber. Rarely, she could sleep without nightmares, rarely she could sleep at all. Not through a full night at least. In a valiant attempt to retain her grasp on reality, she adorned her abode with vibrant beacons of guidance, neon yellow sticky notes that served as simple reminders.

Before she placed the pills in their place, with meticulous care, she tenderly appraised the contents of each vial, her discerning gaze fixed upon the pills nested within. Twelve, she confirms. Retrieving a vibrant yellow sticky note from her pocket from her linen jacket, her blue pen danced across the note, etching the numbers upon the labels of both bottles with blue ink.

Nestled gently beside the cabin lies a quaint garden, albeit a modest one, marred by a profusion of resilient weeds. Throughout her family’s lineage, they had cultivated a bounteous farm teeming with an abundance of blossoms, nourishing produce, and succulent fruits. This trio, her mother, father, and herself, helmed a "berry utopia"—an expanse of verdant fields, stretching across countless acres, brimming with an assortment of fruit: blueberries, blackberries, vibrant raspberries, strawberries, and cranberries—each variety harvested with unyielding dedication.

As her gaze fell upon the garden, now overrun and wild, a surge of nostalgia washed over her like a familiar melody from a song. The sight evoked memories of her home, where there were fields upon fields of saplings of fresh berries. Determination welled up within her, fueled by a profound sense of connection. With resolute certainty, she understood that this hallowed ground deserved to be restored to its former glory. And then this became her mission.

With a hum, she nestled into the plush embrace into the seat of her car, releasing a wearied sigh that spoke volumes about her exhaustion. The weight of countless sleepless nights seemed to settle beneath her eyes, casting shadowy hues that deepened with each passing moment. Her gaze drifted toward the console, where a vibrant neon yellow sticky note had found a temporary perch upon the sleek gear shift. Delicately scripted upon its surface were two simple yet poignant words: "Call Mom."

A flicker of recollection sparked within her. Reminding her of the promise she had made to her worry-laden mother. A call was expected, an assurance of her safe arrival. Jane, her mother, possessed a peculiar knack for turning fret into an art form, yet in her own idiosyncratic way, her daughter desired nothing more than the act of vanishing without a trace.

In the tender embrace of Jane’s watchful care, her protective nature has forever been her daughters steadfast companion. Jane ardently desired for [Y/N] to remain by her side, nestled within the sanctuary of her love, tending to the bountiful fields of the farm until the end of days. Undoubtedly, affection for her only child knows no bounds, yet an undeniable sense of confinement subtly gnawed at her being.

Since the untimely demise of [Y/N]’s beloved father, a transformative shift enveloped her mother's being. Like a shadow cast by the moon's gentle glow, she became an ever-watchful sentinel, closely monitoring her daughter's every step with unwavering dedication. Her love took on an armor of protection, shielding [Y/N] from the world's perils with an intensity that left her in awe. The mere notion of forging friendships seemed inconceivable, friends were near to few, yet she made it through.

As she embarked on her journey to the store, a fleeting thought of reaching out to her beloved mother danced in her mind, promising to materialize into a heartfelt conversation once she fulfilled her immediate errands. Before delving into the realm of garden essentials, a trusty blue ballpoint pen found its place in her hand, etching a list: a delightful assortment of blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries. A sudden mishap tainted the pristine clarity of the yellow paper, as her thumb inadvertently collided with the wet ink, obfuscating the very last word with an smudge, rendering it a mere blur, without her noticing

The jingle reverberating through the air above the door was no delightful melody, but rather a haunting creak that sent shivers down one's spine. As the door swung shut, it unleashed a piercing screech, its brass hinges groaning under the weight of accumulated rust. In that moment, it seemed as though a flurry of white paint chips had erupted into the air, propelled by the force with which the door had slammed shut. She was consumed by a wave of embarrassment, cast her gaze around, desperately seeking an opportunity to offer a timid apology to the cashier. Regrettably, the name tag affixed to the cashier's uniform bore the name "Ranae Reeds," yet the older woman remained oblivious to the commotion, deeply engrossed in the captivating narrative of her newspaper, so captivated that she spared not even a passing glance.

The quaint little store exuded an ambiance both intimate and grundgy. Its petite dimensions were adorned with luminous streams of yellow light, gently cascading overhead, a mesmerizing sight that lured a vibrant array of insects, their presence immortalized by a delicate layer of expired life at the base of the ceiling fixtures. Amidst this glow, a second source of illumination emerged from the rear of the store, emanating from the flickering glow of the freezers, whose contents contained nothing but dairy products.

Four rows stood in perfect formation, each aisle beckoning with an irresistible allure. Yet, it was the initial 3rd island that caught her attention. Like echoes from her college days, these rows overflowed with an abundance of budget-friendly delights, an ensemble of delectable junk food.

On the 4th and final row, she found what she needed; seeds. She picked up a variety of packets of seeds, holding the small packets between her fingers. Blueberry, Raspberries, and strawberries—She was missing one thing

She nestled her hands into the cozy refuge of her coat pocket, avidly searching for that elusive neon yellow sticky note. Days of inadequate slumber had exacted their toll, leaving her mental acuity adrift in a sea of drowsiness, a constant companion to her weary mind.

The yellow paper must have slipped out somewhere.

As she turned to retrace her steps, her gaze fell upon a figure standing a few feet away. Dressed in a dark hoodie that seemed to swallow his form, he was an enigmatic presence amidst the mundane shopping atmosphere. His face was partially concealed by a dark yellow hood, casting intriguing shadows upon his features.

She hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should approach him. But something compelled her to step forward, her curiosity overpowering any apprehension she might have felt. With a nervous yet determined smile, she approached the figure.

"’scuse me," she began, her voice tentative but polite with a southern accent slipping through her lips. "I seem to have dropped something, and was wonderin if you happened to see a yellow sticky note?"

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers through the darkness of the hood. His gaze was intense, as if trying to unravel the secrets hidden behind her words. Without a word, he bent down and picked up the stray yellow sticky note from the floor, holding it out to her.

Relief washed over her as she accepted the note, feeling a strange connection form in that brief exchange. "Thank you lots," she said, her gratitude evident in her voice. "I wouldve been lost without this."

As she looked up to thank him, her eyes widened in surprise. The hood that had previously obscured his face had fallen back, revealing his features in full. His brown hair was unkempt, falling across his forehead in a disheveled manner, matching the roughness of his beard. There was a weariness etched into his face, as if he carried the weight of a world unseen.

His eyes, though tired, possessed an unmistakable glimmer of something deep and complex. They held a mix of vulnerability and strength, as if he had seen things that most could never comprehend. The lines around his eyes spoke of experiences that had left their mark, making him seem older than his years.

He was quite handsome, [Y/N] thought.

A ghost of a smile played upon his lips as he nodded in response to her thanks, acknowledging her gratitude. “Ain't no trouble.," he replied, his voice a low rumble that held a hint of grave and southern twang. "Happy to lend a hand."

Silence hung in the air for a moment, as if both of them were caught in a suspended moment, each waiting for the other to break the spell. It seemed like the man found himself unable to tear his gaze away.

‘Dude, fucking break eye contact, this is getting weird’, She thought as an awkward frown formed on her face.

Her eyes flickered to the red gallon he held in his hand, the word gasoline emblazoned across it. Questions formed in her mind, but she hesitated, deciding against asking him directly. There was an unspoken understanding that some things were better left unsaid.

Instead, she mustered a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, thanks again," she said, her voice warm with sincerity. "It was nice of ya to help me out."

His lips curled into a slightly deeper smile, a tooth gap evident, a hint of something genuine breaking through his stoic demeanor. "No worries," he replied, his voice tinged with a quiet appreciation, before going back to looking at the seeds.

The way his lips curled into a grin, sent shivers down the curve of her spine. Though his smile, expansive and brimming with teeth, held a peculiar detachment within the depths of his eyes, a dissonance that left her unsettled. His lips, etched into a smile, never reached his eyes. Like an emotionless facaque. He had something of a crooked grin, skewed in its authenticity, that just didn't seem right Deep within her core, an unsettling awareness resonated, silently cautioning her about the man before her. Still, an irresistible force tugged at her very being, pulling her closer to his presence.

She glanced down at her yellow sticky note for the last item, only for the blue writing to be smudged.

“Fuck.”

The man couldn’t help but notice the frustration on her face as she stared at the yellow sticky note in her hand. The item she had written on it was smudged, rendering it illegible. He cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them in the garden aisle at the back of the store.

"Hey again, uh... , 'scuse me for interrupting but aah couldn't help but notice yer frustration. Do you still need a hand?" The man had asked, his voice gentle and concerned.

Startled by his sudden address, she looked up, her eyes meeting his. She blinked a few times, trying to regain her composure. "Oh, hey. uh... i was just trying to remember what i needed to buy," she stammered, a hint of embarrassment displayed on her face.

He nodded, understanding the struggle of forgetfulness. His gaze fell upon a rack of seed packets nearby. "Well, if yer open to suggestions, there's this type of berry seed that might do the trick. They're strong and grow plenty. Might just be what ya searchin for.”

She hummed, her eyes widening as she turned her attention to the seed packets he indicated. She scanned them, reading the descriptions and imagining the bountiful berries that could grow from them. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Imma give em’ a try," [Y/N] replied, grateful for the suggestion,"Thank you."

He reached out, plucked a seed packet from the rack, and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed briefly, a fleeting connection that sent a shiver down her spine. She accepted the packet, feeling the weight of the possibilities it held.

"Yer welcome," He had said with a genuine smile that still didn't reach his eyes. "Aah sure hope they bring you a fruitful harvest." he laughs.

As she held the seed packet in her hand, she couldn't help but be struck by a sudden curiosity. "Do you gotta a garden?" [Y/N] laughed, “You sure seemed to know lots bout’ plants and whatnot.”

His smile faltered slightly, and he glanced away for a moment. "Well, I used to have one," he replied softly. "But things shifted ‘round, and aah had to leave it behind… but ah’m fixin’ to start a new’un.” He drawled out with a smile.

Understanding flickered in her eyes, and she nodded in sympathy. Sometimes life forces people to leave behind things they hold dear. It reminded her of something, but she just couldnt put her finger on it. Before she could delve further into the subject, his phone buzzed loudly, interrupting their conversation.

He fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. A serious expression settled on his face as he answered the call. His voice was barely audible, and he moved away from her, creating a physical distance between them.

She watched him, a mixture of caution and curiosity mingling within her. His hushed conversation gave away little, leaving her to wonder about the nature of the call.

As the call ended, He turned back to face her, his eyes filled with a mixture of apology and urgency. He didn't say a word but mouthed a goodbye, his hand waving gently in farewell. Without another word, he swiftly made his way out of the garden aisle, leaving her standing there, holding the seed packet in her hand.

“I wish i would’ve at least gotten his name.” [Y/N] hummed, rubbing the packet in her hand. She really hopes that the man was right about this seed packet.

She read the packet again, more carefully. The packet read Boysenberry. A cross between a raspberry, blackberry, dewberry, and loganberry. She could make this work. The picture showed something like a blackberry , yet it was enlongated and a deep red, almost black color. The description read that when freshly picked, it tasted like a sweet blueberry with a tangy aftertaste.

[Y/N] grabbed a few more more things: 2 bags of fertilizer, Top Soil, and Green gloves

She sighed, walking towards the front desk, flashing a soft smile towards the cashier, Ranae Reeds, she recalled. The woman’s name tag was worn around the edges, with her name partially faded. Much like the name tag, Ranae was a little worn around the edges. With her gray roots, her deep smile lines told tales of a younger, happier her.

Ranae Reeds delicately placed her magazine, adorned with the captivating headline, "Infamous Serial Killer, Jeffery Woods caught," on the polished surface before her. [Y/N]’s eyes beheld the image of a man whose countenance bore the unmistakable evidence of two hauntingly deep gashes etched into his cheeks, and a profound sensation seized her being. The spectacle unfolded before her like an eerie tableau—an unsettling tableau that seemed to suspend the very breath in her throat. Its sheer grotesqueness sent tremors coursing through her, causing the hairs on the nape of her neck to rise in response.

Ranae cashier merely looked at the younger girl, almost with sympathy.

The cashier took the seed packets with a shaky hand, her golden bracelet jingling as she scanned the packets of seeds with a ding of the scanner, “I ain’t neva seen ya round’ before.” Ranae spoke with assertiveness and confidence, surprisingly, as her stature was rather petite and she seemed to be soft-spoken. But that was in fact not the case.

[Y/N] was taken aback by her sudden curiosity, she blinked and said, “I just got ere’ this morning, moved in today.” She rocked back and forth on her toes and heels, eagerly wanting to leave already.

Ranae looked at her up and down with a bored expression on her face and asked, “Where yer from girl?” Her lips never moved from the straight line that almost seemed to be formed. Her freckled hands grabbed the fertilizer as she scraped the bag of pellets across the scanner, never taking her eyes off of [Y/N].

DING.

“Oh, aah’m from Kansas. Born n’ raised.” [Y/N] didn't have a Southern dialect—well, not anymore. It only slips out on occasion, particularly when talking to someone else with a southern twang. Her momma and daddy always had a thick southern voice, as they were both from Texas and moved to Kansas.

Kansasans don’t exactly have an accent, besides not pronouncing the “R” in words. Yet, they got a way of speaking that you can clearly tell their from somewhere in the West. If you went south, close to the Oklahoma border, the accent would get thicker as you went.

Ranae hummed, almost like she had something to say, yet she bit her tongue. She scanned the items slowly, like she was purposely taking her time.

[Y/N] shook her leg rapidly, impatience growing within her as she watched Ranae struggle to bag the items in a brown paper bag.

DING.

“My PawPaw and MawMaw died recently, so I inherited their cabin down by Grand Lake,” She said in attempt to fill the silence that annoyed her so much, in hope to pass the time. [Y/N] has always been rather extroverted, starting conversations with strangers she didn't mind, it was this silence that ate at her. The silence was bugs crawling underneath her skin, like roaches gnawing at her veins as they swam in her blood.

Ranae merely hummed again, scanning an item, completely uninterested in the conversation at hand, letting silence fall over the conversation once more. The silence was only broken by tapping of [Y/N]’s leather boots, which were worn out and needed replacement.

“A man named Willard Tucker used to live there—“

DING.

“Ya best be careful round that house,” Ranae suddenly spoke up, her brown eyes boring into the girls, a serious expression took over her features,“There been rumors bout’ some folks down by those parts doing god knows what.” The woman's veiny hands wandered through the bag of fertilizer in search of the bar code.

[Y/N] stiffened at her sudden demeanor. “I see,” She watched intensively as Ranae scanned the last item before bagging it into a brown bag and pushing it towards [Y/N].

Y/N smiles, “I’Il be sure to be careful—“

“And ya best be careful round that man that was in ere’ earlier. Aah’ve seen him do some suspicious things with those little friends of his.” Ranae cut her off once again, except her loud and apprehensive nature was no more; instead, it was quiet, and she was talking merely above a whisper.

“He’s up to no good, girl.” Ranae’s eyes once again, bore into [Y/N]’s with a sense of urgency and protection. Ranae reminded [Y/N] of her mother, Jane. From the way, she spoke with a protectiveness of a mother to her veiny freckled hands that trembled constantly.

DING.

[Y/N] hummed, taking the brown bags underneath her arms hastily, “I will don't worry.” She reassured Ranae with a tight-lipped smile, before pushing through the door that opened with a groan.

The smell of summer once again hit her, and she inhaled the sweet, tangy air. It was humid as well, the weather was hot and sticky. [Y/N] was used to it from being on a farm for all of her life, yet she never really enjoyed it. Her dad, Steve, enjoyed the heat, he loved it. He would always drag her out of the house when it was well into the 90’s.

She really misses her dad.

[Y/N] threw the brown bags in the tail bed of her 1995 Ford 150. She slid into the plush fabric of her seat, shutting the car door behind her as she slumped against the leather steering wheel.

“Why in the hell is it so damn hot?”

She peeled herself off of the steering wheel, her head heavy as drowsiness took over. partly from the lack of sleep, and the warm sun that scattered it’s light against her face.

She shoves the old, almost rusty, key into the ignition, turning it to start the car. The car sputtered, before failing to start. [Y/N] sighed, before trying again, turning the key in the ignition. Yet again, it groaned and sputtered with a metallic scratching noise that sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

It was an old truck, a gift for her 16th birthday. Painted a dark red that rusted around its silver rims, the truck was a relic, almost like a family heirloom that her family passed down from one generation to the next. It was frequent that the truck wouldn't start, constantly breaking down from a plethora of problems. It wasn't just one problem with the truck, but everything. The engine, the ground cables, the filter, overheating-- the truck almost had every problem in the book.

“I swear to fucking god,” She turns it for the third time, Please, god, start.” She pleaded as the engine sputtered once more, before roaring to life with fever.

[Y/N] slumped her head on her steering wheel once more and said, “Thank you,” She kissed the leather steering wheel, thankful that the universe had answered her pleas.

With the roar of the engine [Y/N] peeled out of the small parking lot of the Grocery Store.

Within the forgotten garden, an eerie silence lingered, broken only by the faint rustle of weeds that thrived unchecked. Like rebellious tendrils, the vibrant greens stretched beyond the confines of the patch of tilled earth, entwining their wiry strands with the blades of grass and any unsuspecting object within reach. Mushrooms and fungi covered the garden like a blanket, growing in mass abundance. This unruly congregation of vegetation and fungi seemed to possess a will of its own, reclaiming its dominion over a forsaken realm. Amongst the overgrown foliage, unseen insects and arachnids sought refuge, their presence betrayed only by an occasional scuttle or a shimmer of silken threads. Camouflaged amidst the verdant chaos, they patiently awaited their next unsuspecting prey, ready to seize upon any who ventured too close.

As the sun descended in the western sky, its golden rays extended through the dense foliage of towering oak trees, painting a mesmerizing tapestry of light and shadow. The ethereal dance of illumination and obscurity enveloped the scene, amplifying the eeriness that permeated the air. The songs of robins and mourning doves serenaded the somber landscape, their delicate melodies contrasting with the ominous backdrop. Amidst the rustling leaves and trilling birds, She heard the distant grunt of a white-tailed deer. And as the final rays of sunlight retreated beyond the horizon, they bathed the discovery in a soft, eerie glow, accentuating the unsettling sight before the witness's eyes.

[Y/N] glanced at her phone, which glowed an illuminating white. She looked at the white numbers that read: 6:00 PM.

She stretched her limps as they ached from hours of being hunched over digging to completely remove the wild grass and herbs that grew. Her arms gave a satisfying crack, just as her back did in response. She had napped for a satisfying 7 hours,only waking a few times. [Y/N] was suprised that she was able to nap in general. She was content and fully recharged. On the downside, she probably won’t be able to get any rest tonight.

At least she'll be able to stay awake binging Netflix.

With a determined grip, she thrust her green gloves into the yielding earth, their fabric sinking into the damp soil as she uprooted the herbs with a swift, purposeful tug. As she pulled, the tips of her gloves absorbed the essence of the earth, their vibrant hue now tainted by the stubborn remnants of the earth's bounty. The once-pristine fingers of her gloves were adorned with a telltale shade of brown, evidence of their close association with the soil. And beneath the surface, her nails bore the weight of the garden's secrets, caked with a fine layer of dirt that clung tenaciously to the thin, porous material.

[Y/N]’s mind wandered as she aimlessly dug through the soil, ripping the herbs from their roots like tendrils. Until her hands gripped something that squished beneath her fingers.

She gazed down, her eyes widening in pure horror, as a gut-wrenching sight unfolded before her. In her trembling hands, a writhing mass of maggots squirmed with repulsive vigor, their pale bodies contorting and intertwining in an unsettling dance. The pungent stench of decay wafted through the air, assaulting her senses and threatening to overpower her resolve. As her grip tightened involuntarily, the soft flesh of the larvae ruptured, smearing her trembling hands with a sickening mixture of viscera and fluids. The once-innocent soil beneath her feet became a graveyard for crushed worms, their slimy remnants mingling with her fingers, an unholy stain that marked her as both witness and participant in this grotesque scene.

[Y/N] let out a blood churdling scream as she stumbled backwards from her squatting position, landing on her backside. She frantically swiped her hands together to get the maggots off as they fell into the grass beside her.

The squirming maggots, now a grotesque spectacle in the dew-kissed grass, seemed to writhe in agony. Their once pale, plump bodies were now stained crimson, their delicate flesh bearing the gruesome evidence of their fallen brethren. Each wriggling creature fought desperately, their tiny frames flayed violently as they were torn away from their decaying feast. The gore of destruction painted the once vibrant green blades of grass a haunting shade of red.

“What the actual fuck?”

Laying where [Y/N]’s gloved hand dug, was a mound of dirt that maggots swarmed, their white skin hiding beneath the dirt.

[Y/N]’s curiosity peaked exponentially as she moved closer to the mound, dirt staining her knees brown. Her gloves dug through the maggots filled mound, her stomach filling with uneasiness as they glided through the soil.

Suddenly, her hands struck a soft, pudgy, material. [Y/N] dug through the dirt to fully uncover the mound, and as maggots crawled anxiously around her hands, she recoiled in disgust. She was sure it must be a dead animal, and the land must have grown around it, right?

[Y/N] knew the stench of death, and didn't partially mind the sight of dead animals. Her father, Steve, was a frequent hunter of deer and other game, to which [Y/N] accompanied him. Steve had taught her from a young age how to field dress a deer. Hanging the deer up by its hooves to a tree, she remembers taking her father's hunting knife and running it down the belly of the animal-- very gently to not puncture the belly. Scooping the contents of the deer out, leaving the inside of the deer completely bare. That was the easy part. Now to field dress the deer, was a tedious and lengthy process, using the tip of her knife to slowly peel the hide off of the animal. Hours would pass in the blistering Kansas heat and wind. It was revolting, yet she grew accustomed to the sight.

For her 13th birthday, she was gifted an old 22. rifle from Steve—an old gun that needed to constantly be cleaned and scoped in. The bullets weren’t made for large game such as deer, but they did work on prairie dogs that plagued cow farmers' fields. Eventually, she got a .300 WIN MAG, which now sat below her bed.

She had guessed the rotting carcass of an anwinsle from the potent smell wafting through the air. An unmistakable and haunting odor tainted the air, suffusing every inhalation with a chilling foreboding. It was the stench of death, a macabre orchestra composed of decaying flesh and the ghostly remnants of blood.

As she slowly uncovered the mound, it became more and more apparent what the mound was. Her hands swiped away the last layer of dirt and maggots to reveal the form underneath the soil.

[Y/N]’s features contorted with sheer terror again, the lines of his face etched deep with despair. The pallor of her skin turned with goosebumps, a stark contrast to the clammy beads of perspiration that clung to her furrowed brow. Eyes wide, they became twin portals to the void, reflecting the depths of her fear—paralyzed.

A corpse, abandoned to the earth, lies in a state of advanced decomposition. Its once vibrant form is now a haunting testament to the inevitability of mortality. The body, stripped of life, is a pillar of grotesque transformations. The flesh has given way to a grotesque canvas, with patches of decomposed tissue revealing glimpses of bone beneath. The skin, mottled and discolored, hangs loosely, tattered and ravaged by relentless decay. Time etched deep crevices into the once-familiar countenance, obscuring any resemblance to the person it once was. Swarms of maggots and other scavengers feast upon the remains, their writhing presence further amplifying the scene's repulsive nature.

Bile crawled up through [Y/N]’s as she doubled over, vomiting into the grass next to her. Food chunks and liquid sprayed the green grass a vomit brown. A tremor coursed through her trembling frame, betraying her tenuous grasp on composure. It was in this harrowing moment that horror unfurled its chilling wings, casting an indelible veil upon her face—a blanket of anguish. The very air seemed to quiver in the presence of such raw, unadulterated fear, as if nature itself recoiled in silent reverence for the intensity of her terror.

She had torn off her gloves as she scrambled across the grass, grabbing her phone, in an attempt to distance herself as much as possible from the corpse. Her surroundings seemed to spin as the drum of her heart overtook her hearing as well as the sound of the dial tone. When did she call 911?

“This is 911, what’s your emergency?” A woman's voice came from the other side of the phone. Calm, and tender, her voice was comforting. Yet her voice was almost muffled as [Y/N]'s heartbeat filled her eardrums.

“I," [Y/N]'s breath was shaky, quiet as she spoke with a sense of urgency, "Would like to report a dead body."

tag, @rat-briccs-trauma, @strawberrie-fluff, @spookyravioli @darkovergrownforestnymph, @urmomisaqt420 @yipeeesstuff

.@qupiikaaa @fynnwolff

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baby-jaguar · 5 months

Text

Meeting Kyle

Western AU; Mail Order Spouse Trope

WC: 3,120 CW: None

AN: GAZZA BAYBEE! This is my first time writing for Gaz and I know it's not much, but I hope to portray him as something we can all enjoy. Would love to hear your thoughts and comments, as well as any questions, my asks are open. I hope ye enjoy <3

Please see the Introduction for the explanation and precursors to the scene.

Introduction, Biography

--------

The quiet of the night emanates with the crickets chirping, small scuffles of feet around the block, and a handful of buildings creaking in the late-night wind. You can barely see the outline of words using the dim street lights to help you read over the candidates.

No… No… Yes.

Your eyes, and faint tug of your heart, settle on Kyle’s advert. In a hopeless romantic fashion, you could feel the daydreams begin.

Folding the paper and stuffing it in your shirt, then glancing around before heading off to your home, you walk with a rushed sense of urgency. Everything good, bad, and ugly, flys into your mind. This could be a trap, what if he isn’t who he says he is, what if hundreds of others have already written to him?

Well, it's better than this. It's a quick scan of the hazardous and dirty mess that rages inside your house walls. Passing quickly to your bathroom, you take out the paper again before looking in the mirror.

Can you see yourself in the low lights of a saloon? Helping old bastards get drunk after a day of hard work, smiling sweetly, or raising a fist when needed? Can you hold appearance to being a town favorite so he would get good business?

Your mind steals your active attention while bathing, letting the lukewarm water wash the day’s dirt away from you. No criminal record? Check, and with no debt. No early mornings but now late nights? That's a life you could get used to. Attractive? Well shit, if the politician sought you out, then yes. You’re quite the diamond in the rough.

As if you were in a spell, you blink and break the dissociation you entered to realize yes, you could see that for yourself. You can. Could. Would.

Now in your bedroom after the bath, you quietly maneuver the floorboards to cut any chance of waking up your parents or any sudden appearance that would erase this mission of yours.

Now being able to read, Kyle was one of the younger candidates in the newspaper and even from his short paragraph and singular photo, he seemed like a man who was down to earth. Maybe someone who knows how to have fun, but has enough structure and discipline for himself to become so successful at such a young age. In your writing, you tried your best to express your goals, how you could help his own, and how you could blossom together in his new beginning.

The next few days were filled with constant anxiety and metaphorically looking over your shoulder. Acting like a nervous dog as your parents began to crowd you with an overbearing sense of control. A child with a leash on, constantly trying to pull away.

The 5th day after sending your correspondence leaves you will a dejected heart. Now on the farm working, you heard the bell attached to the mailer wagon approach the gate. Common for you to take the mail for the Laswells, you head to take the mail but give a confused glance as the mailman hands you a letter while reading out your name. “This one here ‘s for ya.” Is all he supplies before heading back down the road to continue his route.

A neat and small scrawl is seen across the front and is enough to make your heart race.

Kyle expressed himself very well; his boyish charm and a hint of his flirty attitude already coming across. Describing himself as friendly, outgoing, and respectful. He confided in how he feels most alone when the customers leave, when he gets into bed in the cold chill of the night, alone.

Even in his writing, his charming and playful lines were able to make you smile, having to bite your lip to keep your bubbling excitement inside. The words he uses, and the sweet-toothed candor in his writing show a difference from your upbringing; daddy and mommy issues on your end, if you will, while the feeling of his young soul shines through with assuredness. You and Kyle wrote of both wanting someone to make life feel easy. Kyle wants to find his muse; the inspiration to his business and light up his world on the cloudiest of days.

In the dark of the late evening after leaving work late, you head to the post office to collect an expected letter. A common habit now so you could dream of him and any fantasies your mind could create. Now just entering the 6th week of exchanging letters, you stand shocked as you re-read the page.

“... I hope to see you soon, enclosed is the means to make it my way. Cheers to you honey, I’ll be waiting for you…”

In your hands lays your one-way ticket to get out of your contained life. In his letter and now in your hands are directions, a map, and a one-way train ticket for you to leave home.

The thrum of your blood is loud in your ears, louder than your footsteps running across the ground. Making your way back home, you begin packing what you’ll need for the barren desert climate.

Fully awake and adrenaline pumping, you slink into your house with practiced ease and silence to determine what you’ve walked into tonight. From the hallway, you can see your parents strewn across their bed with measured breathing; It's safe to move around and get yourself together.

It's an hour later when you make your way to leave, yet when passing through the living room for one last look, you decide to get a small keepsake to celebrate your new beginning while simultaneously giving a big fuck you to your parents.

Plucking a set of fine glassware of your father's, the ones that he valued more than keepsakes from your parent's wedding, the soft clink of the glass buried in your bag brings a sweet grin to your lips.

You’d scold yourself later for not taking a bottle of whatever liquor was there but wouldn’t want to test your luck by getting drunk when it was your first time on a train.

The trip was only four days long, not leaving you with much time to prepare to meet Kyle. Instead, you begged your mind to create a true representation of him, re-reading his letters often as you imagined him. The times that you were able to sleep with the soft lull of the train were filled with possibilities of what your life in a budding environment, alongside a man who had built his life up from scratch and stayed so charming through it all.

On the train into Northern Arizona, the red rock was enchanting, to say the least. Arriving late into the morning on Saturday, you take a mildly comfortable pace after stepping off the train station to make your way to the center of town with wide eyes as the glimmer of the early morning sky creates a calm blue haze.

It takes a bit of time before you walk far enough to come across the sign painted atop a brick building in the the upper edge of Main Street. You could laugh about how lost you knew you looked, but before stopping to ask someone, the creme-colored letters Free Falling Saloon appear before you.

Taking a moment to commend yourself for making it this far, a steady breath draws in and out of your lungs. With a small flutter in your stomach, you push open the saloon doors and are greeted with the sight of the bar; stained oak and birch woods, various colored glass bottles lining the back wall, dried animal skulls hung up, cowboy hats, sombreros, and a large mirror that has a ledge full of lit candles.

The loud sound of a crate being put on the bar makes you startle, hand jumping up to your chest before your eyes find the source of the noise.

“Sorry, pardner, we ain't open till-” The smooth voice rings out with a dreary tone- making him seem tired of probably having to repeat this line over and over again. After a moment, his warm deep eyes move up to find yours but his jolt of surprise doesn't escape you.

His eyes, body, and soul, seemingly freeze as he sets his eyes on you and stares. Granted, you're staring right back while the pull of a growing smile begins to pull at the edge of your lips.

His facial hair isn’t much, but it's enough to shape his face and make him seem like he’s a bit older than the photo he sent. His hair somewhat short and in tight curls on his head, making him have a unique style he could probably attest to developing from home.

Your stomach does flips at how stunning he is, but when he smiles- All gods be damned. He’s the finest man you’ve seen and you wonder if you’re going to chase off harlots from stealing him every night.

“Hi, Kyle.” Is all that leaves you, and it's monumentally soft in how it leaves your lips, making you swear you could see him melt a bit.

The movement of his mouth catches your eyes but the lack of sound coming out draws a soft peal of laughter from you. Taking a step forward, he matches you while bumping into a few glass bottles along the way.

Your bags make soft thuds against the floor, both sets of footsteps soft with trepidation yet building excitement. Each set of eyes scans the other, with sincere and almost unapologetic disbelief as you come face to face.

He whispers your name out in amazement, raising his hands to cup your face. “You’re real… You’re really real.” He breathes, voice soft. His inviting eyes drink in your appearance while his smile grows, and then feel yourself pulled into a tight hug in his strong arms.

A soft noise of surprise leaves you, arms trapped within his hold making you laugh in response. Settling to wrap your arms around his waist, you squeeze right back. He smells like citrus and hints of cinnamon amongst it.

When thinking of the Arizona Territory, you thought it would be the rumored dry barren desert that holds tales of ghost stories; Unbearable heat that beats down and leaves many delusional for an oasis. But him. Kyle. He’s the damned warmest thing you've wrapped your arms around.

But hey, you’ll probably become delusional for this man too.

“You’re real.” You copy back with a muffled voice. Basking against his muscled chest, which you will return to later, you peak up. “Thought this was some dream like I was going crazy coming here.” The addition is a soft and unconfident reply, possibly gaslighting yourself into still believing so.

The rumble of his soft laugh brings a sweet vibration to your chest, "I know, Honey. You're safe now, you're home." He assures while moving his head back slightly so his face is now a few inches from yours, smiling softly. “I wrote you way too much to let you get stuck in some sort of dream world without me. Hardest parts’ over.”

Affirming his response, a grin plants itself on your lips as you hum lowly. “Hardest parts over.” You parrot back with relaxed accomplishment.

The arms around you give a tight squeeze, and the warmth of his lips presses against your forehead. “You’re gonna make me crazy. Can already tell.” He murmurs, the easy smile held against your skin, and you already want to curse yourself for letting him make it seem so easy. Why not let him?

Before you can respond, he takes a step back to look at you, his brown eyes sparkling in the flickering light of the room."You wanna see our place?" He asks curiously, stepping forward to take your hand and guide you to a door behind the bar, a tucked-away staircase hiding beside a wall of crates. "You're not gonna wanna leave once you see where you'll be stayin'. Let's set your bags down first, though." He laughs, confidently leading you while intertwining your hands.

You’re greeted with an apartment-style home; An eclectic mix of furnishings, all the way down to the pictures and artwork on the walls. It's a mix of Western and Southern charm, with just a hint of New Orleans to signify where he’s from.

A couch sits against one wall near a bay window, the curtains drawn back to let in the sunlight. A kitchenette rests in the corner of the room, and you see a separate room that appears to be a bedroom. There is a large bay window at the end of the room, facing the view of the Jerome hills. Kyle motions for you to follow him to the bedroom.

“It ain't much, just a cozy place for two,” he says softly, moving close to you again as he steals your bags and gently rests them atop a dresser.

In truth, he’s right. It’s not much, but it's a beginning for both of you that he has just a bit of a head start on. Yet, it's so much more than you’ve hoped, dreamed, prayed, screamed, and cried for. Just a little piece of heaven to have and to hold.

“It’s us. That's all that matters.” You say, now walking slowly towards him to scan over the view that the bedroom window offers.

You can feel him staring, see him doing it too from the corner of your eye. “What?” The question tumbles from your mouth, turning to him with an eyebrow raised.

He smiles for a moment, chuckling before shaking his head. Slow steps, 1… 2… 3… bring him close enough to pull your hips and bring you towards him. “You’re right,” He whispers, pausing to smile and look at your lips. “Just us.” He answers in a hoarse murmur, leaning in closer and you can feel his breath across your lips.

“Is this where I say thank you for letting me be here?” You ask, eyes falling to his lips in response. There's a sweetness to this moment, that makes your head feel so light and clear while you can barely feel your heartbeat. It's something you’ve never felt before- because you haven't. Not this, not anyone like him. His hands reach forward to find their place on your jaw, the warmth of his palm grounding.

A huff of air leaves him, making your eyes flutter. “No, this is where I thank, you, Honeybee.”

His kiss is gentle and sweet, the gentle drag of his thumb across your hip bones adds to the warmth that floods your chest while his light stubble rubs against your face. Your arms travel up to wrap around his neck, adding to the invitation to make him stay, keeping him so close.

A groan leaves him, his hands squeezing the flesh on your hips before moving to wrap around your back. “You’re gonna be trouble, baby. Here you already makin' me wanna do nothin’ n’ lay in bed.” He grumbles lowly, nestling into your neck with a warm laugh.

You can feel the chemistry building, the close contact, and hold on each other making the scene grow more intimate. He draws a breath in, stealing another kiss from your lips before moving back and directing you to the dresser. “Here's where to put your things, le’s get you unpacked and comfortable. How's that sound?”

Nodding in response, you work on organizing your belongings while he makes room in a few drawers and half of the closet to accommodate you. “Woulda thought you’d have more than this sweetheart. Not keen on carrying much?” He asks, tone curious but a bit playful with the lazy grin on his face.

A small scoff leaves you, not in disdain of him. “Nah, wanted to get to you quick. But didn’t have much that was worth bringin.” You shrug in reply. “Honestly didn’t know what kinda weather was out here, thought I would be melting already.”

Kyle leans against the wall where the window is, watching you cross back and forth between the dresser and closet while deciding where to hang or fold your clothes. “I could get behind that.” He hums for a moment before looking into the distance. “I’ll have to tell you how I traveled all ‘e way out here. Had a few trunks to my name and got a whole wagon to get me out here.” He laughs, a sigh of a breath releasing from him as he recounts whatever memory plays in his head.

“What, you didn’t wanna make it in halfa one?” You respond quickly, almost like it's your second nature to be a little shit, now having the freedom to have some fun and relaxation of your personality.

He thinks, stares, and tilts his head. “You think you’s funny, yeah?” He asks, arms crossing over his chest with a Cheshire grin growing over his lips.

At this point, you think that maybe you should be giving this man more respect, maybe you should already be kissing his feet and thanking him for allowing you here. Eyes widening, your hands fly up in surrender. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t- I don’t mean any-”

He cuts you off with a shake of his head, bringing his hands out to catch yours when he steps to you. “Hey, hey. No, you’re okay. I know you were havin’ fun.” He comforts soothingly as his eyes scan yours.

Your eyebrows de-furrow, your mouth closing, but there's still a bit of alarmed widness in your eyes as you make sure he isn’t mad. “Thought I overstepped. ‘M sorry.” You whisper as your eyes dart over his face for any hint of emotion.

Something in Kyle shifts, a small and almost remorseful smile rests on his face. Are you that obvious? No, per se, since your situation is pretty damn unique.

“Hey.” He starts, “I want you to be comfortable here. You’re not gonna overstep. And if there ever was a situation where you did, I’ll let you know.” His hands bring yours up to his lips, laying soft kisses on your knuckles. “But please, please, tell me if I’m outta line with you. I know we ain't got much space but if you’d like me to sleep on the couch for a bit while we get to know each other, I will, Honeybee.”

In all honesty, you could cry. You didn’t believe in men like this being real, not after the shit you’ve seen. Could this be your lottery ticket after the amount of pain life has put you through?

Fuck, maybe. As long as you get to keep him, you’re in.

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whatsnewalycat · 7 months

Text

Passenger / Chapter 5

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Five: Wyoming (Part Two)

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Chapter Summary: Charlie and Din test the waters.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.8k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, horny thoughts, anger problems, crying, food mention, handcuffs, hi yes the only one bed trope is alive and well, unlike the Titanic (it's relevant I promise), small town, lying, fictional town, sorry to Wyoming-ites if I got WY all wrong, (Bernie Sanders voice) I am once again talking about The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Notes: Howdy, howdy. We are balls deep in the yearning with this one, folks. Thank you @frannyzooey for proofreading and being the literal best, I appreciate you endlessly.

Just like Paul promised, The Jackalope Motel is conveniently located straight across the county road from Giddyup Auto.

The single-story, L-shaped motel, whose faded roadside sign advertises low weekly rates and color TV, shares a gravel parking lot with a two-pump gas station. Its brick exterior is painted a pallid shade of yellow, all ten room doors varnished with this glossy teal finish.

Nestled into the elbow of the building sits a white screen door with the words MOTEL OFFICE printed on the front.

Din departs from your side to hold the door open, an action you assure yourself is rooted less in chivalry than it is him not wanting to turn his back to you. A loud creak sounds from the battered door and announces your arrival. The dog charges through the threshold, pulling his leash taut in your grip as you step inside the cramped, wood-paneled office.

An elderly woman perks up on her barstool behind the front desk. She stubs out her lit cigarette in a nearby ashtray and calls in a husky voice, “Howdy, howdy.”

“Hi there,” you smile, glancing back at Din to determine who will take the lead in this interaction.

He does, taking three wide strides past you to the counter. As he moves through the room, a thick sea of smoke parts for him, churning and dancing in his wake.

“We need a room. Two nights for now.”

The gray-haired woman pulls the glasses hanging on a chain around her neck onto the bridge of her nose, “Let me see here…”

At your feet, the dog sniffs his surroundings. He follows an invisible trail to a tattered plaid couch. You follow, listening to Din and the motel manager discuss lodging arrangements.

“I got a couple two three rooms open, I can stick you in one away from the rabble rousers. Somethin’ more private,” she winks at him.

His back straightens and he holds up a hand, “Do you have anything with two beds?”

The mischievous look on her face flattens and she raises her eyebrows, looking down at her books with a frown, “‘Fraid I don’t.”

Din looks over at you, his face blank, eyes inscrutable behind his aviators, then turns back to the woman and gives her a nod, “Anything you have is fine, then.”

He takes out his wallet as she starts getting paperwork together. You gravitate towards a wall of faded, dusty brochures that advertise Western Wyoming’s finest tourist traps, including, but not limited to: a cowboy-themed amusement park, guided tours of mountain ranges and caves, horseback riding expeditions, and hot springs.

“What brings y’all to town?”

When you turn to Din, he gives you a mild, one-shouldered shrug, so you tell her, “His rig broke down about an hour from here. Paul—do you know Paul?”

She chuckles and nods, “I’ve known Paul since he was in diapers. Used to watch him for his momma while she was at work.”

“No kidding?” you approach the tall front desk, propping your elbows up on the counter, “He’s fixing the truck. Really nice guy, referred us to this place ‘cuz we don’t know how long it’ll take.”

“Can I get your ID, hun?” she asks Din, who complies without comment, then she glances up at you while jotting down your companion’s information, “He’ll get y’all fixed up good. We got a few things to do ‘round here if you get tireda bein’ holed up here. A few parks, some trails. There’s a fella that has a ranch just on the outskirts of town, he does horseback riding, if that squeezes your lemon. Downtown, we got some bars, coupla places to eat ‘n’ all that,” she hands the ID back to Din, sighing, “Nothin’ fancy, but better ‘n nothin’ at all.”

“We don’t need fancy,” you grin at Din, who does not return the sentiment, then ask the motel manager, “What’s your name?”

“Annie.”

“I love that name,” you smile, “Annie Get Your Gun.”

She smiles, too, toothy and wide, revealing her too-perfect teeth–obviously dentures–and says, “You know, I was actually named after her. Annie Oakley.”

“That’s awesome. A fantastic namesake, she was a true badass.”

“She sure was,” Annie nods and takes the glasses off her face, letting them drop around her neck from the glasses chain, “Well, the room comes to $59 per night, plus taxes and fees, ends up runnin’ closerta $75. Do you wanna settle the tab for two nights now, or see if you needta tack on more and take care of it at checkout?”

You look over at Din, who answers, “We can settle at checkout.”

“Fine with me,” she swivels on her little stool and stands to grab a key off the wall behind her, “We got an ice maker and vending machine outside the door here, don’t be too loud, and pick up after yer dog. Any questions?”

She slides a key across the counter, whose big turquoise keychain reads 10 in metallic gold, and glances between you and Din. He grabs it, and you respond, “No ma’am.”

“Alright, well, let me know if y’all need anything.”

“Will do, thank you, Annie,” you give her a polite wave before following Din outside, pulling the dog along behind you.

The room smells of bleach and water damage.

Much like the office, its walls are all wood-paneled with a dull oak finish. A framed painting of a bunny with deer antlers hangs above the queen sized bed. As you try to untangle the leash from your guitar and backpack, you nod at the painting and chuckle, “A jackalope.”

Din grunts in response. He tosses his backpack on the bed, then turns to the dog, crouching down to unclip his leash from the collar. The dog reacts like he’s hit with a cattle-prod and goes zooming around the motel room in a lop-sided oval.

You start giggling as he tears over the bed, to the bathroom door where he makes a U-turn and speeds past the dresser, then your feet, then Din’s, then does it again, around and around until he runs out of steam. He comes to rest on the fireproof, floral bedspread, circa 1984, and leans back on his haunches, panting and out of breath, tongue hanging out of his jowls, glancing between you and his person.

“Feel better?” Din asks him, and he sneezes.

You go to the window, pulling the top pane down to let crisp October air spill into the room, carrying with it the earthy scent of organic decay. When you close your eyes and inhale, you see piles of raked-up maple leaves, those big mosaics of orange and red and yellow and brown, hiding rot underneath. It reminds you of home.

You turn to your captor, who seems to be inspecting the bathroom. He flicks the bathroom light on and peeks inside while you release an exaggerated sigh, “So, Din.”

He brings his attention to you and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows in question.

“That is your name, right?”

“It is.”

A smile spreads across your face.

The fact that you’re able to put a name to this man, brings you a surprising amount of joy. He seems less like a force now, and more like a person. Which, you suppose, is probably why he didn’t formally introduce himself before shoving your face into a trailer door and abducting you.

“Great, well—Din, it’s nice to actually meet you,” you cross the room and extend your hand to him. All he does for a moment is stare at it, until you tease, “Aw, come on. I don’t bite.”

“Maybe I do.”

Your lips part and you blink at him. When the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, your face transforms into a heater. This whole situation would be a lot easier if he wasn’t so handsome.

RULE #3: Keep your wits about you.

“Funny guy,” you snort, rolling your eyes in feigned annoyance, but continue to hold your hand out to him.

He takes it and gives it a firm shake. His palm is warm and calloused and his grip seems to swallow yours. Even though he’s wearing those stupid sunglasses, you can tell when his eyes meet yours because a jolt shoots through the middle of you. Your throat tightens and your cheeks get even hotter.

Before he can tell how flustered you are, you take your hand back and retreat to the bed, plopping down to scratch the dog as you ask, “What now? Do you wanna go explore this podunk town?”

“No. We’re staying here. The less we’re seen, the better.”

You groan and throw yourself back onto the bed. There’s a yellow-tinged water stain on the ceiling that almost looks like a face if you squint and tilt your head a little. It brings to mind this short story of a woman slowly losing her sanity while on “rest cure” to treat her depression. She’s forced to do absolutely nothing, and starts to see figures in the yellow wallpaper of her bedroom.

Granted, your situation is much different than the one Charlotte Perkins Gilman penned, but you still feel a sense of solidarity with her protagonist’s captivity. You feel antsy. Cooped up. The thick layer of grime on your skin becomes hard to ignore, and you remember it’s been a week since you last bathed.

“Can I at least shower?”

When he hesitates to respond, you can’t stop yourself from sitting up and scowling at him, “Seriously?”

“There’s a window in the bathroom.”

You stare at him blankly, “So, what, you think I’m going to—”

“Yes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you get to your feet and stomp past him into the very retro, very pink bathroom, yanking the shower curtain open to inspect the window.

In all fairness, you could climb out of it if you really wanted to, but you still roll your eyes and tell him, “Probably can’t even fit through there.”

He just stares at you, unmoved.

Frustration simmers in your stomach. All that’s standing between you and the sweet relief of a shower is his lack of trust. There has to be a middle ground.

“What if—” your mouth clamps shut. You shift your weight from one leg, to the other, then shrug, “Would it make you feel better if you were in here while I showered?”

Din’s lips part, stunned for a moment before he carefully says, “Better isn’t the right word—”

“Ok, well, feel free to substitute ‘better’ with ‘more secure,’ or ‘reassured,’ or whatever. You know what I mean.”

He studies the window for a moment, the muscles in his jaw wiggling as he considers the compromise, then looks back at you and nods, “Sure.”

“How long will this take?”

From behind him, Din hears you wrestle clothing off your body into a pile on the floor as you say, “Five minutes, tops.”

The faucet squeaks, then the water comes to life with a stuttering hiss. Twin metallic swooshes signal the shower curtain being pulled open, then shut, then you moan, “Fuuuuck that’s so good.”

His imagination bucks out of his control, and for a moment the only image in his mind can conjure is his body pressed up against yours, skin on skin. How soft and warm you must be. How those words would taste on your lips. All the ways he could make you utter them again and again.

He thinks of your stubbornness, your defiance, and wonders what it would be like to break you. Would you like it?

I am not a good man.

Din squeezes his eyes shut and tries to flush out the deviant thoughts, reminding himself of the handsome bounty he’ll collect when he turns you over. The peace that financial security will bring him. He won’t have to live job-to-job with a white-knuckle grip on existence. He’ll have room to breathe. Maybe he’ll even be able to live a little.

Your honeyed voice pulls him out of his tail-spin.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

Din opens his eyes and stares at the bathroom door, shaking his head in amusement, thinking, Of course you sing in the shower.

It’s sort of nice, though. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of likes it.

Grogu, obviously feeling left out, scratches at the other side of the door, then lets out a disgruntled whine.

You stop singing and ask, “Is that the pup?”

“Yeah.”

The shower curtain rings squeak, then your voice is right next to him, “Let him in.”

Without thinking, he turns to you and scoffs, “No.”

Water drips off the ends of your sudsy white-blonde hair onto his boot. Your features pinch into a scowl, dark eyes searching his face, “What, why not?”

His gaze flicks to the blur of skin barely concealed behind the shower curtain, then to the pink tiled floor as heat rises to his face, “He’s just gonna jump in there and get wet.”

“So?”

“He’ll stink up the room.”

You snort, “You’re already doing that.“

Din goes to glare at you, but corrects himself and glares at the ceiling instead, “Sure that’s not you?”

You let out an exaggerated gasp that quickly dissolves into laughter, “You asshole.”

He looks down at the doorknob and shakes his head, stifling a chuckle.

“So rude,” you tease as you slide the curtain closed and step back into the steaming shower stream, “Come on, big guy, let the pup come in. He can’t possibly stink more than I did.”

Grogu scratches at the door again, this time letting out a sharp bark instead of a whine.

“Awww, listen to him,” you say, the pout evident in your voice, “So lonely, he just wants to be with us.”

Din rolls his eyes and twists the doorknob to let him in. The dog barrels into the room, skittering across the shiny, bubblegum pink ceramic into the empty garbage can. It goes toppling over, and he uses it like a bumper to correct his course towards the tub. He stands on his hind legs and peaks behind the shower curtain, then woofs for your attention.

“Hello handsome boy!”

Grogu starts panting with excitement, his nails clacking on the floor and the porcelain tub.

“Oh my goodness, do you want to come in here with me?”

He barks.

Din protests, “Don’t—”

“Ok, ready, here we go.”

Both you and the dog groan a little when you lift him, then Din hears clattering and splashing as he lands in the tub and starts flailing around in the water. A sharp giggle pierces his eardrums, making him wince, but there’s such an abundance of joy in your laughter and the dog’s playful growls, Din catches it secondhand and ends up smiling like an idiot.

“Look at you, happy pup! You love the water, don’t you?!”

Grogu lets out a low bow-wow and sneezes, which you respond to with a squeal of delight. Something tender and warm blooms in Din’s chest. Just as soon as he realizes its fragility, he stomps it out, snipping over his shoulder, “Are you almost done?”

The water shuts off with a loud clunk from the faucet and you respond, “Yep.”

Din ends up trying to dry off the wet, rowdy dog while you dig through your backpack.

“Do you think there’s a laundromat here?”

He glances up at you, eyes briefly trailing along the outline of your body beneath the fluffy white towel before he clears his throat, then says, “I don’t know.”

You sniff one of the sweatshirts from your backpack, shrug, and toss it onto the dresser.

“We should check. Everything in here is fucking rank,” you mutter while inspecting a pair of dark pants.

The dog zooms past, drawing Din’s attention, and he manages to scoop him up into a towel, “Gotcha!”

Whining and throwing his weight around like a fish out of water, Grogu tries to escape as Din dries him off. You turn and snort at the dog, “Good luck, I’ve been trying to do that for days,” then pad across the faded, low-rise carpet to the bathroom.

Din glances up at the oval-shaped mirror mounted to the wall, catching a glimpse of your reflection as you drop your towel. Stunned, he fumbles the task at hand and the dog flies from his grip like a bat out of hell.

“Shit,” he mutters, propping his hands on his hips, watching the little white dog torpedo from one end of the room to the other.

“This probably feels like wide open spaces to him after being cooped up in the truck, huh?” you chuckle from the bathroom.

His eyes betray him, flicking to your reflection again. At least you have pants on this time, the waistband of tight black leggings nestled into the dip of your waist. He studies the curve of your spine up to a compass tattooed between your shoulder blades. You pull a baggy maroon sweater over your head and spin around before he can look away. Shame creeps hot up his neck and makes him drop his gaze.

If you caught him staring, it doesn’t show. You just trot past him and throw yourself onto the old, squeaky mattress, stacking one foot atop the other as you stretch out.

Grogu breaks out of his orbit to hop up onto the bed and climb in your lap, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth. A giggle chirps up your throat, and you scratch between his ears, “Do you two have a home base, or just the truck?”

“Just the truck,” Din answers, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.

“Oooh a coupla rubber tramps,” you grin, “It’s fun, right? Nomad life?”

He tilts his head at you.

Is that why you do this? Because you think living on the road is fun?

His lack of response tugs at the arch of your brow. You look around the room, releasing a sigh through slack lips, making a pfpfpfpf sound, then ask, “Well, whaddya wanna do?”

Din pushes off the wall and starts towards an armoire that looks heirloom or at least second-hand, swinging open its solid oak doors to reveal an old tube TV. A shelf at the top of the cabinet stores a VCR and a few tapes.

“Finding anything fun?”

He reads movie titles off the faded VHS sleeves, “The Wedding Singer, Titanic, Pocahontas, Men in Black.”

“Anything you like?”

“I’m not much of a movie person,” he admits in a murmur, and casts a glance over his shoulder, “Do you have a preference?”

“Not really,” you shrug, “I’m not much of a movie person, either. You pick.”

Din swings his gaze back to the armoire, wrinkling his nose at the options, then pulls out the double-barreled VHS of Titanic and pops in the first tape.

After feeding the movie into the VCR, your captor goes to the little two-person dining room table in the corner of the room and grabs one of the chairs, carrying it over to the opposite side of the bed. You watch him the whole way, eyebrows raised, blinking with annoyance when he sits in the chair and kicks his feet up onto the bed.

“You’re really gonna watch a movie like that?”

He glances over at you, crossing his arms over his chest, “Like what?”

“With your whole,” you circle your wrist around your ear, “Incognito thing. Plus, boots? You can like… be comfortable, did you know that?”

His mouth flattens into a line. A few awkward seconds go by before it clicks and you nod in understanding, “But you can’t be comfortable around me, can you?”

He doesn’t answer. Not that you expect him to.

You grab the remote control off the nightstand and turn up the volume. With previews still running on the TV, you sigh and pull a pillow out from the cheap bedspread, plumping it up and adjusting yourself into a more relaxing position.

“I get it,” you mumble at the screen, “You think that in order for you to maintain this power dynamic, you can’t show belly.”

“Is that what I think?”

When you look over at him, he seems to be studying you through the tint of his aviators. You ask, “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. Probably because he doesn’t want to admit you’re right. Better than him giving you some bullshit contrarian retort, you suppose, but his silence still burrows gritty between the layers of your skin.

“Whatever, man,” you scoff and roll your eyes, “If you wanna sit way over there in your stupid getup, that’s your decision, but it seems pretty fucking miserable for no good reason.”

His jaw gnashes back and forth a bit before he sits up and takes off his hat, tossing it onto the nightstand, then his sunglasses. His dark eyes meet yours, “Better?”

You look at his black leather boots.

He sighs and drops his feet to the ground, bending over to remove the boots one at a time. When he returns to his previous position, arms crossed over his broad chest, socked feet propped up on the bed, you suppress a grin and turn back to the movie.

"I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

Beneath the thick, curved glass of the TV, the first VHS runs out of tape. Out of the corner of his eye, Din sees you sit up and throw your legs off the bed. Grogu croaks out a sleepy sound from beside you, rolling onto his back. You rise to your feet, asking, “Can we get something to eat before starting the second tape?”

Din glances down at his watch. 4:30. His stomach rumbles. Given the unpredictable twist this day has taken, food has largely remained at the back of his mind until now.

“We could walk further into town and see what we find. I bet the pup has to go potty, anyway. We could take him with us. Maybe Annie can give us a recommendation—”

He looks over at you to respond, but finds himself momentarily tongue-tied. You stretch your clasped hands skyward, pulling the hem of your sweater up to expose a generous slice of your midriff. You’re still distracted as rambling he stares, unable to stop his thoughts from returning to how soft and warm you must be.

His hungry skin aches, deep and throbbing, down to the marrow. An infection festering for years. Or longer. Decades, really.

He tries to recall how long it’s been since he felt the heat of another person. It was snowing, he remembers that much. She was one of those women that made her way around truck stops selling pleasure to lonely guys like him. Lot lizards, some of the truckers called them.

Was he in Colorado? Or was it Ohio?

He remembers the excruciating quiet as she stripped off her snow-clotted outer layers, revealing a petite brunette with wary eyes and a businesslike attitude. Not that he holds those things against her. It’s understandable. Advisable, even, given her line of work and clientele.

Her company didn’t do much to quell his hollow yearning for intimacy, but it was a release nonetheless.

“—So, what do you think?”

Din snaps out of the trance and meets your eyes, all warm and hopeful.

Goddamnit.

“You stay right next to me the whole time.”

“Do I get a treat if I’m good?” you smirk, one eyebrow raising in challenge.

The question bubbles hot at the base of his spine. He tries to keep his countenance neutral when he says, “We’ll see how you do.”

Grogu waddles over to the side of the bed closest to him and yowls for attention. Thankful for the diversion, Din reaches over and scratches the dog between his big ears, “Both of you.”

The dog sniffs the sidewalk a few feet ahead of you and Din, tethered to his owner by a leash. He zig-zags back and forth, completely engulfed in the sights and smells of this brand new world.

You find yourself in a similar state of awe and appreciation. Tilting your face up to the big cotton candy sky, you inhale two lungfuls of the most refreshingly crisp air you may have ever been blessed to receive. Yellow Seed was built in a valley, and it seems like everywhere you look there are mountains in the distance, dark and evergreen and ominous. A stark contrast to whatever magic is happening in the atmosphere.

The world feels so infinite and beautiful that if you let yourself, you could cry about it.

Too caught up in the moment to pay attention to your gait, you knock hands with Din. The impact makes your heart jump. You hear yourself stammer out an overreaction, “Oh shit—sorry, I um, didn’t mean to—”

“Might help if you stop daydreaming.”

“What’re you, my mother?” you scoff under your breath, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“What’s that?”

You glance over at him.

His smug smirk draws your attention briefly before you shake your head and change the subject, “Have you seen Titanic before?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“What made you pick it?”

He shrugs, “Long run time.”

“Shut up, that’s not the only reason, is it?” you laugh, “It’s not because you get to see Kate Winslet’s tits or anything, right?”

His head jerks back a little and his ears turn all red, “What? No—”

“I’m just giving you shit,” you snort.

He exhales an airy chuckle, and a few seconds go by before he asks, “What about you? Have you watched it before?”

His cadence is halting and rusty. Out of practice. You can tell he doesn’t make conversation often, but he’s trying and that’s… sort of sweet, actually.

“I have, but it’s been years. I think I was a kid, maybe six or seven, when I watched it with my grandma at her house,” you smile fondly at the memory, kicking a rock along the sidewalk, “She made me cover my eyes during the nudity and sex and stuff, but I totally peeked.”

“So you’ve always been a troublemaker.”

“I guess so, huh?” you chuckle.

The conversation dies a natural death, and for a while, the two of you just walk alongside each other, following the sidewalk further into Yellow Seed.

The houses you pass, like motel, auto shop, and gas station, all seem to have been built in the 1950’s with few updates since the 1990’s. Mid-century ramblers outfitted in white trim and chipped pastel paint—so much canary yellow. Neat lawns and landscaping and tattered American flags flapping in the wind. As the sidewalk brings you closer to the heart of the town, structures get older, more homes with front porches and earth-toned exteriors.

Downtown Yellow Seed barely occupies two city blocks. The businesses stand shoulder-to-shoulder, all of them constructed of brick or lumber, none of them within the last century. When you turn down the main drag, you squint and blur your vision so that the pickup trucks look like buggies, and you can picture exactly what it looked like when the roads were dirt paths carved out by wagon wheels and horse hooves.

“Outlaw Saloon,” you nod to the sign on an upcoming building and grin at Din, “Sounds like the place for us.”

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, stepping up onto the sagging floorboards of the porch and starting towards the door.

The dog follows his suggestion, suddenly very interested in this change of direction, his ears perking up into high-alert. Din plucks him off the ground, then pulls the squeaky door open for you to enter, releasing a cacophony of noise: country music and clinking glass and the low murmur of conversation.

As you walk past him into the establishment, you tell Din, “That’s your problem, big guy, you know that? You think you’re so much better than me, but you’re not.”

All you hear in response is a grumble, then the jarring crack of the spring-loaded door slamming shut behind him. When he saddles up to your side, you feel his hand press into the small of your back.

It surprises you a little. Both the action itself, and the way your pulse jumps in response.

You don’t move, but look over at him and find you’re close enough to see his eyes behind his aviators. They flick around the bar as if searching for potential danger in the two dozen locals occupying the saloon. He holds the dog firm and close to his chest and he doesn’t move his hand and you realize that he is protecting you both. Subconsciously, probably, but he’s doing it nonetheless.

Something happens inside you.

A brief but sudden free-fall that flips your stomach and gelatinizes the cartilage in your joints. Your throat struggles to swallow around your thudding heart.

RULE #9: Do not get attached.

Ignoring the warning, you bring yourself closer to him. Just an inch or so, intending to be subtle, so that maybe he won’t notice. You don’t want him to think you like or need his protection, because you don’t.

Need it, that is.

Liking it, however…

If you can glean anything from the steady thrum of heat between your thighs, it’s that you do like it. That is, unfortunately, too blunt a force for you to ignore.

An unamused looking waitress approaches your little trio, grinding a wad of gum between her molars, “No dogs.”

“Oh—he’s an emotional support dog,” you tell her, softening your features into a non-threatening, winsome expression. You put your hand on Din’s arm and explain, “My friend has horrible agoraphobia. The only way I can get him to go out is if we have the dog with us.”

Her eyebrow raises and she blinks at Din, “That true?”

He nods once, “It is.”

She glances between the two of you for a moment, eyes flicking in time with the smack smack smack of her chewing gum, then shrugs, “Alright, come with me.”

As you follow the waitress, he stays by your side, with his warm, wide palm held flush to your spine.

He’s just making sure you don’t bolt. It doesn’t mean anything.

This little voice inside your head makes you feel so foolish, your cheeks start to flush. She’s right, though. You’re making something out of nothing.

But then his thumb moves. Only slightly, and just once, this gentle wiper blade motion—a fucking caress if you’ve ever felt it.

Your face heats even more.

The waitress stops at a wooden, high-back booth and pulls two menus from her apron, placing one on each side of the table. Only when you slide into the booth does his hand depart your body. He sits across from you, placing the dog down beside him.

“Can I get y’all somethin’ to drink?”

“Could I get a water, please?” you ask, flashing her a polite smile.

She nods, then looks at Din.

“I’ll have the same.”

“Two waters, anything else?”

You glance up at Din, trying hard not to drop your gaze when you feel his eyes meet yours. He shakes his head slightly, and you tell her, “No, I think that’s good for now, thank you.”

“Be right back.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Din asks, “Agoraphobia?”

“Pretty slick, huh?” you grin.

He smirks and shakes his head, looking down at the menu. The dog wriggles his way under his owner’s arm. Din allows it, absentmindedly petting him while evaluating food options.

Letting out a sigh, you turn your attention to the menu, too. Burgers, chicken, basic sandwiches, fried food. Standard bar fare. It doesn’t take you long to decide on a grilled cheese, leaving you to study the innards of the Outlaw Saloon.

The place is cavernous. Tin ceiling tiles two stories above the ground stretch much further back than you expected. Everything else, from the walls to the furniture to the floors, all appears to be made from the same dark, lacquered wood.

Predictably, the décor is an homage to cowboy lore. Taxidermized livestock, paintings of horses, and antique farm equipment have been mounted on the walls. Among them hang wanted posters of infamous Wild West gunslingers, such as Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. Sort of camp, but in an endearing way.

The bar bustles with activity, much busier than you thought it would be. In a small town like this, you weren’t expecting to see more than a handful of regulars out on a Wednesday evening, but there are at least 20, maybe 30, other patrons scattered about the venue.

As you look around at the strangers, you think to yourself, “Not one of these people would look out of place at a rodeo,” which is to say that the crowd looks to be a mix of ranchers and other working class folks. At least half are strapped with a handgun, which isn’t particularly alarming, especially in a rural Western town like this, but always good to note. Occasionally, people mutter to each other while shooting dirty looks at your table. Probably because you’re out-of-towners who had the audacity to bring a dog into their beloved saloon.

“Damn, if we were carrying, I bet we’d fit in a little better,” you comment mildly.

“Who says I’m not?”

You look over at him and tilt your head, “Are you?”

“I am.”

This interests you. You fold your legs up into a pretzel and lean your elbows onto the table, “Whaddya have?”

With his expressive eyes concealed, it’s hard to read what his silence means, but you guess trying to determine your question’s intent.

Before either of you can say anything else, the waitress approaches your table carrying two glasses of water. As she slides one in front of you, then the other in front of Din, you ask her, “Do you guys ever have live music here?”

“Sure,” she shrugs and plants one hand on her hip, “Nothing this weekend, though.”

You glance over at Din, who’s shaking his head slowly, as if to say, “Don’t you fucking dare,” but ignore it and ask, “Do you want live music this weekend?”

“I take it I do not get a treat?”

Din clenches his jaw, glaring up at you from his crouched position as he unhooks Grogu’s leash. He hasn’t said anything to you since you coaxed your way into a gig at the Outlaw Saloon, blatantly disregarding his wishes to lay low in this town.

If he wasn’t so goddamn hungry, and if it wouldn’t have roused the attention of the already suspicious locals, he would have hauled you out of the restaurant the second you inquired with the waitress about live music.

You must have felt the anger radiating off him in waves, because your attempts at conversation since have been few and far in between.

For that, he’s grateful.

The red glowering beneath his skin feels unpredictable. That familiar loathsome beast. Something he believed extinct inside him, eradicated through years of training, now awake and growling.

He rises to a standing position and starts pacing, trying to keep calm.

Meanwhile, you take your doodle-ridden acoustic guitar, plop down on the bed, and start strumming a tune.

Heat wells up in his chest.

“It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Gives us something to do,” you tell him, watching your own fingertips move skillfully along the neck of the instrument, “Plus, I could rake in a decent amount of money, which could help us—”

“Stop it.”

The music cuts immediately.

He takes off his hat and sunglasses, tossing them onto the chest of drawers, then turns to face you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze with too much vitriol.

“There is not an us. This is not a team. I do not want or need your help.”

Your shoulders sag. You furrow your brow, searching his face, and your lips part to protest, but he cuts you off hard.

“You are nothing to me but a payload. An annoying, entitled payload. Do you understand?”

You react as if he slapped you across the face. Your head jerks back and you drop your gaze to the floor, face getting all red.

He stares at you, awaiting your counterattack, but all you do is let out a choked sob.

The sharp tip of this noise pierces the over-inflated balloon of his anger, bursting it instantly. In its sudden absence, an ache starts in his chest. He looks back at the situation from this calmer state of mind, cleared of red haze, and feels ashamed of himself.

Grogu jumps onto the bed to sit at your side, and whines up at you. Inhaling a wobbly breath, you reach out and scratch his head, then mumble a damp, “It’s ok, pup.”

Some time goes by with only your quiet sniffles to break the silence, then you ask, “Where am I sleeping?”

As soon as the mention of sleep hits him, his bones turn to lead, heavy with exhaustion. How long has it been since he’s slept? It feels like days. Nothing last night, barely a few hours the night before that.

“You have options,” he responds. At this, you let out a sad, soft chuckle that he ignores, continuing, “There’s the bathroom, your sleeping bag, or the bed.”

“I assume I would be restrained in each of these scenarios?”

He folds his arms over his chest and nods, “In the bathroom, I would cuff you to the toilet. The other two, I…” he grimaces, “It would be to me.”

“Wow, ok,” you take the guitar out of your lap and prop it up on the nightstand, “A toilet or the man who thinks I’m a piece of shit.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.”

He meets your gaze, holding it steady for a few seconds before saying, “Charlie, I…”

The apology gets all tangled in his throat. You wait a while for him to finish the thought. When he doesn’t, you move past it, your voice void of emotion.

“Do you have a preference?”

“No.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to sleep in the bed.”

Din nods in acknowledgment. He glances down at his watch, finds it’s barely past 6, and asks, “Are you tired now?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

As if to confirm, you suck in a shaky breath and yawn, stretching your hands above your head. It spreads to him.

“Give me a few minutes,” he tells you.

In response, you tug at the bedspread and wriggle your way between the sheets. Grogu grumbles for a moment at the adjustment, then turns in a few circles and plops down beside you with a hmph.

You’re probably exhausted, too, given the ups and downs of this week. Being taken captive. Sleeping in the same room as Din when you cannot trust him. Spending all your time with someone whose explicit intent is to turn you in for a pretty penny.

It must take an emotional toll, even if you don’t let it show most of the time. Even if you have that rule to… how did you put it?

Live in the now.

To your credit, you have been trying your damnedest to follow that rule. By getting to know people whose paths cross yours, bonding with Grogu, writing and drawing in your notebook, playing music, suggesting ways to squeeze as much experience as possible out of what little time you have left.

Din likes that about you. Your relentless optimism. It’s admirable.

He likes a lot of things about you, he realizes. Your cunning, and your curiosity, and your ferocity. Your gap-toothed smile. The skillful way you play the guitar. How you curled into him ever-so-slightly when he placed his hand on your back earlier.

It occurs to him then that you may feel it, too. That gooey electric current when he touches you, or when his eyes meet yours for longer than a second.

His own words echo back to him: “You are nothing to me but a payload.”

He wants to take it back.

It’s not even true, he just wishes it was. He wishes he looked at you and saw a bad person who’s going to get what she deserves. The truth couldn’t be more contrary.

While your captor goes about his nighttime routine, you sulk.

It’s all you can do, really, since he’s made it abundantly clear your presence is a nuisance. Worse than that, even. You are nothing but an asset to him.

Ironically, it makes you feel worthless.

You think about how pathetic your burgeoning crush on him is. Were you imagining the chemistry between you?

Of course you were.

You were making things up—“Living in LaLa Land,” as your mother used to say.

Din pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed. The mattress shifts under his weight, and he groans as he stretches out. Every nerve ending in your body lights up when you feel the heat of him. The distance between you is exactly the width of a French Bulldog.

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs.

His voice is low and syrupy. Warm.

Your throat works in a slow bob before you roll on your back to look at him. Your eyes meet his, and your stomach flips. When whoever said that thing about the eyes being the window to the soul, they must have been talking about him. You can see it all right there, written in bold print: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.

Or maybe that’s just what you want to see. Fuck, but why? Why do you even care?

You should fucking know better.

This is only temporary. Din. His dog. The truck. This room. Tonight. Life, really, if you wanted to get existential about it.

“Do you want to watch the rest of that movie?”

You frown as you consider this for a moment, then nod.

He gets out of bed and walks over to the big armoire. As he pops in the second Titanic VHS tape, you study the broad span of his shoulders and biceps stretching his t-shirt taut.

God, he looks solid and strong and just so fucking good.

This guy robbed you of your dignity and all you can think about right now is what his lips would feel like on yours. If he would be a greedy lover, or a generous one, or both. Would he be intuitive or clumsy with your body? Would he be rough?

He would be with me.

Heat blossoms on your cheeks and deep in your center. You don’t know how you know, but you do. He just seems… pressurized. Combustible. Especially towards you.

On his way back to bed, while the tape rewinds, Din rummages through his backpack and piles some of its contents into one arm. He sits down at the edge of the mattress and hands you a bottle of water, then holds out two candy bars and says, “Pick one.”

“Is this an apology?”

“No, it’s chocolate.”

You blink at him and cross your arms.

His features soften. He shakes his head, “What I said was not kind. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I didn’t,” you agree, keeping your gaze stern, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

You search his face. There’s such earnestness there, you believe him.

A mechanical click sounds from the VCR, then the TV lights up as Titanic starts where it left off.

Your gaze drops to the candy bars, and you pluck one from his hand. The one that advertises a peanut-buttery crunch. Peeling off its yellow wrapper, you smirk, “Apology accepted.”

Din climbs all the way into bed, stuffing the flat hotel pillows behind his back, then opens the shiny silver wrapper of his candy bar. For a while, it’s quiet except for the warbled audio from the TV and the crunch of your chewing.

You get that feeling again like sunshine on your skin or God or whatever, and you laugh out loud.

“What?” Din asks.

“It’s probably really weird that I’m happy right now, right?”

“Are you?”

You peek over at him and chuckle, “Yeah, I mean… I’m eating my favorite candy and watching a good movie. Laying in a bed with a cute dog and…yeah,” you shrug, turning back to the TV, “I don’t know. I like it.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then asks, “Do you have your knife?”

“Why, you gonna take it from me so I don’t kill you in your sleep?” You let the question hang in the air for one whole second before continuing, “I’ll be real up close and personal, wouldn’t even have to sneak, just,” you drag your thumb across your throat, “Blech, dead.”

“I’m not taking it from you,” he tells you, pulling out his handcuffs, “But if you want to get it or use the bathroom, now’s your chance.”

You take the opportunity to relieve your bladder and change into your comfiest (and least offensive smelling) clothes.

Before tucking your pocket knife into your sleeve, you stare at it for a minute and consider actually using it to get the fuck out of here. Something you’ve considered dozens of times, if you’re being honest, but this time the idea weighs a million pounds.

When you open the bathroom door and step into the motel room, Din looks up at you from the bed. His gaze wanders briefly down your body as you climb into bed, then correct its course back to your eyes, “All set?”

You nod and hold your right arm out to him.

His touch is gentle when he closes the cuff around your wrist. Clicks sound from the apparatus until it’s clear your hand won’t be capable of wiggling free.

He secures the other cuff around his left wrist, settles his arm next to yours, and asks, “How is that?”

“It’s fine,” you nod, your voice too high, then swallow hard and chuckle, “Well, I guess as fine as being handcuffed in a bed can be. Probably not the best it could be, but not the worst, um, either.”

You wince at yourself and look at the TV, where Rose is wading through thigh-high water, carrying an ax. Thankfully, he doesn’t respond, but turns off the light on his nightstand. You do the same with yours. Aside from the TV, only a faint glow comes in through the window. Daylight’s last gasping breath.

You close your eyes and fondle the cool metal of your pocket knife in your left hand.

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

Din shifts a little, and the back of his hand butts up against yours. Neither of you go to move. Warmth branches out from the spot, expanding and taking root deep in your belly.

RULE #2: Listen to your gut.

With this, you tuck the pocket knife under your pillow and roll onto your side facing him. You think about how nice it would be to rest your head on him, but resist the urge. The edges of consciousness start to fold in on themselves, and you murmur, “Sweet dreams, big guy.”

“Goodnight.”

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