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obutsuwrites · 4 years

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needy (brother!dabi x f!reader)

summary: Turquoise eyes bore down into you. "Put them down my pants." Chapped lips curled into an impish grin. Lopsided and showing a sliver of teeth. His pink tongue poked out, as if to imply it were a joke. xxx i did little editing n wrote this on my phone oops warnings: ball worship/play (maybe??), cum, handjob, incest, licking, smut, spit word count: 2,086 masterlist | tipjar | twitter | commission info | ask box is open taglist: @shigatomu @sadjealouswhore @tenaciousgothstudentauthor @kaccatus @proxy9301 @yanderewoods @the-originals-lover

The sky was void of stars. A black canvas you stared into, body shivering. Touya -- like any good older brother -- sat next to you. His leg was rubbing against yours. He felt incredibly warm despite the chill. You stared into your open palms. It was your fault Touya was stuck out here… with you. He was just being a good brother. He insisted. Wanting nothing more than comfort, you greedily complied. You hated these fights. Shouting matches between your parents seemed punctual during the holidays. Your father blamed the stress, your mother blamed him. You? You blamed their cursed union.

Your heart hurt at the thought of it; love that meant nothing. Touya tried to be reassuring. He claimed your folks still loved each other, it just wasn't the same as yours. Touya's love was extra special. Something so precious no one replicate it. You liked to think he had your best interests at heart, despite his rough exterior.

Touya smelled like cigarettes and obnoxious deodorant. You knew the strong scent was meant to hide his habits. Mother and father didn't know he smoked. Touya told you simply, "It's our little secret. Isn't it meant to be special?" You didn't know; secrets felt wrong to keep, but Touya only wanted the best for you. He told you all the time. You were his sweet little sister. His keeper. Being so close to him made your heart swell. Touya was nurturing towards you, if not babying you at times.

There is a comfortable silence between the two of you as Touya huffs down his cigarette.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, still staring into your hands. You felt useless like this. Touya had to be hurting, too. He just hid the ache for your sake. It was selfish. You looked up at Touya. His chiseled features were blessed even under streetlights. Sharp jawline, piercing eyes. A man far more handsome than any other. You wondered if wanting to kiss him was normal. Just a peck on the cheek; like when you were kids. He'd pepper you in sloppy kisses, cheeks stuffed with gushers. The sensation was obnoxious. His sugary drool mixed with the kisses, and dribbled down your face. Touya would point and claim you were dirty now -- so as any good brother-- you were treated to a hot bath.

Touya pulled you back into the wintery night, a lazy arm draped over your shoulders. "Don't worry about it, little sis. You're my favorite, ya know that, right?" Compliments from Touya weren't rare. His raspy voice brimmed with praise. Passing comments that cemented 1themselves in your mind -- like a root. You wanted nothing but make him proud. And yet, you let him down by being such a baby. The shouting had again forced you outside. Neither of you were dressed for such chilly misery. Touya clad in flannel pajama pants, torn hoodie. Black boots beat all to hell. His only complete jacket was draped over you. He didn't want you to catch a cold.

You flash him a smile, "You're my favorite, Touya. I love you!" You buried your face in his chest. Tiny arms wrapped around his lean frame. Despite his height, Touya was a teddy bear; always seeking your comfort. His displays were cute, but you sometimes wondered if they meant more. If he wanted you closer. You waved away the perversion, opting to take a sniff of Touya.

Harsh cigarettes and minty aftershave. A smell that reminded you of headpats and random touches. Touya couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. He needed to touch some part of you, always. You didn't know anything else. If anything, his calloused hands felt like home. Secure.

"Like the smell?" Touya laughed. His chest vibrated against your head. A roar. The sensation was familiar. Touya's laugh was rhythmic. Something buried within it was almost hypnotizing. You could listen forever. His joy was practically infectious.

Your voice came out muffled, "Touya… you smell good." A lazy haze was in your voice. Being so close to Touya was intoxicating. Your older brother in your future was inevitable. An ending you looked forward to. Anticipated. His body was warm; your heater in the chill. Touya's lean muscles relaxed into you. He was enamored with the affection. Blind devotion to older brother Touya… Kinda hot.

He flinched at the thought and shrunk in your hold. Was it… These were fantasies? Visuals that haunted him during cuddle sessions and sleepovers. Any skin to skin. No matter how insignificant. He ached for you. Flashes of you naked, asking big brother Touya to cum in your cunt. Fill you up until you couldn't take anymore. Your face red and feverish underneath him.

You returned the perceived attention, and nuzzled into your favorite big brother.

"My hands are cold," you remarked. The very tip of your fingers dared to poke out, pricking the cold. The flesh was starting to ache. Your blood was so frigid it hurt. A river in the dead of winter. Barren. More ice than water.

Admiring eyes looked up at Touya. Intense and starry. Touya compared your eyes to a nebula; infinite and overflowing with sparkles. There was something electric in your eyes. Something Touya couldn't ignore. He tried to, like any good brother, you didn't believe in no. You hunted him down until you became attached to his hip. Your body was too much; your space was his space now. Touya once read it was trauma bonding -- survival for both of them. But Touya liked to think you liked him despite it. He'd envision you dating him. He was convinced you would if you weren't related, why else can he touch you? Some naughty piece of you was a degenerate… just like him.

Turquoise eyes bore down into you. "Put them down my pants." Chapped lips curled into an impish grin. Lopsided and showing a sliver of teeth. His pink tongue poked out, as if to imply it were a joke. But under the luminance of amber, Touya’s lean body was hard to ignore. Every breath came out with a shiver; muscles relaxed and contracted again under his tattered hoodie. He acted like the cold was a joke. Touya wanted to be the big brother you depended on -- your first.

Wide, innocent eyes looked up at him, your mouth slightly agape. You took his words at face value; Touya wouldn’t do anything wrong. Why would he? He was always protective, always looking out for you… always the one to sit outside with you, no matter how miserable the weather. Neither could you deny your curiosity. ‘Being that close with Touya…’

Your fingers lingered on the hem of pants. The material was plush. You hoped his thighs were as soft. Pillowy and welcoming and warm. He felt like home… He was home. Touya brought you comfort, security, and a certain joy you didn’t find with anyone else. Not even friends.

Your breath came out hot and ghosted over his neck, “Okay, Touya.” His name played on your vocal cords in a melody. It was a sound he wanted to hear forever. Courage was in your heart as a hand snaked under Touya’s pants. Only one, a test. You desired this closeness with him -- chest aching and pulse racing. Yet the act itself still carried an air of taboo. Neurons in the back of your skull fired off with judgement. You blissfully shoved away the thoughts and shoved another hand down his pants. His thighs were sturdy. Athletic. Blood slowly began to trickle back into numb fingertips. The familiar sensation of a sore heat.

Silence again fell. Touya stared off into the distance. An attempt to ignore how delicate your hands were. How good your hands would feel wrapped around him..

Touya adjusts himself. Your hands follow suit and rested ever closer to his crotch. You saw he wore plain black boxers. Thin material that forced you to hyperfocus on his bare thighs. Touya had noticed the crimson that flooded your cheeks. Like any good brother, he decided to catalog the memory. It was only fair to tease you later.

“Thanks, Touya.”

He makes a mistake and looks down. Your eyes are so big, so wanting. Touya can’t help himself.

Calloused hands eclipse yours. Touya is as cold as the wintery night. Frigid. Icy. He’s gentle and guides your hand to his bulge. You can feel the outline of his veins. His member is thick. Touya rubs your hands against it; a twitch shoots through his cock.

“You wanna touch it, little sis?” His eyes are bright in the night. Azul gems that twinkled and burned. His voice is gruff. Words laced with lust. The sound is unfamiliar, but you recognize the heaviness to it.

Tiny, curious hands sneak into Touya’s boxers. You try to learn his body; fingers grasping for any contact. Your fingers trace his veins, until interest bears too much, and you give a careful stroke. Touya shutters in response, “D-don’t stop.” He whimpers, something unheard of for your capable older brother. Touya sounds so vulnerable. A spark ignites in your stomach.

His hands grip wiry thighs as you gingerly work his cock. Touya tries to steady himself. Years were spent and counted with hope. Fantasies of your hands trailing down his body. Inexperienced fingers dwarfed by his cock. His day dreams usually involved you complimenting him -- insisting he was your favorite brother. Your favorite.

"Touya, can I see it?" You couldn't have asked anymore innocently. Your voice carried a quiet squeak to it. It was a familiar warmth. Embarrassment. You hadn't touched anyone like this before. Truthfully, Touya was the only person you wanted to touch. He carried comfort. Some concrete sense of home. Blood had returned to your fingers, the ache now gone.

Touya nods, black hair showing roots. He fit a redhead just as well, but the rugged man preferred sticking out. He wanted you to remember him. Touya craved to be your only thought. Your only desire. He noticed how loyal you were -- keeping little secrets and lying for him. Touya heard it once, but you told a lie for him. "No, Dad. The neighbor's were outside smoking. Touya sat with me again."

His keeper.

Innocent eyes widen; Touya's cock is unlike anything you've imagined seen. His cock was lengthy, veins thick and pulsing. Under yellow light and a starless sky, his head twitched. The sterling metal caught your eye.

"Touya..?"

Before you can make your sentence tangible, Touya glides your hand over his exposed cockhead, "Please." His eyes burn with need. Sweat glistens his cheeks. Touya looks at you like you're the moon; luminous and shining for him. You feel like his world in this moment as your fragile thumb strokes Touya's sensitive head. He squirms under you and occasionally pants a little too loud. Drool collects at the corner of his grin.

The sight of Touya inspires you. One hand wrapped around his length, pumping him, and the other works his now slick head. Pre-cum leaks down his cock and provides ample glide. A furnace begins in Touya's stomach -- the familiar sensation of an orgasm.

"St-stop, baby." The term makes your eyes glow, "Play with my balls." Roughly, he shoves your moist hand onto his balls. Intrigued, you give them an experimental kneed. In response, Touya grinds into you and coaxes out a shiver. Gently, you worked his balls. Massaging and caressing. Working his needy flesh.

Suddenly, Touya's nicotine breath is obvious in your face. Blue eyes drink you in before a pink tongue laps at your cheek. Touya is relentless. He slobbers you like a dog -- no regard for his spit nor your comfort. Saliva trails down your chin. You close an eye and continue to pump him. His tongue is squishy, hot, and wet on your cheek. The humidity of his breath contributes to your rosy gleam; cheeks red and moist. His need physically manifests. Greedy, narrow hips thrust into your palm. Hungry for contact.

"Don't stop. G-gonna cu-cum," his words fall out tangled and breathless. Being a good little sister, you quicken your pace. His cock pulses and a deep groan rumbles from his chest, the vibration heavy against you. Cum spurts from his pierced slit and onto your fingers. Syrupy and thick. It coats your hand and feels almost too warm.

You sit in silence while Touya tries to regulate his breathing. His calloused thumb rubs your heated cheeks. Flushed and wanting to please.

"You need a bath, little sister."

#dabi x reader #touya x reader #bnha #smut #mha

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agentwhiskeypussyindulgence · 3 years

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Whiskey Kisses (Agent Whiskey x plus sized Reader)

Authors Note: Hello!!!! If this looks familiar it’s because it is! This was written in the middle of my covid sickness back in January and I have not touched it since lmao. I figure it might be better to edit it a bit, and post it all as one rather than two separate entities since the second part was only separate bc I hadn’t written it yet at the time I posted the first one. I’m hoping that I’ve gone through and removed any glaring descriptors that will exclude folks but the one thing that remains is that this is a plus sized reader (gotta leave a little bit of me in there lmao!) This was/still is my first attempt at smut so I'm hoping I've read enough to get somewhat of a grasp on it ✌ Plot is the same, wildly incredibly self indulgent, Whiskey is as charming as ever and hopefully the new post will get some fresh eyes on it! Hope everyone enjoys~~

Word count: ~7000

Warnings: NSFW 18+ fem plus sized reader (a bit of body insecurity that is Very Brief), Daddy Kink, Loss of Virginity (including insecurity about being a virgin), Praise Kink, no y/n used, excessive use of pet names bc Whiskey is a menace,If I’ve missed anything please don’t hesitate to let me know!

The place smelt like smoke. That was first scent that hit you as you moved through the crowdto the bar, claiming a seat on the side nearest to the exit. This was your first time out and about in your new city and you weren’t exactly sure what you were here for. At the least you would get a good night of entertainment from people watching from your position at the bar. Maybe you would make a friend. That’s how it worked for people your age right?

It had been so long since you had to put yourself out into social situations that weren’t engineered to create bonds--this wasn’t school and it wasn’t work, the two places where you felt confident about your social skills. You feared you might be a little behind on friend making procedures. This was only your second week in town. You’ve moved from home because you knew you couldn’t stand one more day in your hometown. Moving back after college had been a great way to save up money, but you were tired of living with your parents and tired of the same small town views. It hurt leaving your folks and it hurt to leave your friends even more. But you knew that sooner rather than later they would be moving out into the world. That’s what was expected and you were terrified but immensely excited to be the first one in your group to make the leap.

Now you’ve found yourself here alone in a bar nursing some sugary drink that had been listed in chalk on the special board outside the bar. You didn’t mind being alone. In the past you’d learned to enjoy your own company —going thrifting on your own or heading to see a movie when everyone else was busy. That being said, you found being alone in a bar a much more harrowing experience. You didn’t usually spend much time alone in places where the drunken masses gathered. Parties, clubs, and bars weren’t usually your scene and let alone without your group of friends there as backup.

You were out to be social yet still hoped that your phone would serve as a good enough reason for no one to come up and ask for a dance. Sure, there were some attractive people in the bar tonight, but you were only on your first drink and didn’t have enough in your system to get yourself out on the dancefloor with someone you didn’t know. Not yet at least.

Your attention was pulled from your phone by a movement in your periphery, a silhouette passing behind you. It was a…cowboy?

That wasn’t who you were expecting to see. This wasn’t a country bar by any means and he stood out amongst the other patrons in their casual clothes. He kept a respectful distance leaving a seat between the one he chose and yours as if to not block you in. You stared, taking in his outfit, he seemed like the real deal. Cowboy boots with spurs, well-fitting denim jeans, and a Stetson seated on top of dark hair. Only thing out of place was his shirt. You weren’t a hundred percent sure what kind of shirts cowboys wore, but you weren’t betting on a nicely pressed dress shirt.

He looked young upon first glance, then you noticed the smile lines around the corner of his eyes and mouth. That and the way he carried himself, his essence, revealed that he probably had some years on you though that didn’t lessen the attraction any. He turned suddenly and you couldn’t look away; embarrassed as you were to be caught staring. Not when those gorgeous brown eyes met with yours. He raised a hand to the brim of his hat and honest to god tipped it in your direction with a smile and a quiet “Evenin” on his lips.

You cleared your throat and cradled your glass in your hands, fingers working to twist and turn it. “Evening…didn’t expect to see a cowboy in here tonight.” You take a small sip. “Doesn’t really seem like your scene” you finish, looking around at the crowd, all dressed differently but certainly no cowboys among them.

The stranger lets out a laugh and a smile lights up his face as the bartender works his way to your side of the bar. “Maybe not darlin but this cowboy is home anywhere he can find a beautiful lady and a whiskey, neat.” He says this last part to the bartender who you find standing in front of the two of you. He gives a nod at the cowboy and glances over at you and you notice your drink is almost empty. “Put this sweet thing’s next drink on my tab” he says with a wink in your direction and you can’t help but feel heat flood your face. This is the first time you’ve ever been bought a drink by a stranger at a bar.

You realize the bartender is waiting patiently on you and you panic. You had wanted to switch drinks after finishing this one off, tired of the sugar, worried over the hangover it might bring. “Oh! Uhm, whiskey neat also. Thank you.”

The stranger sitting close to you raises his eyebrows at your order, his eyes glancing between your own and the remnants of your sugary cocktail. You smile and give him a shrug “Buyers choice I suppose.”

He lets out a chuckle and holds his hand out across the empty seat between you. “Jack Daniels. Nice to meet you.” You give him your hand and your name and you watch as his eyes trail over you.

He smiles, as if he’s seen something he likes once his eyes have finished their exploration. You can’t blame him as you had just done the same thing. But you couldn’t help but be a little puzzled. You hadn’t really dressed with the goal of attracting attention to yourself tonight. You chose your favorite pair of light-wash jeans (you were told they hugged your curves nicely) and a band t-shirt with a light flannel on top. It was comfortable and you looked nice, but you hadn’t dressed to impress.

The drinks arrive and Jack raises his glass in the air and tips it in your direction. You hurriedly grip yours and do the same, smiling at the clink of meeting glasses.

The whiskey stings your lips, chapped from your habit of nervously biting at the soft skin in new situations. You don’t often drink whiskey and you attempt to school your face into something neutral, trying not to cough, as the smoky alcohol burns its way down your throat. A burn that you find yourself enjoying mere moments after it passes. You over at Jack who doesn’t avert his eyes when you catch him staring at you, an amused expression on his face. If he noticed your brief grimace that came with your first sip of the whiskey, he was a true gentleman and kept it to himself.

“Is Jack Daniels really your name?” Taking him in with an incredulous look. Who the hell is named after a whiskey brand? Or who uses it as a fake name and then orders it at the bar? Sighing with a smile, he nods. “It was a name before a brand, sugar. Plus, now all my friends can call me Whiskey. You can too if you’d prefer.” He finishes with a wink.

Setting his glass down he doesn’t give you time to react beyond your surprised stare. “So. What’s a beauty like you doing all alone, stuck here talking to an old man like me?” You let out a laugh and look at him incredulously. Confirmation that he was older but you wouldn’t have thought to call him an old man. He’s really laying on the charm thick though. You can’t say you’re mad at it.

“I’m new to town.” You reply. “Figured after a week of unpacking and organizing I deserved a night out on.” He gives a grin. “I don’t know about the other fellas in this joint, but I for one love an independent woman.” Grinning you take another sip from your glass, the burn still there but less aggressive. “Well we all have to learn to be independent one way or another right?”

Humming in agreement he meets your eyes with a smile and doesn’t look away. Cheeks continuing to burn away, you give a smile back. This much undivided attention on you is new territory. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t reveling in it.

“So what do you do when you’re not out wooing the ladies at the bar? You a real cowboy?” You ask, giving him another once over. As a general piece of knowledge from living in a town with some farming areas you knew that genuine Stetsons and real leather boots didn’t come without a hefty price tag. And he certainly didn’t look cheap.

“I’m an agent for a secret independent intelligence agency.” He says this with no hesitation or humor in his voice. Simply a flat reply. You raise your brow at him and snort into your glass. “And now that you’ve told me you’ll have to kill me right?” Jack takes your joke in stride “I don’t think I would ever deny the world a beauty like yours by killing ya darlin”

He swirls his whiskey in his glass as you blush. “Really though I work on the board for Statesmen Distillery. We’re based in Kentucky.” You smile with a nod, taking another sip from your glass “Well that certainly explains- well just about everything about you. How’d you find yourself here then? Need a vacation?”

This line of questioning leads you and Jack chatting back and forth about nothing and everything. He asks about your family, the move, how you found yourself moving from your hometown all by your lonesome. He tells you about his job, the boring meetings, how he really enjoys spending time on his ranch, watching the sunset. (He pulls out his phone at one point, showing you a picture of a calf that you can’t help but coo at, directing baby noises at the phone in his hand. He seems endeared by this.)

You had always had a hard time talking to people you didn’t know, keeping to your same group of friends because of this reason. With Jack though you didn’t feel any lulls in the conversations, no awkward silences. You couldn’t remember the last time it had been so easy to have a conversation with someone.

As the two of you finish off your second round of whiskeys, a slow country song begins to play from the speakers. Most of the crowd looks confused at the shift in vibes from the DJ booth. The DJ in question points towards the corner where you and Jack have been sitting and winks; odd to pander to the one cowboy in the crowd. You’re not going to complain though, and it seems, neither is Jack. “Tennessee Whiskey. Just like my namesake.”

He hums in appreciation before he stands, holding a hand out to you. “Would you like to dance darlin?” You’ve never been much for slow dancing, but you knew you’d be kicking yourself with regret if you said no. You place your hand in his as he leads you out onto the dancefloor. The music swirls around the two of you and you feel your nerves spike, hoping your hands aren’t sweaty, that you don’t step on his feet and praying to whatever god is out there that you can keep the rhythm. But as he gently tugs you closer into his embrace you feel any apprehension disappearing you’re your mind.

You find yourself looking up at him, dark and beautiful brown eyes meeting yours. You take a risk and lean your head against his shoulder as you sway, taking in a deep inhale of his scent. It’s beautiful, not too strong. You can smell the whiskey on his breath and you wonder what cologne he uses. It’s something oaky and fresh and the combination is enough to intoxicate you even further.

“Sugar…” the pet name comes out as a whisper from above.“I’d be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t ask if I could kiss ya right now.” You pull back looking up into those eyes that you could get lost in. He’s leaned in close to you now, his breath dancing across your lips. You part them to respond and you knew you would be doing yourself a disservice if you didn’t say yes.

Wordlessly you nod and can’t help the sigh that escapes you as he tilts his head and his lips meet yours.

It’s not your first kiss, but you can count all the previous ones on a singular hand. He’s gentle, his hawkish nose that you’ve found yourself enamored with brushes softly against your cheek as your lips dance together. You hum in contentment, bringing your arms up and around his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

He swipes his tongue across your bottom lip and it may sound juvenile but you hadn’t had much experience with tongue kissing. You part your lips anyways, following intuition, allowing his tongue access. The sensation is foreign but not unwelcome and you can’t help moaning, and his hold on your waist tightens as you’re pulled even closer against him. You spend a few moments in the middle of the dance floor in his embrace, tongues dancing together and thoroughly getting lost in him.

He pulls back for a moment and you’re thankful he made the decision because you hadn’t even noticed the fact that you still needed air. You cringe at the whimper you let out as your lips detach, you hate at how pathetic you sound, hate that you instinctually go to chase them. It doesn’t seem like Jack cares though, he’s gazing down at you, bringing up a hand to rest on the side of your face, a thumb coming to sweep across your bottom lip before swooping down for a second kiss. This one is much more brief. “How would you like to ride home on a real cowboy?” he murmurs against your lips.

You freeze up at his question knowing exactly what he’s asking. Your eyes going wide as you try to stammer out excuses that won’t reveal your true hesitation. This particular insecurity doesn’t come up a lot but you’re never sure how to breach the topic of your virginity whenever scenarios like this pop up.

Jack pulls back, a concerned look growing on his face at your muttering. “I’m sorry if I overstepped, doll. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable. We don’t have to do anything other than sit around here all night. I’d enjoy any time spent with you.” His eyes met yours and they were so kind and soft and you felt your heart melt a little at his crooked smile. You had just met him but you made up your mind to tell him the truth so he wouldn’t walk away from the night feeling terrible.

You always make up something else and run before you can embarrass yourself further. Your younger years are supposed to be your “prime” and you know in your mind that it’s completely normal for you to still be a virgin. That being said you have always felt like it was some kind of barrier blocking you from ever truly being comfortable with romantic entanglements.

You sigh as another song picks up. You’re both still holding onto each other and swaying to the beat and you open your mouth to give this man some peace. “Jack I… listen you’re incredibly attractive and I love a cowboy, I really do. And you didn’t make me uncomfortable! I just-” you chew on your lip again, thinking if there was a better way to say this before deciding on just getting it over with so you can stop wasting his time.

“I’ve never…been with anyone like that before and I as much as I wanna save a horse and ride a cowboy, I know a lot of people don’t want the virgin burden on them so I completely understand if you want to find someone else for the night so you’re not wasting your time.” It comes out rushed and in one breath, you’re avoiding his eyes not wanting to see the disappointment that might radiate from them. When you finally looked up, he was still staring at you with those gentle eyes, it was too much for you and you cast your eyes back down.

In an instant you found his hand gently holding your chin, lifting your gaze to meet him once more. “Hey. Look at me. You ain’t got anything to be embarrassed about darlin’. And you’re certainly not a waste of my time. Far from it. Ain’t nothing wrong with being inexperienced.” His eyes crinkle with a smile directed at you and you grin back feeling relief wash over you. This is honestly the best one of these conversations.

“Now listen,” he continues “if you just wanna dance and drink the night away, I’m thrilled to get to know you more.” You nod waiting for the ‘but’ you knew was coming. “But if this is something you want to try and I’m the fella you wanna try it with, well then-” He leans down, voice dropping and breath dancing along your ear “-daddy will take care of you.”

He studies you then, gauging your reaction at his phrasing. He knew it was a bold move but hoped that it would pay off. And lucky for both of you it does. Your eyes widen and you let out a short gasp as you bite at your bottom lip. The term he used sent a spark of arousal directly through you and in that moment you know that Jack is exactly who you need to come home with you tonight.

You give Jack a nod and he caresses your face with his large calloused hand. “I need to hear you say it, sugar.” And fuck it if that doesn’t get you feeling all warm inside. “Y-yeah” it comes out shaky not purely from nerves but also through the adrenaline you can feel coursing through your body. “Take me home Jack.” He practically beams at you, pressing a quick kiss to your lips and tugging you back over to the bar so he can pay the tab. You didn’t walk in here expecting to leave with someone tonight but you’re the furthest thing from disappointed as the two of you rush out the doors.

You both make your way through the bar's exit and you find yourself standing in front of a vintage Ford Bronco, Whiskey holding the passenger door open for you. You smile and slide into the seat. “Such a gentleman. But you know, this isn’t the car I was expecting a fancy distillery man to own. But it does feel quite fitting.” You muse as he takes his own seat and starts the engine, the radio on low crackling to life. “It’s my pride and joy” he hums, gently patting the dash. “Anything could happen to me as long as my baby here is safe.”

You laugh at the man’s love for his car until the chuckle is cut off by Jack’s hand coming to rest on your leg. His touch is gentle, and he drags his palm up from your knee to your upper thigh and back down again. He glances at you from his periphery “This alright darlin?” You nod as he resumes his movements, tracing inscrutable patterns with his fingers whenever his hand pauses in its path.

You feel the telltale heat of arousal begin to pool in your stomach. You’re not unused to that. The new and exhilarating part of the scenario tonight is that you have someone else to take care of it. Someone other than your hands and your well-used vibrator. You’re thankful that the drive back from the bar to your apartment is short. If it was any longer than the ten minutes it took you might actually explode.

Jack pulls up and you direct him to park in the spot next to your own car. One that looks far worse than you usually find it when compared to the well taken care of Bronco next to it. Jack, continuing to be the gentleman he’s been all night, opens your door for you once more, grabbing your hand as you sling your purse over your shoulder and make your way towards the front door. The elevator ride up to the 5th floor is rife with palpable tension and you almost melt at the gentle circles Jack makes with his thumb on the back of your hand as it sits entwined with his.

The moment the two of you cross the threshold of your doorway you expect everything to begin at once, all passion and clashing lips. You find yourself surprised when you’re not immediately pressed against the door and ravaged like in the movies, and you see Jack take in your living room.

Luckily everything had gotten sorted in your first week and the only thing to indicate a new occupant were the stack of boxes in the corner that you needed to take to the recycling bin behind the building.

His eyes trail along your bookshelf, scanning the titles bookended by little trinkets and tiny figurines you had gathered from gifts and mall vending machines. He admires the paintings on your wall, all excellent purchases from the local Goodwill you thought.

You shift from foot to foot not entirely knowing how to start things off. This is your first time and Jack is the one showing you the ropes so you hover next to your couch as he finishes his scan of the room, turning to you with a soft smile. “You’ve made this place feel homey already, sugar. I love it.” You beam back at him happy to explain your interior design choices but in a moment he’s taking two large strides in your direction. “Now, mind if we pick up where we left off in the bar?” He brushes his knuckles gently across your cheek as he waits for your response and in an instant you’re already reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck once more.

It’s cliché and you know it but when his lips connect with yours once more you feel fireworks. An explosion of arousal deep in the pit of your stomach as you grant his tongue entrance. The kiss isn’t rough but it is passionate. You had always had the inkling that you would find a tongue in your mouth invasive and gross and you are thrilled to learn that isn’t true. Or maybe it’s just because of the man you’re with. Jack seems like the type of guy who can make anything feel good and you can’t wait to see what he has to offer you.

Detaching his lips from yours you find yourself unintentionally pouting. He laughs at his before leaning down to latch his lips onto your neck and the pout disappears as a moan rips through your body as he begins to suck and bite up your neck. Jack is savoring every moment he spends kissing you, you can feel the restraint lurking behind every kiss. You can feel your legs turn into jelly and you’re grateful for the hands around your waist and the couch back behind you for all the support you certainly need right now.

As Jack soothes a bite with his tongue he moves his hands from your waist and places them under your ass instead. He tugs you forward, your balance unstable without the couch behind you. You feel his muscles get to work and suddenly you’re off the ground letting out a startled gasp. “Don’t worry, sugar. Daddy’s got ya.” Instinct kicks in and you’re wrapping your legs around his middle, groaning at the contact between your clothed core and his waist. You hadn’t realized how desperate you were for some friction until now and it hits you like a freight train. Dropping your head against Jack’s shoulder you hear his laugh from above you. “Hmm, someone’s impatient ain’t she?”

Lightheadedness consumes you, astonishment at his strength combined with his teasing giving you an incredible heady feeling. “Jack please…” you rub circles into the nape of his neck and you feel his breath huff into your hair as he groans in response to your begging.

Wasting no time he carries you to your bedroom and gently sets you down on the bed. He stands above you as you stare up with wide eyes. He kneels in front of you at the edge of your bed and reaches a hand up to begin to slip the flannel from your shoulders. The gentle touch of his hands sends a shiver up your spine, even through the layer of clothing.

Soon your shirt is off and he’s tracing lazy patterns on the swell of your breasts. He gently palms your boobs through the lacy fabric of your bra and drags a thumb across the raised material where your nipples are hardening underneath. You’re not sure how much longer you can handle the touches, gentle and tantalizing and just enough to leave you wanting more. You move your arms up and back to unclasp your bra, throwing off the side of the bed to be dealt with in the morning.

Jack’s eyes are trained on your breasts now, even more so than before. There’s a hunger there, a desire that you’re not used to seeing directed at you. He leans forward and cups one breast with his hand and secures his mouth over your peaked nipple. You groan in pleasure and press your chest further into him, despite there being not much more space to fill.

He drags his tongue across your nipple before sucking, repeating the process every few seconds. You’re pleasantly shocked at the little nibbles that are peppered across your chest once he’s had his fill of licking. You move your hand down to gently grip at the back of his head, pressing him closer. “Daddy please, keep doing that it’s so good!” He eases his mouth off, a pleased smile on his face. “Anything you want sweetness.” And promptly moves to the opposite breast, continuing his work.

Soon you’re left panting and hungry for his same talented touch in a much more sensitive place. You tell him as much through panting breaths and he wastes no time to start shimmying your pants and underwear off with your help. He stands for a moment, beginning to remove his own clothes, a pile of his country wear being left in the corner of your room. You admire his broad shoulders, the hair on his chest, slim waist with just a hint of a belly that you’d love to kiss. You follow his happy trail down eyeing the prominent bulge in his jeans begging to be freed.

As you lay on the bed spread before him, you’re overcome with the urge to curl up into a ball to cover yourself. You wouldn’t say that you’re unhappy with your body. You love your curves and your tummy. No you’re not insecure…not entirely.

Jack is a handsome man and you’re lying here wondering if this is what he wants to see. You curse yourself for letting your insecurities try and ruin your night with this handsome man who clearly wants what you want. You fold inwards on yourself only slightly, bringing your legs closed and positioning yourself more on your side than on your back.

Jack finally back at you from where he’s been stripping and glances over at you with a furrowed brow, noticing the change in position. “Sweetness what’s wrong? We don’t have to do this if you’re having second thoughts.” You shake your head so quickly that you almost make yourself lightheaded. “It’s not that. I just-” you pause trying to think of the right way to explain yourself without sounding incredibly pathetic.

But it seems like Jack can read your mind. Before you can even continue to draft your thoughts, his brow straightens and an incredibly soft look crosses his features. He stands from his spot and kneels in front of you on the bed. “Doll, you are one of the most gorgeous creatures I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on. I just wanna make you feel good. Will you let Daddy take care of you?”

You can feel the heat bloom in your body and you nod as you release a shaky breath that you hadn’t realized you were holding. Jack smirks at your reaction, pleased that you’re less in your head.

He stands and holds you by your hip, urging you to rotate onto your back. Once you’ve done so, he grabs your ankles pulling them apart and down so your legs are dangling off the bed. He kneels on the ground in front of you once more and you see that his eyes are dark with lust. You feel dizzy, knowing that you’re the one having this effect on him. He lifts one leg over his shoulder, and then the other; finishing by sliding his hands under your ass and tugging you closer.

Any potential embarrassment is immediately banished from your mind as you feel his breath against your wetness. He wastes no time, flattening his tongue and licking a broad strip up from your slit to your clit. Your eyes widen at the sensation and you let out a loud gasp as he does it a second time. His tongue licks at your folds before his lips settle on your clit.

Immediately, as if they had a mind of their own, your hips try to buck into his mouth. Desperate for more pleasure, more of that tongue on you. You feel Jack grin against you and he wraps his arms around your waist to keep them still. “Woah now sugar, calm down.” He’s only removed his mouth a few inches, the hot breath teasing you with its closeness makes you want to writhe on the bed. Jack must feel the tension in your hips because he chuckles. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna give you what you need.”

His mouth is on you again, alternating between swirling patterns on your clit and filling you with his tongue. The noises coming from his mouth as he works you closer to pleasure are filthy and you’re about to comment when he pulls back for a moment. You let out a ragged breath and sit up a bit, wondering why he stopped. He takes a thick finger and drags it up through the combined wetness of you and his spit. It teases near your opening and you groan as your want for more sparks once again.

He chuckles at your expression. It’s not a mocking one, you can tell with the way he’s looking at you, the softness in his eyes like he’s the lucky one for sharing this with you. He’s not away from you long. That same finger is entering you now and nothing has ever felt this good. You didn’t realize how different it would feel with fingers that weren’t your own. Yours always felt too methodical, his felt magical.

“You’re sweeter than honey. Did ya know that?” you’re glad you managed to open your eyes as you look down at him popping that same finger into his mouth, sucking it clean. You know you must look ridiculous, your eyes blown wide with lust and jaw hanging slack and open in shock.

You feel yourself clench tightly as Jack moves to slide a second finger in. His free hand reaches up to hold your hip, his thumb moving in calming circles along the skin there. “You gotta relax sugar.” He moves his head back to your clit, speaking directly into you. “I want ya to feel good. Just relax.”

You do your best to follow his instructions, taking a breath and focusing on his hand on your hip and his mouth on your most sensitive area. Feeling your muscles relax, Jack grins into you. “That’s a good girl.” And the praise makes you shudder. He moves a second finger through your folds gathering the pooling slick and slides them into your entrance. You can feel his fingers thrusting inside you, taking breaks to scissor outwards stretching you out in the most delicious way. The fingers curl, finding a spot you’ve never managed to find in your years of exploring your own body.

You throw your head back against the covers as you let out a wanton moan, eyes clenched shut in pleasure as he continues to stroke that sweet spot. You’re so lost that you don’t take notice of a third finger slipping in as he picks up the pace. You’re panting now, breath coming out rapid and hot as your chest heaves with the labor of trying to keep some semblance of calm as the man between your legs wrecks you. Between his fingers thrusting into you and his lips sucking at your clit you can feel your orgasm rushing up on you like a speeding train. You reach a hand down, hoping Jack doesn’t mind as you grab onto his hair letting out a breathless “Jack I’m gonna-” you can feel him nod slightly, groaning at the pressure of your fingers gripping onto his hair and the vibrations finally do you in.

You feel yourself clenching again, this time due to the amount of pleasure running through your body and your legs close gently around Jack who works you through your orgasam, only letting his fingers slide from you once you go limp against the sheets. He gives you another broad lick for good measure and you whimper from the overstimulation, not being able to form words yet.

He rises from his kneeling position and crawls onto the bed, one knee between yours, the other bracketing your leg. You stare up at him with glossy eyes, tracing over his slick mustache and chin. Reaching up, you circle your arms around his neck and bring him down for a kiss, slow and passionate and you moan into his mouth as you taste yourself, sweet and tangy, on his tongue. “You ready for more sugar? We can stop here if you need you.”

You know it’s the bare minimum, really, but you can’t help but be moved by the constant check-ins from Jack. It means a lot to you that he’s looking out for you every step of the way.

Not much for words for fear of getting to emotional, you reach over to your bedside table and pull the drawer open, fishing out a bottle of lube and a condom. You hand both to Jack and correctly reads this as an answer to his question. Looking down, he raises a brow in amusement. “A pink condom huh? That’s new.” Biting down on your tongue to hold back a laugh, you shrug under him. “They were free at the last pride I went to. Gotta stick with the thematic rainbow colors right?” He laughs with you ripping the foil open and rolling the condom onto his cock and you’re glad the two of you can laugh in the moment.

“Now sweetness, I’m gonna need you to relax again, alright? Daddy prepared you with his fingers but as you can see sugar, his cock is much bigger.”

Your eyes trail down his body and he was right. His cock was much bigger than his fingers and much bigger than the dildo you had made yourself comfortable with. But Jack has been patient and gentle all night and you’d be lying to yourself if the thought of him inside of you didn’t set a fire coursing through you.

His words sent heat right through you down to your core, you might have been overeager but his tone had you spreading your legs for him with a wink, a bold feeling suddenly overcoming you since your first orgasm. “I’ll relax daddy. I’ll be good.” His smile is blinding as he grabs one of your pillows and helps you settle it under you, lifting your legs to bracket his own hips.

He notches his cock at your entrance and your breath catches in your throat. He was right, it’s much different than his fingers. More filling, more intense, but just as pleasurable. The pain and pleasure intertwine and set your nerves alight. He inches in slowly, giving your body time to adjust to his size, the entire time he’s praising you, pressing kisses to your face, neck, and chest. “That’s a good girl. Taking me so well. That’s it sugar, keep breathing. You look gorgeous under me like this.”

His praise pulls you into his orbit further. Sooner than you expected you feel his hips make contact with your ass and you realize with a moan that he’s fully in you now. He remains still and bent over you, kissing you deeply, your fingers tangled in his hair. The stillness is agonizing, you need him to move and move now.

“Daddy!” you whimper, and you’d be embarrassed at the tone of your voice if you hadn’t felt him twitch inside of you. “Please move! Please, I'm ready for you to move.” He groans into your neck and obliges. He moves back, pulling out at a torturously slow pace and you feel his cock drag along your walls letting out a breathy moan. He pushes back in slowly too, continuing with this pace until you’re pulling at his hair again, whimpering and begging him to go faster.

“Alright darlin, you let me know if we need to stop now.” You eyes are trained on him as you nod, internally mesmerized at how much care he’s been taking tonight. You can’t say one way or another but you think it’d be hard to find someone to come into a bar hookup with this much gentleness.

“You’d be wonderful to tease darlin. You know that? I could listen to those noises all night, keeping you on edge. You think you’re begging now?” You clench at his words knowing that you were at his mercy, that at this point you’d let him do whatever he wanted as long as he kept cooing praise in your ear. “But tonight is about you, no teasin. Your wish is my command sugar.” He picks up pace and you can’t believe what you had been missing.

Your legs lock around his back bringing him in closer and you find yourself holding on, arms linked around his neck as he takes you on a ride.

What started off as a careful pace on Jack’s end, wound up pushing you to your limits. You didn’t think it would feel this good your first time. Maybe that’s what had kept you away for so long. But any fears had no place here as Jack rocked into you picking up speed with each thrust.

With one hand on your hip holding you steady, Jack leans down to start sucking a mark on your neck, pulling back to admire his handiwork in the form of a red mark that he knows will last a few days. In response your hands in his hair tighten their grip as you both let out simultaneous moans.

“Such a good girl for me.” Jack’s grunting into your neck at this point, his breath coming out hot and heavy, fanning across your skin. “Making me feel so good.” His thrusts are getting erratic now, losing rhythm. His hand dances across your skin, skimming across your chest before finding its way between your legs, thumb working small and quick circles on your bundle of nerves.

“You got another one in ya don’tcha sugar? I wanna see your face when daddy makes you cum.” You’re past words at this point only able to nod your head and moan in response.

With a few more powerful thrusts in tandem with the pressure on your clit you’re coming around Jack’s cock, head thrown back against the pillows with eyes rolling back in pleasure chanting his name.

Jack groans at the tightness around him and the expression on your face. He fucks you through your orgasm, removing his hand from your clit as he grips tightly onto your hips.

When Jack finishes, its with a shaky breath and a drawn out moan right next to your ear. And though you were on the verge of overstimulation so close to your last orgasm, the sound sent another pang of arousal through your body. You were definitely gonna store that away for later.

The two of you remain entangled for a bit. He’s softening inside of you as he gently peppers kisses to your forehead, nose and cheeks. You’re thoroughly exhausted, reveling in the attention and when he dips down you find yourself nuzzling into the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. You worry for a moment that it’s too intimate for a bar hookup but immediately chase that thought off with a deep inhale, taking in the smell of sweat and sex and remnants of his cologne. It’s intoxicating.

Eventually he must tire of holding his body up so as to not crush you and he slides out of you slowly. You have to admit that you miss the fullness and only pout slightly as he stands from the bed, making his way into the bathroom.

When he returns the condom is gone and he has a damp washcloth in his hand. He kneels on the bed and begins gently wiping away the sweat on your brow, trailing the warm rag down your chest and between your legs. You can’t help but hum in contentment, not having expected this level of care after a one night stand. He balls up the rag and tosses it with expert aim back into the bathroom and you couldn’t care less where it lands. All you want is him back in your bed and pressed against you.

Words aren’t needed. Jack seems to read your mind and smiles down at you before crawling into bed behind you. You inch your body closer to his until you find his arms wrapping around your middle, tugging you close and eliminating the gap.

“Thanks for that Jack….that was-” you pause trying to find your words. “-that was fucking phenomenal.” You feel a huff of laughter against the back of your neck before feeling him shift positions allowing him to press another kiss to your temple. “I aim to please darlin.”

You close your eyes briefly before a pang of anxiety worms its way into your mind. “Will you still be here in the morning?” The question is quiet, whispered. Half of you wanting an answer and the other half hoping he didn’t hear as to not reveal yourself to be as vulnerable as you feel.

“Course I will sugar. I reckon–if you’re amiable–that there’s a few more things I can show ya.”

You’re giddy at the thought and can’t help but giggle. “I’d love that.”

You’re not sure where this thing between you two will go, but even if you only have him for one night, you know that it’s an experience you’re never going to forget.

#agent whiskey #agent whiskey fanfic #agent whiskey x reader #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels fanfic #how do tags work #can anyone tell i dont know what i'm doing and i Have Not Learned #dfhsdfh #one day i will apologize for this incredibly self indulgent personal fantasy fic #today is not the day #i haven't like actually re-read my own work but i am Going Through It right now and it actually made me feel better #:')#my writing

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honeysidesarchived · 3 years

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wip day

tagged by like a thousand folks in my brief time out of the tumblrsphere for wip day so uhhhhh here i am! come to tag you all back. because i am a heathen

tagging @shallow-gravy @faithchel @vasiktomis @scungilliwoman @blissfulalchemist @lilwritingraven @adelaidedrubman @chyrstis @amistrio @henbased @belorage @jackiesarch @commandobarnes @shellibisshe and anyone else who wants to play, i am SURE i missed tagging someone!

under the cut bc multiple things bc i've been gone, i don't know how to pick, spoilers, etc and so on

supernatural au where john is trying his best to win win win (no matter what) (get a bite in before banging it out)

John makes a low noise. His hands go back to perusing all the skin he can reach under her robe. “Will you let me bite you if I dress up as a vampire tonight?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on,” he groans, “I’ll dress up as a vampire—”

“You already are one!”

“—and you can be my victim. The vampire bite will be impressively real.” He noses the slope of her jaw and rumbles, “There’s a contest, isn’t there? I’m competitive. We could win. And I could make you feel so good.”

witching hour snippet where helmi considers going full batshit on john

The air departed his lungs in a comedic whoosh from the impact. Pain splintered up his chest. He only managed to refocus his gaze just in time to see her leveling a gun at him.

“I should blow your fucking brains out,” she bit out venomously.

John’s said, his tongue feeling too large for his mouth, “Well are you gonna?”

Her lips pressed together in a vicious grimace. Her fingers tightened on the grip of the gun.

“Nah,” he slurred, “you need me.”

“Wrong,” Helmi snapped. “I need someone sad and pathetic to filet. If you mysteriously don’t survive the trip, I’m sure one of your brothers will cut it.”

and some emotional terrorism from what we know is happening in the next chap (or so) of no temptation/no glory

“Don’t cry, cara mia. Say it back.”

She doesn’t want to. Suddenly, the wedding ring on her finger and his shirt on her shoulders feel heavy, like they’re pulling her down, down, down, and she wishes that it would so that she could fold up and disappear.

If she says it, she’ll be accepting something terrible.

“You know I hate to ask twice.”

“I love you, Santi,” she manages out. “I love you, I love you--mio amato, I love you--”

“Good girl. I’ll call you tomorrow, when I’m on my way to pick you up, si?”

It almost feels normal. It almost feels like she really is just away, at the lake house, getting some time alone after a stressful few days. And then tomorrow, she’ll eat her breakfast out on the porch facing the lake while it’s still a little chilly outside, and Santi will come and pick her up; he’ll tease her about wearing his shirt, and lean over and kiss her and say, don’t you feel silly about worrying, now?

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, Santi, if you promise--”

“I promise, amore, I promise. I love you. Get some sleep, yes? And tell baby Viola I say goodnight.”

Gutted. Emptied. Hollowed out. “We don’t know the baby is a girl,” she protests weakly.

“I can tell.”

She laughs, the sound bleak and ringing empty when it comes out of her. Euphemia closes her eyes tight and breathes in deep. “Okay, yes. I will tell baby Viola goodnight from her daddy.”

“Goodnight, my darling.”

#wip game #i know i forgot to tag folks but my brain is empty no thoughts #only coffee

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reluctant-mandalore · 3 years

Text

Clarity (Din Djarin x gn!Reader)

Chapter One: The Herbalist

Living on a desert planet as a herbalist had its downsides, and it definitely was not the easiest life to live. It was the only one you had ever known though, and even if you had wished for a better one, you knew that it would never come.

This all changes of course when a Mandalorian comes to your town looking for a quarry with a high price on their head.

---

Warnings: slow burn, kidnapping/hostage, herbalist!reader, I’m not sure what to tag for this chap tbh.

Word Count: 4829

Pairing: Din Djarin x gn!Reader

a/n: This chapter gives a lot of background to the reader’s life on their home planet. You’re a herbalist, trying to survive on your desert like planet, when Din comes and pretty much kidnaps you though at this moment you don’t know why. Other than the introduction to reader’s background and life as a herbalist, there is no other descriptions of the reader themselves. The rest is up to you. This is mostly a set up chapter. Also, I tried to give Tarth an accent(?), but I’m not very good with writing things like that yet. :/

The days on your home planet were long and overbearing. Its sun had hung high and large within the vast sky. Allowing for its viscous rays to warm everything they had touched. Even during the night—when the sun had laid to rest and the stars had begun to peek awake—the blistering heat was still unfazed. Nothing could escape the sun’s wraith it seemed.

Not even you.

Walking through its vast dunes after your morning herb scavenging, had only made it apparent to you of how dry and practically lifeless the land had appeared. The sea of sand being one of the only things you could lay your sights on for many miles on end.

Oftentimes you felt as if you were traveling through a smoldering graveyard. This thought only being amplified when you had come across some bones peeking out from the loose grains below your feet. A find which had always made you shudder. You knew one day that could be you lying among the dunes—left only as a reminder of how deadly the desert could be.

This was why you had usually tried to leave in the early morning for your daily gathering. Today you had regrettable slept in though, and had ended up leaving later than usual. It had still been morning when you had left of course, but with how much you needed to gather, it had also meant that you were returning closer to the afternoon time. Now you were simply suffering the consequences of your morning self’s actions.

Rather than wallow in your own self-pity though, you had decided to focus on that task at hand. Besides—the image of the large gate belonging to your city was beginning to come closer and closer the more you had walked. So with this in mind—combined with your refusal to succumb to the cruelty of your homeworld and your own stupidity—you had pressed on.

Finally entering into the city walls had brought some much needed relief to your mind, and you had found your steps beginning to slow the further you went into its streets. While making your way to the market, you had shifted through the content of your basket. Soon finding yourself quite pleased with the plentiful of goods you had managed to find this morning. Hopefully, you would be able to get a good handful of credits from selling—especially with how busy the city seemed to be today.

Despite your home planet’s reputation, the town you resided in was small and quite overpopulated. People from all kinds of backgrounds—the good and the bad—seemed to find themselves attracted to your town regardless of its surroundings. This had made it so that the streets were nearly always lined and flooded with a sea of people wandering around. Thus making it great for selling anything and everything you could get your hands on.

Most of these folks were just visitors looking to refuel their ships, or buy any needed supplies they required. They were the pleasant ones usually. Leaving as quickly and quietly as they had arrived. Others though had of course come for some more unsavory and sinister reasons.

There was no lying about how dangerous a town like this one could be, especially when those with a tainted past had come looking for a hideaway. From simple smugglers to terrifying war criminals—all sort of vile folk had found themselves trying to turn your little town into their new sanctuary. It was these types of visitors who had made you happy to see the bounty hunters roaming about the streets.

The bounty hunters would usually appear out of the blue. Their arrival always quieter than anything you had ever seen. As they had found themselves searching for whichever criminal who had decided to hide out here within the city walls.

Many of your neighbours had seemed to take fright at the sight of a fierce bounty hunter lurking around the city, but you usually took joy at the prospect of them. The knowledge of—whether they meant to do it or not—them making your home just a little bit safer for the locals who dwelled here being usually a happy one for you personally.

Any improvement—no matter how small—was still improvement in your eyes and your town definitely needed that improvement.

While others had busied themselves with hunting down the scum of the Galaxy. Most of your own days had been spent in the market square at the center of town. There you would start off with selling any scrap metal or parts you had found in your morning gathering. Only then would you make your way to your usual table next to the local fruit and veggie stall. The owner of the stall—Tarth—would let you use one of his tables to set up whatever herbs or medicines you had managed to collect and produce.

Throughout the town, you were mostly known for selling herbs and medicine. You had picked up the practice from your late parents when young, and had continued it long after they had passed. All sorts of people would seek you out when a loved one was ill. As they had hoped you had something in your limited supply that could cure whichever sickness had overcome them.

Though at times it was hard, you did your best to help everyone you could. You knew how painful the death of someone you cared for could be. However, there were always those cases where you had nothing to give. Sometimes your supply was just too low, or the needed herb was just not in stock. That was just how life was you supposed—especially out here of all places.

Medical herbs were hard to come by in the wasteland, as plant life was hard to find within its hills of rolling sand. They were there though, and you considered yourself quite the herb finding expert at this point. You had to be after all. Otherwise you probably wouldn’t have survived as long as you had.

Every morning—with the sun just barely rising over the horizon—you would leave the comfort of your home and search the desolate landscape. Trying to scourge up whatever little plant life you could. There were some days where you returned with nothing but sand filled shoes and empty pockets, while others contained plentiful finds.

Today of course had been one of the latter, which was most likely due to the blissful rain your area had experienced the few previous nights. So when approaching the market you couldn’t help but grin at the prospect of having a good day of sales. Though you had quickly found that smile dropping at the worried chatter which filled the streets around you.

Gossip and rumours were quite normal in a town such as yours. There always seemed to be something new going on with its wall. Although usually you had found yourself trying to ignore the chatter. As you most of the time you didn’t see the need to listen to such things. Today’s information had piqued your interest though, as the people around you had discussed the arrival of a stranger in your hometown.

This stranger being that of a Mandalorian.

According to them, he had been spotted lurking through the streets late last night. He was most likely looking for someone too. A bounty to be more specific. Something which hadn’t surprised you in the slightest with the reputation of the town, and with what little knowledge you had of the famed warriors.

When finally reaching the market, you had smiled at the sight of Tarth at his stall, and had given him a little wave when your eyes met his own. Tarth had been a business friend of your parents from when they were both alive and selling their own products. After their passing, him and his wife had taken to keeping an eye on you as best as they could, all while also having five children of their own to raise no less. They were kind to you, and though not able to exactly raise you themselves, they helped you as much as they were able.

So when you had wanted to start selling your own herbs and medicine—but couldn’t afford your own stall—Tarth had offered you to use one of the tables set up at his. You had accepted graciously and swore to pay him back one day. Although he had always insisted there was no need for such a thing. You’d pay him back anyway of course—it was the least you could do for everything he and his wife had done to help you after all.

After having walked around a bit—selling off what you could and buying some much needed supplies—you had made your way back to Tarth’s stand. When you had arrived, he smiled at you, and his eyes had crinkled at their corners with the wide stretch of his grin. His free hand soon had soon patted the empty table where you would set up products, before he had returned to talking with his current customer.

Shortly after you had set up for the rest of the day, the market had become overcrowded with people. You had very quickly found yourself selling just as you did any other day. Helping people with whatever you could offer them. Only letting out a small breath of relief when the rush had begun to die down a little. It would probably pick up soon, but you relaxed into the brief break you could take anyway.

“You were late, ya know?” Tarth’s sudden voice next to you had made you jump from surprise, though the chuckle you had heard from him had made you relax again.

“I know… I’m sorry Tarth.” You had replied to him with a shy smile. “I got a late start to the day, so my gathering was later than usual.”

“Figured as much.” He had let out a small grumble. His small frown not hiding the worry he felt from you as he spoke. “Next time come to our place, myself or one of the kids will go with ya, so yer not alone.”

“Oh no that’s not necessary.”

“Are ya kiddin’ me?” He had scuffed cutting you off with a shake of his head. His hands motioning to you in a dramatic manner as he continued. “Look at ya! It's like you crawled out of a sandpit.”

You had looked down at yourself then. True to his words you were quite a mess. Patches of sand and dirt had littered your clothes. It was a poor sight to be sure, but it was one you and the other folks had come far to used to.

“Tarth I’m fine! Nothing I’m not used to by now.”

He had let out a displeased hum at your words. His gaze shifting from yours to look out across the market square again, as a heavy sigh had left him. “I know but… Ah nevermind. There’s extra water and some food in my pack if ya need any. Alema made sure to pack some for ya.”

“Thanks Tarth.” You had said, as you had decided to take him up on his offer and had gone to drink some of the blissful liquid he had brought for you. “I appreciate it a lot.”

“Heh, don’t mention it kid.”

The afternoon had been busy, as the market square had become overcrowded with people again all too quickly. You weren’t complaining of course. The business and the large amount of visitors had only meant good sales for you after all. Other than your earlier morning mishap, the day had been going fine anyway. Though your good mood had dwindled far too fast for your liking at the appearance of a new guest within the market.

When helping a woman with her purchase of some medicine, the bright glinting of metal in the sunlight had caught your eye. The glimmer had caused for you to glance throughout the market square for its source, and by doing so you had found your gazed suddenly locked with that of a helmet’s vizor. The vizor of a Mandalorian to be more exact.

For a long moment you had stood there frozen in place. Your eyes had been effectively locked with his own steady gaze, and an unexpected shudder of fear had blossomed in your gut at the sight of him. The breath you had held in your throat had burned, as you had almost forgotten to breathe with how loud your heart thundered within its cavity. While before you had welcomed the idea of a Mandalorian into your town, actually setting your sights on him was another story all together. He was awe-striking, but at the same time, he was also terrifying.

So the rumors had turned out to be true. There was in fact a Mandalorian stalking through your little town, and he was staring right at you. Unrelentingly no less.

The two of you had stared at each other for what felt like an entirety—though really it was more likely just a few minutes—as neither of you gazes had faltered away. His own stare had been intense and almost deathly. There was no emotion to be felt from him. Although, that helmet he wore did a fine job at hiding any expression he could ever process anyway. As it had left him only as an emotionless slate to strike fear into all those who dared a peek. If anything, the helmet only added to his dangerous allure. The atmosphere surrounding him becoming more suffocating than that of the sun’s heat.

“Do you all just see him too?” One nearby merchant had said—a middle aged woman who you recognized as the one who you had sold some scrap metal too earlier—a look of fear and worry in her murky eyes.

“Yes! He must have a bounty on someone here.” Another had replied—the man from the jewelry stall—his mouth in a thin line as he looked from his purchased fruits to the man in armor across the square. “I feel bad for whoever that person is.”

The lady who had just bought some medicine from you had looked over in shock too at the sight of the bounty hunter. Her eyes instantly becoming wide, as she clutched her child closer into her chest. “Oh that’s terrifying! I wonder who he could be after?”

“I don’t know or care. I just want him and that bounty of his gone. His presence is scaring everyone and chasing away customers.” Tarth had finally chimed in, ending his words with a huff, as he was clearly annoyed with the whole ordeal. He was right of course. The new appearance of the Mandalorian was in fact causing the crowd to dwindle away quite steadily. “You’d think he’d hurry it up. Bet ya he’s sweating up a storm in all that armor.”

Tarth’s last comment had made you let out a small laugh, and you had finally broken the eye contact you had held with the bounty hunter in question. Though the new found freedom of that action didn’t stop you from keeping a watch of him through the corner of your eyes for the rest of the day.

Even by the end of the day, he had hardly moved from the spot where you had first laid your sights on him. Instead he had remained firmly in place. His back still against the wall he leaned on and his arms crossed over his chestplate, as his gaze had never shifted away from your direction. A small drop of worry had told that he was in fact staring at you in particular, but you had tried to reassure yourself that couldn’t be true. After all—why would a Mandalorian be interested in you? You were just a simple herbalist.

Regardless of who, he was definitely watching someone, and you had pitied whoever it may be.

Eventually, you did breathe a sigh of relief when you had finally seen him move from his spot. Your gaze following his form and refusing to leave it, as he made his way out of the market square. Most of the other people were beginning to leave now as well, and many other vendors were also starting to pack for the night.

The sun had begun to set over the horizon by this point after all. Its sinking rays casting an orange glow across the wide sky. The stars had even started to peek out from beneath their blanket of daylight. Gleaming brighter and stronger as the sky had darkened. Night was quickly approaching clearly. Which meant that it was time for you and the other people of your town to be on your way home.

The city wasn’t safe at night—it wasn’t even considered safe during the day—and no one wanted to be caught out during the late hours. Those times were when the more those vile of folk liked to come out and play. Then of course, when adding the new arrival of the Mandalorian on top of that, everyone just knew they didn’t want to be caught outdoors tonight.

“Welp, it’s that time of the day dear. Time to start heading back. Ya don’t wanna be out past dark.” Tarth had said to you as he slid the doors to his cart shut. The old wooden doors rattling as the lock had clicked into place. “Lots of bad folks have been out and about lately.”

You had hummed in agreement, and soon you had stood to stretch out your back, as it had begun to feel sore from the position you had sat in all day. Only then did you begin to pack up your leftover supplies—smiling over at the food seller as you did. “As if that Mandalorian didn’t make that evident enough.”

“Ugh. Don’t get me started on that!” He had grumbled with another irritated huff. His arms crossing as he looked out across the market square. His gaze quickly landing on the spot where the said bounty hunter had spent most of the day. His face had held a scowl. The wrinkles along it deepening and the frown he wore growing the longer he stared at it. “He was there nearly all afternoon! Probably scared off at least half of the customers today.”

Another little hum of agreement had left you in reply, though you found yourself more focused on organizing your stuff in the basket rather than the man's anger. “Let’s hope he gets whoever he’s after soon then.”

“Yup, yup.” He had said while scratching at the fine grey hairs on his chin, seemingly to ponder in thought for a moment. “The faster it happens, the better.

After you finished gathering up your things—placing your unsold items into the handwoven basket—you had slung your satchel over your shoulder. Turning to look at Tarth once more, you had intended on saying farewell, but had instead paused in confusion at the expression he wore.

“What?”

“I was thinking I should walk you home.” He had said. “I’d want someone to do the same for one of my own kids. It’s dangerous after all. 'specially with that Mandalorian and his bounty running about.”

“Don’t worry about me Tarth.” A small smile had appeared on your lips, replacing your confused expression with one of fondness. “I’ll be fine on my own—always have and always well.”

His frown had only deepened at your reply. His eyes filled with undeniably concern, as he crossed his arms again while staring you down. Tarth really did treat you as his own child at times. “Now listen here-”

“-Tarth I’ll be fine! Don’t worry about me.”

“Alema and I will always worry about ya.” He had sighed, though he had smiled wryly at you as his gaze had softened. “We worry about you just as if you were our own kid.”

“I know and you know how much I’ve appreciated all these years where you’ve both watched out for me.” Saying this, fond memories had begun to flood your mind of the two. Though soon and almost proudly, you had grinned at him. “I’m an adult now though, so don’t worry about me too much. I can handle myself now!”

He had only sighed bitterly at knowing he wasn’t going to win this fight. “If ya say you’ll be fine... then I guess I’ll just have to accept that. You’re more stubborn than my wife at times, ya know?”

“No arguments there!” A giggle left you at his reply and you gave one more smile to your friend, “See you tomorrow Tarth!”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get home safely, ya hear?”

A nod and a wave was your final reply to the older man before you had turned to start heading in the direction of your home. Now finding yourself happy to finally get back to get some well deserved rest—especially after the day you had suffered through.

The walk home that evening had started the same way it always had—with you humming a sweet tune to yourself and saying good night in passing to those of which you had known. Though the more you had traveled, the more you had found yourself with a feeling of unease suddenly growing inside of your mind.

It almost felt as if you were being watched or even followed while on your way home. This new feeling of nervousness refusing to leave no matter how hard you had tried to convince yourself of it otherwise. Soon finding yourself becoming more frightened at the sight of the slowly emptying streets with each step you took.

This had been where you had begun to ponder your different options for the moment. Taking the main streets—though more safer generally—usually took longer to travel. By the time you would return home, it would have already become way past dark. On the other hand, you could take the back alleys. Which admittedly had seemed appealing to you at the moment. They were like a shortcut of sorts, and if you took them, you’d end up returning home before either of the moons had even a chance to rest themselves within the night sky. Though of course, there was always that risk factor with them, as you could never be too sure of who would be lurking within their walls.

Maybe you should have let Tarth take you home.

The feeling of being followed had made you want to return quicker in the end though. So you had found yourself leaning towards the alleyways rather than the main streets. You figured they would be your best bet. What was the worst that could happen anyway? You may not be the strongest person in the Galaxy, but you could handle yourself most of the time. Everything would be fine at the end of the day anyway.

That was what you had tried to tell yourself at least.

The alleys were dark and eerie, but had still felt oddly safe in a way. Even though with every corner the feeling that you were being followed had increased—you still felt fine and had even felt your mood pick up the closer you got to home. It wouldn’t be long now till you returned. Only one more abandoned street to travel along and you would be home. Nice and safe.

Your fear had spiked again though at the glimpse of a large figure out of the corner of your eye. Dread had instantly consumed you at the sight of it, and you had felt your stomach become a flutter at the realization of it all being very real. Someone was in fact following you home. Who? You didn’t know— and honestly—you didn’t want to know.

Thanks to your newfound fright, you had picked up your pace, now practically running as you went. The basket in yours had been pulled closer into your chest as you ran, and your breathing had increased dramatically with the panic you had felt. The end of the last alley was quickly approaching though—with every sinking step you took into the sand bringing you closer and closer to safety.

Home was only a few steps away, and a sigh of relief had left you at the sight of the light at the end of the alley. The main street was coming into view and you swore that you could even see your little house from here. Even the sound of what was left of the earlier crowd could still be heard as you approached. Their shadows passing by the entrance to the alleyway in which you had travelled. The sight of which making you feel so hopeful and reassured.

The safety of home was just within your grasp—so close and yet still so far—but you would be safe soon regardless of this fact.

Though unfortunately you would never reach your home.

Before you could even step out into the evening light—and just as your foot had made to exit into the main street—a hand had reached out from the darkness towards your form. It had grabbed you quickly. So fast in fact, that you hadn’t even realized what was happening until it was too late.

One arm had placed itself firmly around your midsection. While its twin had clamped over your mouth before a scream could even pass your lips. The basket of goods that were once held tightly in your hands had tumbled to the ground. Its contents spilling all over the sandy street below you and your attacker.

The person had instantly pulled you close into their hard chest. Their arms holding you tightly in their grasp like a cage that refused to budge. The grip around you had been unrelenting and overpowering. The strength behind it only making you panic more in your attempts to free yourself from them. Although such freedom would never come, as instead, you had only found yourself being dragged further into the alleyway.

They had captured you so easily, and it had honestly made you feel so unbelievably helpless.

It also didn’t seem to matter what you had tried to do to escape in the moment. The clawing at their arms had only made their unwanted embrace tighten around you, and digging your heels into the ground had been useless thanks to the loose sand beneath your feet. Then of course squirming around and kicking at the attackers own legs had done nothing but encourage the person to pull you into the darkened alley even quicker.

At one point you had even bit down into the hand over your mouth. The taste of leather and blaster residue flooding over your taste buds as you did. Though the only thing you had received in response to your retaliation was a grunt of disapproval. Their gloved fingers in return only digging more harshly into your skin, and refusing to allow you any more wiggle room in the slightest.

Whoever this was was much stronger than you could ever hope to be, and they clearly out skilled you in every aspect. It seemed like you weren’t going to be escaping from them so easily.

The light at the end of the alleyway had dimmed with every step further into the darkness, and you had felt yourself cry at the sight of your safety fading away. The tears which had formed at the corner of your eyes rolling down them in thick trails. All while the fear and panic you had felt consumed you to your very core. Not even a scream could leave you thanks to the hand still clamped over your mouth. Its placement muffling any sound you had tried to make. No one had seemed to pick up on your predicament. Which meant no one would be coming to rescue you from this person taking you away.

When your attacker had felt like they had pulled you deep enough into the alley. Where the likelihood of anyone hearing or seeing you was at its smallest. They had shoved you roughly into the nearest wall. They had turned you to face them as they did. The sharp gesture making your back slam into the filthy stone behind you.

On instinct, your eyes had closed and your body had hunched into itself as if it was trying to protect you from any incoming blows. None had come though, and instead all you had felt was their body moving to pin you more firmly into place.

The wall had dug sharply into your back now, and you had winced as its sharp edges poked and pierced your delicate skin. A blaster had been roughly shoved into your chest by this point. The end pointed in the dead center of it and openly taunting you with taking your life. Allowing your eyes to finally open, you had felt your stomach drop at the sight of the now familiar visor staring deeply into your soul.

“I can bring you warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

#the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #mando #mando x reader #mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #din #din x reader #Clarity Series #Clarity Chapter One #star wars #the mandalorian fanfic #fanfic #star wars fanfic #my fics

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prismatica-the-strange · 3 years

Note

You literally just wanna grab Daniels ass that’s the prompt

I absolutely love this prompt! I can't stop thinking about that glorious ass! Thank you anon!

18+ only! Minors do not Interact!

Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Self harm, the reader's judgment is impaired and they impulsively cut themselves with a scalpel.

A very hands on episode today folks! 😘 I took an idea I had and kinda added it to the prompt

You were off world with another team, SG-6, testing your latest robotics design when you were stung by some sort of bee or insect. Your arm hurt like hell and you started getting light headed, so SG-6 cut the mission short to get you back to Fraiser back on Earth.

After a day or so the pain went away and the swelling went down.

When Daniel got back from his mission with SG-1 and he heard about what happened he was by your side immediately. That's when it started.

While Fraiser was finishing up his post mission check up, you wanted to snuggle into him. So you did.

He looked over at you when you reached out and wrap your arms around him. You hadn't seen each other in a few days so he didn't question it. He just pulled you close by your shoulders and kissed the top of your head.

Once Fraiser gave you the all clear you went back to business as usual.

But something wasn't right. You had the hardest time fighting little urges and intrusive ideas. Especially around Daniel.

He came to your lab and was taken aback when you immediately hug his torso. You couldn't help yourself. You tried, but you couldn't stop yourself from reaching down and grabbing his ass with both hands.

"Whoa!" He jumped back, but you pulled him close again, giggling.

"W-what're you doing there?" He asked, unsure of what to do. For a moment you don't know what to do either. Pull him into a kiss or squeeze his ass?

Your hands move to grip the back of his neck and you pull him into a deep kiss, before reaching down and firmly squeezing his ass.

His eyes go wide.

"Wow. Ok, Y/n?" He says against your lips, "Y/n?"

His hands are on your shoulders while he lightly pushes you back. You whine and tug on the lapels of his jacket.

"What's going on?" He asks, taking your hands in his.

"What do you mean?" You try to pull him close again.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, "You don't usually try to jump me at work like this."

He sees your eyes light up when he says that.

"That sounds fun!" You grin, pulling your hands from his and going for his belt.

"Hey! No, no, no!" He chuckles nervously, grasping your hands and quickly looking about the room, "That wasn't a suggestion."

The heat of your hands in his just makes you want to hold him more and before you can even think about it, your body moves on it's own. Your arms move around his neck and you cuddle into him.

"You're burning up," he says, his cheek on your forehead.

"Just wanna hold you." You mutter and his confusion grows as he puts his arms around you.

"It seems they're losing the ability to think before they act," Fraiser explains. "I think it may have something to do with the insect that stung them."

"Is there any way to reverse the effect?" Hammond asked from next to Daniel. They watched you stand up and start walking around the room.

"As of now? No," she sighs, "Right now all we can do is help keep their fever down and try to keep them out of any trouble their impulsive behavior might-"

"Ow! Shit!"

The eyes of everyone in the room are on you as the scalpel clatters to the ground and blood starts to pour from the cut on your palm.

Fraiser rushes over and starts to take take care of it.

Daniel insists on staying with you, right by your side after that, to act as your voice of reason. But everyone can tell it's just because he's extremely worried.

They keep you both in an isolation room while they try to figure it out.

And poor Daniel has such a hard time keeping you off him. Especially when you whine his name like that. Oh god it hurts his heart.

He himself only has so much self control when it comes to you and he almost finds it amusing how your roles have switched. But you're almost unbearable with the way you kiss him and try to drag him to the bed in the corner.

He knows his lips are going to be chapped by by the end of the day.

O'Neill throws a few teasing jabs at him through the rooms comms, and he nearly loses it when you tell the colonel to go fuck himself.

"Daniel?" He looks at you on the bed from where he leans against the cement wall, "'M tired."

His eyes shift to your outstretched hand.

"I want cuddles." When he hesitates, "Please?"

How the hell is he supposed to say no when you ask him in such a sleepy voice? Maybe Carter should have been your voice of reason, because he really sucks at not giving in to you.

It doesn't take long before he's sat in bed with you, arms wrapped firmly around your body. You pull him in for a sleepy kiss before you nuzzle your face into his neck and fall asleep.

His heart is pounding in his chest. He loves you so damn much. His face in your hair, kissing the top of your head, and your feverish skin against his.

Doc Fraiser comes in a couple hours later and she tells him the effects should wear off in a day or so.

"Another day?" He almost sounds panicked. He definitely can't take another 24 hours of this, he might literally combust.

He switches off with Teal'c before you wake up. That part is imperative. If you woke up and asked him to stay in your tired morning voice he wouldn't be able to leave.

The next day is rather uneventful. The insect's venom wears off and you come out of the whole ordeal relatively unscathed.

O'Neill will absolutely tease you about this for ages.

Taglist: @mysg1spacemonkey @sgcprometheus @i-am-morrigans-apprentice @malcolm-reeds-pineapple @witching-things

Masterlist

#Poor Danny boy can't seem to catch a break #Daniel Jackson #daniel jackson imagine #Daniel Jackson x reader #Gender Neutral #Gender Neutral reader #Prisma Writes #Daniel Jackson x Gender Neutral reader #Daniel Jackson fluff #cuddles!#Thank you Anon #prisma Answers

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schrijverr · 3 years

Text

Promises You Made to Me

Chapter 3 out 3

Aragorn falls for Boromir on their journey. When they realize they share their affection, they also know that the time is not now to act upon them. Both promise to share love once they see the quest done, a promise that long seems a broken oath. Still, the horn was heard in more lands and the Elves have not yet forsaken this world

A Boromir lives AU where they fall in love before Boromir falls at Amon Hen, but Aragorn only learns of his survival after the defeat of Sauron.

On AO3.

Ships: Aragorn x Boromir

Warnings: grief, guilt and mentions of bad coping

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

Chapter 3: But I’ll Walk with You, my Love

The battle was won, Middle Earth was saved. It was a time for celebration, but for Aragorn there was little to celebrate.

He was to take the throne that had been empty for thousands of years and the one person who should have been there to see it was not. He still did not know whether he would have proved himself if Boromir had lived, but he was confident in the final judgment of the man.

No, it was a promise dual made that ghosted his steps. Had Boromir lived, today would be the day they could have seen what happened to the spark that never got the chance to burn.

Aragorn wondered in sleepless nights if the spark would have survived the many hardships of the road or if they would have arrived here as friends. His heart told him that he could have never loved anyone like he had loved the Son of Gondor, yet he knew not for sure if Boromir would have felt the same.

Grief colored the white halls with black and gray. With wars passed and therebuilding barely started, the mourning he had not the mind to fully feel before, caught up to him.

The steadily recovering Faramir trailed his every move as next Steward in line now that his family line hinged on him. At Aragorn’s request, he told him many a tale of his youth, so that every hall was filled with a young, happy Boromir for Aragorn’s heart to ache for.

He walked through the courtyard where Boromir had told him of many restless nights where he walked alone over stone and Faramir had enlightened him to the annoying two little boys with wooden swords.

The White City breathed the life Boromir just as Boromir had lived and breathed Minas Tirith.

If this were to be his home till the end of his days, then he would have to learn to live with memories passed and new memories that could never be. His own would override Boromir’s and he feared that his presence might scrub Boromir’s soul out of his City.

That would be an impossible feat, he knew. The people of Gondor had not forgotten their other Steward’s Son and if Aragorn listened closely, he could hear his name among the people. Yet there was no monument for Gondor’s finest. Not yet.

He wanted to return to Amon Hen, to look for the Evenstar and signs of what had happened to Boromir, but he was bound by a duty he had long evaded and could not now abandon.

On the day of his coronation, the White City was adorned with happy folk and it was hard not to get infected with the pleased crowd around him. It was a trait of the City that had been reflected in Boromir, for his energy was infectious also.

“Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta,” he sang his oath to his people, trying his own Elven roots to his new life as King, before walking down the path created for him.

Legolas met him with a procession of Elves, many he recognized from his days in Rivendell. Arwen was noticeably absent and Aragorn mourned that he had missed her departure, yet Elrond’s presence was a welcome one. He did an Elvish greeting: “My Lord Elrond,” then he smiled, “Ada.”

Elrond smiled back and handed him the banner of the King. “Arwen made this for you, before she left. She believed in your Kingship and so do I. I am proud of you, Estel.” He hugged Aragorn and Aragorn leaned into the contact grateful for the support of Elrond. As he hugged, however, the Elven Lord whispered: “Look for the other Elven company traveling from the North.”

He could not ask what the Elf had meant, for the procession moved past him so that he continue and there was no time.

Later Elrond would say no more, claiming that it was not his role to enlighten him and that Aragorn should not get needlessly distracted from his duties as King. Still Aragorn looked to the North each morning, gazing into the distance as if it would bring him answers to questions not asked aloud.

He kept up the habit after Elrond left.

The rebuilding of Minas Tirith was steadily happening and Aragorn was feeling more at ease with his Kingly obligations. Gondor was returning to life after survival. Her former glory was being restored, silently Aragorn grieved for Boromir, who would not get to see her beauty again.

It was shortly after the final stones of the wall had been laid again and her gates were replaced that the Elven company appeared on the horizon as Aragorn looked North in the morn. They were dressed in cloaks of grey that signaled their origin lay in Lothlórien.

Aragorn was curious what the Lady of Light could bring to him that Elrond wished not to reveal to him. He donned the still slightly foreign clothes and descended down the levels, awaiting the arrival of the Elves on the plaza behind the gates.

The people, who saw him there bowed respectfully, but he heard the whispers of curiosity about his presence and that of the Elves.

When they had arrived over the path, it was already nearing mid day and Aragorn had not strayed from his post,ordering the gates to be opened. Silently the Elves rode into the White City. He faintly recognized some faces from his time spend there, but one remained hooded.

Only when the hooded figure slipped of his horse and came before him, did he look up. Slowly, he removed cloth hiding his face to reveal the ghost that had haunted him for so long had returned to life, for it was Boromir that greeted him, unsure smile on his face.

No hardship in his long-life could have prepared him for the mirage of emotions that washed of Aragorn in that moment.

His disbelief, happiness and anger warred inside his chest and he choked on his own spit as he searched for words. Why had Boromir not contacted him before? How had he lived? What did this mean for them both?

“Boromir.”

In the end he decided there was nothing else he could say, for all words had left him and none seemed fit for the moment. He pulled himinto his arms, crushing him so tightly he would be worried for the health of the other had he not been so occupied with hugging him, with proving he was real and not another shadow in his mind.

Two hands clutched tightly to the clothes on his back tying him to the now and when he breathed he could smell the forest of Lórien and the familiar scent of home comprised of sweat, metal and leather.

He had not known that he knew Boromir’s smell, but when it hit him he knew it was him and no one could have replaced him.

It was Boromir. Actual Boromir, here in his arms alive and well. He was not dead, but he was alive and Aragorn could not yet emotionally comprehend that Boromir was there, only that his heart felt too small for all that it felt.

“Hey, Aragorn, my King, no need for tears,” the soothing voice he knew so well whispered in his ear and it was only when Boromir cupped his face between his hands and wiped away the tears that he realized he’d even been crying.

The words did not help, only cemented more all that he felt and could not name. His crying turned into heaving sobs as he hugged Boromir tighter, as impossible at that seemed.

“You’re alive,” he replied after he had cried himself hoarse in Boromir’s arms, an obvious statement, yet still one that held so many mysteries.

“Aye, I am,” Boromir agreed. “Yet, I knew that not when we parted. It was a surprise for me too when I awoke. You saved me.”

He saved him. The words struck a chord in Aragorn’s soul. Since it had happened, he had blamed himself for letting Boromir die, for not doing more, for leaving him. Yet here he was, still alive and warm, telling him that it was he, who had saved him.

His knees buckled under him. A corner of his mind told him that as a King, he should not act like this in public, but that thought was squashed under the barrage of emotions and feelings that caught up to him and overwhelmed him as the world slid out of focus.

Boromir steadied him, having his back and being the person he could lean on as if he had never left his side. “I can tell you more later, but why don’t we get you seated for now? Would that be okay… love?”

The pet name snapped him back to the present. All the musings and doubts he’d had about the spark that had never left him, had wrapped itself in grief and fantasies that would never come and were clouded with memories young and old. But now Boromir was alive and it was not just his heart that beat for the them that had not yet been.

There was no time forfear or doubt to bubble up, for Boromir looked at him with those eyes and the pet name was so hesitantly said, because Boromir was also unsure of where they stood, he also did not know what they would do, just that he loved him and wanted it.

But they could figure that out together now.

They had a future and they could try to see if the they, he and Boromir had dreamed off could flourish in times of peace. A new age had dawned and they could meet it together.

Without thinking Aragorn kissed him.

Boromir’s beard was slightly longer and he felt his moustache like he hadn’t done before, but hislips were still slightly chapped and firm. Boromirrelaxed into the kiss quickly and was again the first to swipe his tongue across Aragorn’s lips.

Aragorn lost himself into the sensations he had often dreamed about, but could never fully recall again. Yet here was that same calloused hand cupping his cheek so gently and he felt as if he could survive without breath if he could live like this forever.

It was only when Boromir broke to kiss to catch their breath that they realized a crowd had gathered around them. The King and foreign company had enticed enough commotion, but the return of a hero from the dead was certainly notable, not to mention the emotional reunion between him and their King.

There were jeers and cheers all around them. Aragorn wanted to hide his face, knowing his cheeks would be tinted red and did so in Boromir’s shoulder. Yet the Son of Gondor was at ease around his people, accepting Aragorn’s hiding spot as he smiled and waved.

Word had spread fast through the City and before Aragorn could even think of moving away from the prying eyes, Faramir came running down, no horse just his own two legs that had carried him downwards from the Citadel to see the miraculous return.

Aragorn knew when Boromir had spotted him, because the one hand on his back left, so that he could greet Faramir with both: “Brother!”

Knowing when it was time to step back, Aragorn did. Though he did not stray far from Boromir’s side as he hugged his brother tightly. There were many emotions running high, yet instead of the gentleness he had displayed for Aragorn, to his brother Boromir jested: “What has become of Minas Tirith that the King would await me, but not her Steward.”

“A Minas Tirith where her King disappears without notice to await an unknown company, I would say,” Faramir grinned back without heat as Aragorn ducked his head. “It is good to see you, Boromir. We thought you dead. How did you live?”

“It is a long story and not one for telling on the front porch,” Boromir said, conscious of the crowd around them. “The Elves were a great help and healed me. That is the basics. Let us now drink something and eat. We have a long road behind us.”

Faramir was much better at the ways of the court, having grown up around them. He sprung into action, getting the Elves up the levels to accommodations, while Aragorn walked beside Boromir and his horse.

As they walked, Aragorn followed Boromir blindly, trusting Boromir to lead them home while in the distance the trumpets rang. He did not let his gaze wander away from his face, afraid he would disappear the moment he did.

There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, a million things he wanted to tell him. Yet the only thing he said to Boromir suddenly was: “I am sorry.”

Boromir’s step faltered for a moment, before he looked at Aragorn with concerned confusion. Then he asked: “What for?” as if it was the most simple thing in the world. As if Aragorn had not spend sleepless nights musing all the things he had done wrong.

It must have shown on his face, for Boromir smiled at him. It was not his boisterous grin or proud smile, but a gentle one, one Aragorn had only seen in Lothlórien. “You did nothing you have to apologize for. It is I, who has to atone for what I did, yet my heart can not stop being selfish and hope to proclaim itself to be yours.”

“You have not to atone either,” Aragorn spoke fiercely. He had heard those desolate tones from Boromir once before and he would not let him speak like that again. “I meant what I said and this war has taken enough from all. We won. You played your part diligently and I will not have you tarnish your return to me by self-doubt that is undeserved. And you are not selfish, for if you are then so am I.”

“Huh,” said Boromir, “you are not the Ranger I parted with. The King I saw shining through form time to time has fully inhabited his glory. There is a confidence in your speech that was not there before.”

Aragorn was taken by surprise by the observation. He had known that he had changed through his harrowing journey to Minas Tirith and the Black Gate, but he was connected still to his past in such a manner that he had not divorced himself from the person Boromir knew. To have it pointed out to him, was strange.

Yet, Boromir was not the man he had left on Amon Hen either. His manner was proud, yes, but he had not the burdens that had forced him to be so. He was calmer and had gained some of the Elven pace in life that was familiar to Aragorn in a way the lively City was not.

It seemed both had adapted to the new circumstance they had found themselves in and in turn had gained something of the other.

Still, the Boromir of old was still to be found. His handsome face had stayed unchanged and as they walked he pointed out historical buildings along with places tied to himselfwith an enthusiasm that rivaled Merry talking of Old Toby. And every time Aragorn seemed to fumble, a hand was lend to him in aid.

Another thing that was old, but new sinceAragorn had never gotten to witness it,was Boromir amongst his people. And it was a sight to behold.

The people greeted him as a long lost friend that they held in high regard. He was not just their Lord and protector, but their faithful, friendly guard also. As they called out to him, he returned most by name. The observation Aragorn had first made of him, stayed true here. It was hard not to like Boromir and that was felt through all the streets.

Journeying to the Citadel from the gates lasted eternally long, but the time passed in a flash, until they were seated in Aragorn’s office, ready to hear the tale of Boromir’s survival.

“I recall little of the events themselves,” Boromir began. “Flashes and pieces stay with me, but the Elves told me most after I had awoken. I suppose I should start when we parted ways, Aragorn.” He gave him a look and Aragorn nodded.

“I only remember us talking, yet some of the words escape me. In my mind the only clear thing is your face, there are tears in your eyes and pain I cannot soothe,” said Boromir. “I tried, but I could not move to change it. The clearest words are you promising that the White City would not fall if you could stop it and me naming you my King.”

Aragorn remembered the moment clearly, remembered the three names Boromir assigned him there and the desperation he felt as he tried to give Boromir enough hope to cling to life. A moment he remembered failing in. “I remember that moment, my medicine was not enough to save you. You were fading under my hands and nothing I could do was helping.”

Faramir followed the conversation closely. Aragorn had only briefly told him of what happened at Amon Hen and his brother’s demise. Pippin and Frodo had also filled in some blanks, but he knew no more of the final moments of Boromir than what Aragorn had told him.

He had heard of the attempts made to save Boromir’s life, yet not of Boromir’s proclamation, nor the affection shared between them that he had seen today. Still, he had guessed it in the manner his King surrounded himself with the memory of Boromir.

Both listened closely to Boromir’s answer. “The Elves spoke of a Kingly command and an oath meant to be kept. They told me of the power that laid in the voice of the Kings of old. Oaths to them not kept, could bring unrivaled curses, while-”

“Curses?” asked Faramir.

“Isildur cursed the Dead Men of the Mountains to an enteral damnation of restlessness,” Aragorn said. “More instances have been recorded, but I do not see how that relates to you, Boromir.”

“For you two did not let me finish,” Boromir told them fondly. “The two of you jumping to your loreand questions.” At that, they all chuckled.

“A Kingly oath holds power and if a King cannot keep their word, then that is equal in its weight.” Boromir explained. “We had the luck that you told me: ‘I promise that I will try to see this quest through alive and keep you alive through it also.’ And did not say ‘try’ before my part as well. Words are a fickle things, such the Elves told me and I have learned. Meanings can be changed with intent.”

Aragorn remembered his outburst and filled in the blank. “I commanded you to live. I said that I promised to protect you and begged you to not make me an oath breaker.”

“Aye, that could have been what changed the words in the balance of the earth,” Boromir nodded after a moment of contemplation. “The Elves also said the athelas on my wounds kept me breathing until they arrived. It seemed you were not the only one, who came to the aid of Gondor when the horn was blown.”

“They transported you by boat,” Aragorn suddenly clicked the pieces together. “The horn of Gondor came to the water by hands of the Elves.”

“It has been found?” asked Boromir excitedly. “I thought it had been lost to the Orcs.”

“The horn has been found, brother,” said Faramir, “but it is cloven in two. We read it as an omen of your demise.”

“Oh,” Boromir said and Aragorn heard in that sound the guilt how something beyond his reach impacted his loved ones so. “And what of my bracers? They too disappeared.”

At that Aragorn blushed and he saw in the corner of his eye Faramir grin like a young soldier that he had only been with his brother. He nodded to Aragorn stealthily and Aragorn decided that his Steward should be more loyal than this.

“I took them,” he explained.

Boromir smiled in understanding – Aragorn loved how he got to know all the smiles his love held, now that there was again reason to smile – and fumbled under his tunic to reveal the Evenstar. “The stars of the Elves are not easily given away and I would not have it lost while under my care.”

Aragorn had no words for the affection that rushed about his heart in that moment. All he could find within himself to do, was to rush forwards and hug Boromir tightly. “Keep it safe forevermore?” he asked.

“Of course, my love,” Boromir whispered back.

They held one another like this, until a small cough from Faramir made them untangle quickly. Faramir smiled: “It is good to see you both happy. There is much I need to catch up on between you two it seems, but for now I am merely glad for you both. Still, I wish to hear more of the Elves and how you returned to us.”

“Ah, aye, of course,” said Boromir, bouncing back like a man used to getting up again. “As I stated before, I recall little. I slept for weeks, recovered tied to my bed for many more. The forest is fading, the Elves are leaving, still they cared for me until I could travel once moreand while I will never fully heal, it is so much more than I could have hoped for.”

“Never fully heal?” asked Faramir with a frown.

“Aye, my condition is not what it used to be and I feel the scars when the weather changes,” Boromir answered. “But enough about me. Many strange rumors have reached my ears when coming here, yet I know not which ones to believe. Tell me about your journey.”

First Farmir talked, he told Boromir of Minas Tirith every since he had left so many days ago. He told of the fall of Osgiliath, their father being poisoned by Sauron, the battle in the City and the rebuilding of the walls.

Boromir was quiet when he heard of their father’s fall from grace. There was pain in his eyes, yet also pity and understanding.

If history had been a little different, it would have been him, being consumed.

Aragorn took his hand. He did not care for the what-if’s of history when he had Boromir right here, untouched. He did not fall to the Ring and his own body then and Aragorn would not let him fall to his mind now.

He got a smile for his efforts, a real smile that made his eyes crinkle, as Boromir squeezed his hand. Aragorn did not yet know where they would go, but if life could be like this, then it was worth every hardship he had undergone.

They kept their fingers interlocked until Faramir was done telling himall hehad missed. Then it was up to Aragorn to fill in Boromir on all he had not witnessed of the Fellowship.

Where would be start? Would he start with how they fell apart? How Gandalf came back? Would Boromir know of that? Should he start with Rohan and Helm’s deep? Or with the march on the Black Gate and Frodo’s success?

“We went after Merry and Pippin,” he finally began at Boromir’s last mission. “Frodo was not meant for our help beyond that point and went with Sam to Mordor. Yet we could not abandon our Fellowship entirely. We crossed through Rohan to Fangorn forest in four days, yet we did not meet them again for a long time after.”

And so Aragorn told Boromir of their encounter with Éomer, Gandalf’s return, the poisoning of Théoden King, the fight of Helm’s deep and the Ents in Isengard where they were reunited with Merry and Pippin once more.

“I am glad the little ones did not make it to Isengard with those Orcs,” Boromir said. “Have they made it through the war unscathed?”

“All of the Fellowship survived, love,” Aragorn assured him. “Gimli and Legolas are traveling together now and the Hobbits have been escorted home by Gandalf himself. They are safe.”

Boromir’s was relieved at this news. Aragorn knew that it was because the Son of Gondor thought himself to be responsible of their failing as Fellowship and found he had failed the Hobbits at Amon Hen. It were demons Aragorn could not take away in a day.

“You should write them once you have rested,” Aragorn said. “Pippin especially missed you dearly as did Merry. Frodo and Sam had parted before they heard of your death, but would also love to hear of your return.”

“I do not think Frodo would wish to hear of me, Aragorn,” Boromir smirked lopsidedly, but there was no mirth to be found.

“He would. You cannot rest before you have heard of him and not confronting him will hurt the both of you,” Aragorn told him, deciding to be stubborn about this until Boromir had listened to him.

Boromir looked at Aragorn and the smirk morphed in to exasperation and fondness. “I will think of it, you stubborn man.” Aragorn smiled at that. “I think it comes with the City.”

He got an eyeroll for his cheek, before Boromir requested he’d tell him more. So, Aragorn continued of the ride to Gondor with the Rohirrim, their departure to the Dwimorberg and their dealing with the King of the Dead.

At that part Boromir shivered, yet found it within himself to joke: “I am glad I fell, for I would have followed you there and hated every moment.” A joke that fell flat for Aragorn and Faramir, who had not the mind to joke about Boromir’s recent return just yet.

Aragorn told him of the Seafarers coming from the South, making Boromir curse for a strategic move in a war already won. Still, he smiled once Aragorn told him of Gimli and Legolas’ squabble at the waterside.

The fight for Minas Tirith he kept brief, not wanting to linger on the horror’s of that day when they were just getting erased from the City, while being deeply ingrained in the psyche of her people.

He also did not waste many words on the days after, for he did not wish to answer again for the choices made about his health. He had heard it from Legolas, Gandalf and Elrond already and he knew Boromir would otherwise be added to the list.

Naturally he could not bespared the lecture that came from the revelation about his march on the Black Gate and the deciding hand he had played in the choice.

“I know it was foolish, Boromir,” Aragorn said. “And it was because it was foolish, it had to happen. Sauron had to think us cocky. He had to believe we would only try this with the Ring in our possession, for we needed to give Frodo and Same safe passage.”

“It was a strategically sound move, Boromir, no matter what your soldier instincts will tell you,” Faramir backed Aragorn up.

“Sam told me how the Eye suddenly moved off them and the lands streamed empty.” Aragorn recalled. “The sacrifices made that day were not made in vain. It was the last fight we fought against the Dark Lord.”

A hush fell over the room as all three thought over the last sentence.

It was a truth all had known, but none had really faced. Yet there it was, as a defense to an outrage to something rational that put loved ones into danger, even if it had already passed. They would no longer have to fight the Dark Lord.

“Huh,” Boromir said after the moment of silence. “That was sentence I never dreamed of hearing.”

They all snorted at that. What started out a small sound of humor soon turned into a joyous waterfall of relief and disbelief, until they were out of breath as they tried to straighten themselves, but kept bursting into laughter again.

“What a world we live that we can see the light after the cloud has passed,” said Faramir. “A new sun shines on all of us.”

“Aye, today is good and I hope there will be many more like it to remember,” Boromir agreed, toasting his mug of ale to what Faramir had said.

As they drank they caught up Boromir to the rebuilding efforts. The help from the Elves and the Dwarfsas well as the people themselves, who remade the White City into something transcended of her former glory.

“When my heart told me I would not see Minas Tirith as it was, I could not have hoped that it would be because it was restored to her former glory of the days of old,” smiled Boromir as he looked over the City from the window.

Aragorn looked over the City as well. Back then he wished he could have seen Minas Tirith through Boromir’s eyes, but his own eyes had found the wonders described to him by Boromir in his own ways.

He had seen the endurance and strength of men, not in the market places or on the lands and in the barracks, but in the tents where the houses were no more, among the nurses in the Houses of Healing and the ones tasked with clearing out the bodies.

He heard the love for their home as Boromir held it as they talked to him of their neighborhoods and needs. He saw it when they bowed their heads, before they rolled up their sleeves to work alongside him.

While he had not Boromir’s eyes to look at the City, he had his words to guide him to her beauty and see it for his own.

“Her beauty is truly unrivaled now,” Faramir agreed with his brother as he snapped Aragorn out of his musings. “Yet there is much to do still. The Lords of the Guilds have shown much understanding at the delay for Boromir’s return, but they will wish to meet you again soon, my King. I cannot give you more than today.”

Before today, Aragorn relished in his busy schedule that left little room for his mind to think, but with Boromir returned, he could not help but wish for a bit more time.

“I understand, Faramir,” Aragorn sighed. “Try to see if you can fit them in soon?”

“Of course, my King,” Faramir bowed and excused himself, as he left he patted Boromir on the shoulder, before Boromir hugged him. Faramir said: “Once the King is busy again, we will catch up more. I’ll leave you two now.”

When he had left, they sat there. For all Aragorn had wanted Boromir’s time and attention, now that he had it, he did not know what to do with it. In his mind, he was wrapped up in Boromir’s arms, head upon his chest to hear his heart beat steady. Yet he knew not if it was welcome and he floundered.

“It seems the skills of a Ranger served you well,” Boromir’s ability to remember details in conversation came up once more, as he recalled what had been said to him in Moria.

“Aye,” grinned Aragorn, “though some nobles do not know what to make of stillness that I have left of when I was observing prey and reading the signs. They think me unsettling.”

“They probably think you part Elven magician,” laughed Boromir, finding hilarity in Aragorn upsetting the stuffy nobles of his youth. “I hope Faramir keeps you from scaring them away completely.”

“He has been a great guide in the worlds of politics,” Aragorn said. “I hope you do not mind that he has taken your place in your absence. We knew not of your return back then.”

“I do not blame you at all, in fact I am quite happy with the decision,” Boromir replied. “He has always been much better at this part then I was, but back then we needed a Captain and that was my forte. I would wish for him to keep the position, if all are in agreement. I am not cut out for that work and I leave it in capable hands.”

“And what of I?” Aragorn asked, not wanting to know the answer, but also desperate to hear it. “Are my hands capable or was your declaration only the one of a dying man? You have not seen me as leader in battle, nor with your people or in negotiation. Would you make the same judgment now?”

“Aragorn,” Boromir took his hands and looked into his eyes intently, “I have never left my City in better hands.”

It was a confirmation, he hadn’t know he needed so much until he had gotten it. There was no one in this City he trusted to tell him how he was doing. So, having the one person he was trying to prove himself to, validate his work was liberating.

“Come here,” Boromir gesturedfor him to sit down next to him. “You do not have to be the King here unless you want to, Aragorn. Let us be a Ranger and a Solider, just for a moment.”

He did so gratefully, letting Boromir wrap him up in his strong arms and hide him from the world and his responsibilities for a while.

They sat in silence for many minutes, staring out of the window over the City. Aragorn was completely tucked into Boromir’s side, one leg over his and arms around his middle as Boromir leaned his head upon his.

“What will we do now?” Aragorn asked finally.

“About what, love?” asked Boromir in return.

“About us,” Aragorn clarified. “My heart has been heavy since our departure and I have not been able to let go of all I felt for you. I cannot express how much your return has lightened my spirit, but I cannot forget how I mourned you as a dead man.”

“There were many nights in Lothlórien where I too, did not know of your fate, but I always had the hope and belief you would make it,” Boromir replied. “I cannot begin to think of anyone ever taking the place you hold in my heart. We started as strangers before, Aragorn-love. I will not let time passed come between us after everything. If I have power to do so, I will do anything to get to know you again.”

“Let us start there then,” Aragorn smiled. “As strangers with a history and much love in our hearts. I too, will do anything in my power to keep you in my heart.”

“For that I am glad, though I hope that this time our strangers can involve more kissing then it did before. I missed you during our time apart.”

“Boromir the Bold is a well deserved name,” teased Aragorn as he leaned in, “but I will allow your transgression for speaking out of term against the King.”

The other leaned in as well and breathed on his lips: “Oh, so it is like that now? You’ve grown into your role too well, Lord Aragorn.”

He just hummed and awaited Boromir’s reply to that.

“Very well, my King.”

Aragorn had not the time to name him as future consort, thinking it too forwards until the moment had passed and his lips were already seized, taking all coherency from his mind.

Yet that did not matter, for they were not running to their doom and out of time. He had many years ahead of him to tell Boromir all he thought of him and wished for their future, for there now was a future they could work towards.

Like their lands, there was still much to heal and rebuild. Much that was old that was no more and much that was new yetto be discovered. And that was part of the journey they willingly went on, since it was the way to arrive at where they wished to go.

Not that any of that mattered to Aragorn now, with Boromir’s lips pressed against his own. He was far away from this Kingdom, only present in the bubble of him and Boromir, existing alongside each other.

Tomorrow they would see where this new road would lead them. Tomorrow they would start to heal and relearn what it meant to be them in this new context.

For now they were Aragorn and Boromir, who had met each other and were begrudging traveling companions. Back then they had just watched one another mesmerized yet confused by what they saw and felt.

Here they had so much more questions and a thousand extra answers.

Aragorn could not have known where the road from Rivendell hadtaken him, but it was a road he would gladly walk again if it meant it would end like this. Back then it had merely been hard not to like Boromir and now Aragorn was forever grateful for the moment he had first laid his eyes upon the Son of Gondor.

A/N:

Btw, I want y’all to know that this was my outline for this fic: confess lothlorien > fight anduin > thinks boro dead > in gondor see burdens for him that boro was carrying > more guilt > boro alive yay

I love Arwen, okay. I am a gay bitch and I watched her be badass on a horse at an impressionable age, okay. I love her. I could not find a way to integrate her into the story. I did not say that last time, but yeah. Sorry. She chilled in the undying land and had a great time. (maybe became a hot lesbian bc she deserved that, got a hot gf)

Also I am very emo for the idea that all the choices Aragorn made, in the end worked towards Boromir living. Boromir was such a symbol for how he failed Gondor and to have him succeed by making the right choices and getting Boromir back through them as well makes me very uwu

Btw, rip to Faramir for third wheeling their flirting lmao

Extra:

Ar: “I almost send you down the river in a boat as burial”

Bo: “I’m very glad u didn’t, bc that would have been awkward.”

But also the emotional impact of the guilt he felt for Boromir’s send off being taken from his shoulders because if he had done anything different, he would have been the one to kill Boromir, so he actually did the right thing where he thought he had made yet another mistake

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randombtsprincessa · 4 years

Text

Belladonna || 1

Author: Randombtsprincessa

Characters: Min Yoongi x Reader, Past Lovers! AU

Words: 3k

Genre: Heavy Angst, Smut

Rating: This chapter is General up to NC-17, rating might go up as story progresses.

Summary: Your life has finally settled into a routine; keeping you far away from your home, friends, family and the man who broke your heart. Coming back home means facing him again and maybe you’re not as over him as you’d like to believe.

Warnings: (in-chap) Heavy Angst, mentions of a toxic relationship.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The idol used as the Muse for the lead is not in anyway affiliated with the work. The characterisation is a work of mine. Any asks or accusations against the work on the grounds of inability to keep fact and fiction seperate on the part of the reader, will not be entertained.

A/N: Its’s rather sad that the disclaimer has to be added but eh, it’s a bad time for tumblr writing fandom and people are being very mean. Brush past that if you’re sane. Anyway, a very very huge hug to my best friends for screaming at me about this fic. A bunch of thanks to @softyoongiionly for hyping up the chapter! And a round of applause for @kithtaehyung for beta-ing the chappie!!

Happy Birthday Yoonfie baby!!

It was cold inside the cabin, the air conditioner turned extreme while the outer windows fogged with condensation. Your head leaned against the pane, the thudding and rolling of the train wheels under you jarring your brain in your skull as you watched the world outside flash speedily by.

Trees, small gravelly roads, sign boards, sparse traffic here and there…and then rolling grasslands before the pattern repeated itself…redundant, normal, and soothing.

You sighed, a puff of white exhale clouding around your mouth while your eyes drifted back to the interior of the cabin. This sight was a lot more different, with different people having different lives, problems, worries…

A woman tended to her sniffling child, holding a handkerchief up to the girl’s running nose…a man spoke into his phone; harried and rushed as he more likely than not slurred a few words together…

It was when your eyes caught a girl laying her head on the boy next to hers’ shoulder, smiling serenely when the boy ran a hand through her locks that you turned around again, eyes back to watching the redundant.

There was nothing soothing about people watching.

Or maybe there was and it required some form of inner peace to find the charm in it.

You didn’t have that sort of inner peace; neither did you have the patience for it.

People watching for people like you was anxiety inducing…and you really didn’t want that burden on your shoulders right now. There would be enough anxiety waiting for you when you set your foot home.

“____?”

You turned coffee worn, blue light sunken eyes towards your boss, standing over you with his files clutched to his chest nervously. The sight was enough to make you chuckle. For all his genius, Kim Namjoon was just a giant fumbling through life. It made him a stellar boss and manager, but it also made him a wonderful friend.

“Yes?”

“I just got your email for the leave application.”

You blinked up at your boss expectantly, face calm and relaxed. Of course, your brain had shot straight to overdrive, praying, wishing, and begging for a miracle that would allow your boss to refute the application.

A large red denied would do nothing to hamper your mood; at least it would stamp down the very intrusive tendril of panic that was already gripping around you.

You waited until Namjoon was done rustling inside of the folder in the crook of his arm. The white print out was placed in front of you, green letterings spelling ACCEPTED AND FORWARDED, scrawled on the top screaming obscenities at you.

You looked back at Namjoon.

“We don’t have a lot of work load right now plus you look dead on your feet. Some time away with your folks will be nice, won’t it?”

You very nearly grimaced at his words.

He was sincere, of course he was. Namjoon didn’t have a conniving bone in his body, but right now, you couldn’t help but resent his kindness, his mushy brain that railed against exploiting his workers. You hated the fact that he looked into your eyes and saw past the stubborn energy and caught onto the exhausted person underneath.

So you offered him a tiny smile, just in case the flicker of your crushing despair was made clear onto your traitor face.

“Thank you, Namjoon.”

He placed a heavy, tight hand on your shoulder as he passed by.

“Have a nice vacation, ____.”

Usually, someone who was away from home, working their ass off, making something of themselves away from their family should ideally jump at the chance to take a vacation, to go home and see the family and friends they had.

Ideally…one should be happy at the prospect of going home.

So many times, however, situations were rarely ideal. Sometimes there were complications, convolutions, obstacles…

Sometimes people had no love in their hearts; sometimes there was nothing at all.

Sometimes, there was dread.

Right then, in the rattling carriage that carried you to the small town which had spawned your existence, you could sense the dread carving a pit into your stomach, roiling and curling like a wretched cat kept too long from sunshine.

There was no relief for the upcoming long sleepy times, no joy at the prospect of home food…of warm embraces…

There was just that god awful dread.

You hoped you wouldn’t throw up; though there was nothing in your stomach to hurl but for the coffee you’d pumped in you from the station café. You couldn’t keep anything else down.

You had upped and left your home right after the end of your college life. Many things had come to an end with that particular period in your life. You had scampered and scrapped together enough courage to exit the hole that still robbed you of breath sometimes when you twisted and turned in your bed – sleepless.

You had left shattered pieces of your heart in your whirling escape of the town, the space that you had now the only light that shone at the end of the tunnel back then. Your family and friends, as supportive as they were, had never truly understood why you had nearly clawed away from that world.

To them, it had been the job opportunity.

And it was understandable…

The town, as well-knit and seemingly lovable as it was, was used to being self sufficient. The people there didn’t ever need to leave, they knew everything, helped everyone, and any problem one of them had was a problem for them all.

You couldn’t fit yourself in that mold anymore.

You had left – knowingly cut yourself away from that community.

Your friends had remained; some spreading out of course but they were still as much a part of that bunch as they had been when born.

You didn’t expect anything from them.

Not when he was also still a part of that community.

Your mind jerked away moments before conjuring his likeness behind your eyes, the ticket collector bearing down to save you from the torture of it.

Your fingers fumbled with the pockets of your bag, slipping the stub into his patient hands as he clipped and handed it back to you.

You accepted it meekly, folding into yourself again, eyes drifting back out the window and firmly tugging your thoughts away from your past. You had to prepare for what was going to come now.

Nobody expected you to come, you knew. It was a surprise to you yourself that you had found enough guts in you to pull this off.

Namjoon’s words came back to you.

Some time away with your folks will be nice, won’t it?

You weren’t going to hold out much hope for that.

You found a cab almost immediately out of the station, the many cruisers that stood to one side eager to free you of your luggage and take you off to your destination. You gave your address shakily, hoping this particular driver wasn’t one of the townspeople. Luckily, the man didn’t bat an eye, instead nodding and quietly switching on the radio for the drive over.

You leaned back into the seats, arms grasping the strap of your handbag tight as the moment to face your family and close ones drew closer.

Objectively, your little hometown was very pretty.

Trees lined the major roads, small clusters of buildings interjecting the greenery to spread business to the good people. And as tense as you were, your mind couldn’t help but pick out the differences.

Boutiques were newer and flashier, the diners you remembered now expanded to add cafes or banquets. The town hall was an imposing as ever, only a new marble fountain added to the square in front of it now.

By the time your cab entered the section of the suburbs where you had grown up; your back was straight, neatly aligned with the window. If you had been dreading the homecoming before, it was all gone; replaced with an odd form of resignation.

You lugged your bags out and paid the taxi driver with cold hands, winding bloodless fingers around the handles to pull them up the drive way towards your open door.

The house was full, open and bustling – a normal day for when your mother threw one of her success parties. She was one of the famous people in the town, her career as a landscaper and home decorator for big names making her in turn the man source of revenue and attraction for the town.

It had been both a source of pride and embarrassment to you in your teens. Mainly because your mother insisted on these parties each and every time one of her projects turned out well. But then, as you grew you realized that this is why your mother was important to the town.

She was more than half the money earned and the social events of the calendar.

Inside the house, small clusters of people gathered here and there, in the living room, the kitchen, the dining space. You stood at the door; feeling more exposed than you ever had here but moved in quickly, lest one of them notice you in the doorway and start blabbering about it.

Of course, the three big bags that you carried more than made up for it.

One of the groups of women nearest you turned their heads in synchrony, taking double looks as you passed by before the murmurs began.

How could you tell?

Well because, gossip usually lowers ones’ volume. And each group you passed stopped conversing before muttering arose in its place.

You cut across the living room to your father’s den. Here, there were all men, hands cupping your dad’s cut glasses of scotch but thankfully no one mentioned you dumping your bags right by the door and walking back out.

Your hands fiddled with your scarf, wondering where your family was in their own party but you were loathing asking one of the guests.

Even as you convinced yourself to walk over to one of the ladies by the window sofa, a figure walked past opposite you, a handful of trays of cocktail bites and glasses on them. You jumped, watching as the woman placed the trays on the coffee table, smiling at the people before she turned…and spotted you.

Your sister’s eyes widened, eyelashes fluttering before quick steps led her closer to you.

“____?” She asked, almost checking if it really was you.

You smiled wryly, hand still tangled with your scarf. “Hi Sana, yes it’s me.”

“Oh my god!” She threw herself at you, arms wrapping around your neck to draw you into a warm and nearly forgotten embrace. You stood in her hold for a few seconds, managing to pat her back before she was pulling away, eyes glistening at you.

“Oh god, don’t cry,” you whispered immediately.

“Shut up, these are happy tears; my little sister is home! Hang on; I’ll go get Mom and Dad.” She turned on her heel before you got another word out, mouth parted as she disappeared into the house.

You stood rooted to the spot, hoping against hope she brought your dad first. You just knew your mom would start bawling and then all the neighbors and her social circle would start hovering like the pack of vultures you had the low opinion of them as.

It was unfair and very rude of you, yes, but you couldn’t help but remember half the rumors and gossip that had come from none other than these same people when you had first left. Sympathy or well wishes from them now, would only make you more disgusted.

It had made you keep your own mother at a distance, seeing as she was probably the source of their information.

Thankfully, you knew you could always depend on your dad.

A no-nonsense and rational person, he was only guilty of being extremely in love with your mother. You knew he only bore these parties for her sake and of course your sister, Sana’s.

So when you saw Sana come back, with both your parents you still heaved a relived sigh.

“____, my god, you’re really here.” Your mother was the second to hug you, your father following.

“We didn’t think you would make it this year too.” Your dad said.

“Yeah, it’s been hectic…a lot…for the last couple years.” You repeated the same lies you’d been spouting for two years now. You had spoken the same lines into your phone, in your emails over months and it came much easier while speaking them to their faces.

“Very hectic for a well-established firm, ____, you could’ve asked for a leave, I’m sure office policy allows that.” Your dad said in that logical baritone that rendered most arguments moot.

“That is actually how I got away, Namjoon insisted.” You said; not completely untrue.

“Well, I for one am very happy my little girl is back to me. You’ll stay for a bit, won’t you?” Your mother stroked your hair back from your face.

You smiled tightly at her, thinking of the weeks Namjoon had generously piled on you out of respect for your relentless working for two years under him.

“Yes.”

You caught Sana try and push in, her eyes seeking yours even as your mother squealed in jubilation. “Perfect, we are going to have to throw you a coming home party.”

“Y/M/N,” Your father said lightly. “We are at a party now.”

“Yes, but ____ deserves her own night.” Sana put in before grabbing your hand. “Come on,” she dragged you away from your debating parents.

“Not a lot has changed I guess.” You spoke drily.

“Yeah, maybe, listen I think we need to –”

Sana was cut off by a gasp of your name, your head swiveling to see Park Jimin, one of your old friends gaping at you.

It was a whirlwind of reunions and emotions as people gathered around you, astonished that you’d come back without any mention of it.

“Yeah, I – I guess, it’s a surprise.” You scratched the back of your neck awkwardly, going over the faces of your childhood to college friends.

Many things had changed while you were gone, true – to the town, to the people and even to your friends but one thing you were glad to see…they hadn’t cut you away completely. Yes, your interaction with them had been reduced to the odd Facebook and Twitter chats and the occasional emails and texts here and there but they still looked…happy to see you.

Park Jimin and his twin, Jihyo had been the first ones to come to you, Jihyo hugging you tightly enough to make you wince. She had been your roommate in college; she probably knew you as well as Sana did – maybe even better. She had introduced you to Jimin and the three of you had been inseparable throughout your college life.

Jimin had apparently been friends with one of your childhood friends, Kim Taehyung.

You were not so shocked to know he was now married, living next door to you with his wife, Nayeon. Sweet and charming, she hugged you like her husband.

“It’s almost like I already know you,” she explained to your unsure smile, “they talk about you so much.”

“Ugh, I’m already worried.” You cringed.

“They were all nice things don’t worry. We had to put down a couple old gossips down here and there, though.” Jimin came to defend his friend.

You glanced at them curiously.

“Oh yeah, it was just old gossipy hags around the town, don’t worry about it. People moved on from you pretty soon to a Miss Mina. She’s a spinster, which apparently is a sin.” Taehyung rolled his eyes. “She lives a few houses from us.”

“Also, I think your mom told that friend of hers, Dahyun to stop people gossiping about you. They were task-forcing the town. It was fun to watch.” Jimin added.

A sudden wave of affection for your mother rose up in you, before being quelled by the reminder that she must have done it to protect her own image.

You shrugged then, picking up a glass from one of the trays to take a sip of your mother’s homemade cocktail – fruity and simple on your tongue.

“Enough about me, what about you all?” you pointed at Tae and Nayeon, “Married with a house,” your finger moved to Jimin, “Sports coach,” then Jihyo, “Choreographer,” you stopped.

“What about the others, any news?”

“Not really, we are the ones who still live here you know. Plus, no offense to your mom, but I doubt folks would leave their city jobs to come to her parties.” Jihyo muttered; exchanging a glance of solidarity with you before her eyes widened suddenly.

“What?” you asked.

Her eyes quickly went to her brother, Jimin’s eyes a little more slow on the uptake but they widened too…before repeating the process – albeit comically – with Taehyung.

“What is wrong with you all?” You asked again.

“Um, ____, did Sana tell you -?”

Jimin paused nervously, refusing to look at you as he fiddled with the rim of his glass.

“Tell me what?”

He looked helplessly at his sister. Jihyo hesitated before placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Listen, ____, while you were gone” -

She broke off, her eyes darting over your shoulder and stuttering to a stop.

In that moment of her silence, the conversation behind you was clearer.

Or rather, one particular voice was…

Low and deep – soft morning grumbles came back to you – muffled conversations from behind you made you turn around.

It was a voice you would know anywhere. It was one that haunted your dreams, one that crested the ache in your heart on particularly bad days…

It was one you would know beyond a void.

Min Yoongi stood directly across from you, in your home, undoing his coat and removing his scarf, conversing lowly with your sister.

Something she quickly muttered to him had him freezing, long nimble fingers stopping in the unknotting of his scarf.

And then as if he could feel your gaze, could feel your presence, the reason why you left everything behind looked straight up at you, eyes locking across a room…just like the day you had first seen him.

#ficswithluv #bangtansorciere #thebtswritersclub #btswritingcafe #yoongi fanfic #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts angst #yoongi #bts #bts suga #suga #min yoongi #yoongi x reader #bangtan

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dontmindmyshadowhunting · 3 years

Text

Dru meets Ash (Fan Fic)

This is Chap 6 of “Welcome to Faerieland”, a sequel to my Kitty Fan Fic "To never being parted" although it can be read as a standalone story.

Dru meets Ash (again, although she doesn’t know they have already met) in this Chapter.

AO3 Link here.

*****

Jaime and Dru landed a little away from a clearing where a revel was being held. Jaime hastily slipped the Eternidad back into his pocket. He would give it back to Cristina eventually, but in the meantime, he knew she had no trouble being escorted in and out of the Unseelie Court whenever she wanted to. Perks of being the King’s girlfriend.

Jaime and Dru had both dressed in faerie clothes, in order to blend in. Dru was wearing a long azur blue dress that brought out the color of her eyes. It fell just above her ankles, revealing high-heeled boots (conveniently hiding a few daggers). An upturned collar and long sleeves covered the marks on her neck and arms, though the low-cut neckline would inescapably draw anyone’s attention to her cleavage. Her dark brown hair was efficiently pulled into an elegant bun. Where Jaime and Dru’s skin showed, both had covered their marks with concealer.

As they walked toward the revel, and the music grew louder, Dru turned to Jaime. “I have to go find a friend of Nene’s. She may help us locate Ty and Kit. It’s better if I go alone, she knows the Blackthorns very well but she’s a bit wary around other Shadowhunters. Don’t stay too far, though. And of course, I don’t need to tell you not to drink or eat anything.”

“No, you don’t,” Jaime answered a little harshly. Blackthorns knew a great deal about the Fair Folk, but so did the Rosales, he wanted to remind her.

When they had finally joined the party, Dru waved at a faerie woman with blue hair and purple eyes who was standing next to a tent, in deep conversation with a kelpie, and left Jaime to stand awkwardly at the edge of the forest.

He had not been there five minutes when a fey swooped in to offer some refreshments.

“No, thanks,” he replied immediately, lifting one of his hands reflexively to prevent the fey from coming any closer.

“Are you certain? Mundanes are particularly fond of this one,” he said, pointing to a blue drink, “it makes you look younger. Not that you need it, of course.”

“Huh. Is there a drink that makes you grow like two years older, without altering your appearance?” The faerie stared at him aghast. Jaime couldn’t blame him. “Never mind, very stupid question,” Jaime mumbled.

Dru appeared then, her eyes glowing in excitement. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the forest.

“So... any information on where we could find your brother and Kit?”

“Have you ever been to a revel before?” She replied, ignoring his question.

“Hum. No, but Cristina told me a bit about them…”

“Come over here,” she said as she drew him further into the forest. She stopped in front of a tree, put both her hands on his chest and pushed him against the trunk. His back hit the wood with a loud thump but it was mostly drowned by the sound of his heart beating in his chest.

Her gaze was intense, dark eyelashes batting seductively over her blue-green eyes. Jaime swallowed.

“Er- Dru, what are you doing? Aren’t we supposed to go hunting for Ty and Kit?”

“Relaaax. What happens in Faerie stays in Faerie, doesn’t it?”

She bit her lower lip and he gasped.

“God, Dru, those lips…” Jaime choked. His thoughts were becoming more and more incoherent.

“Can I… kiss you?” she asked.

“God, yes. Please.” Jaime slumped against the tree trunk, feeling all the tension leave his body at once.

Dru closed her eyes and he did the same. As she pressed her full lips against his, he could feel blood burning through his veins like wildfire. Yes, yes, finally. He could be struck by lightning - he probably would - he didn’t care. He would die a happy man.

She bit his lower lip and he could taste his own blood, but he didn’t mind. Feisty little Dru. He brought his hands on either side of her face to cup her cheeks, but instead of soft skin he felt a very light... stubble. He pulled away immediately and found himself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes, the colour of a summer sky. Kit Herondale was smiling at him, his grin as mischievous as ever but somehow it looked wrong. All wrong.

“What does your heart truly desire, little Shadowhunter?” he said, cocking his head, and it was not his voice, but a woman’s voice.

From one moment to another, Kit’s blond hair and blue eyes were replaced by a faerie woman with gray fine hair drifting around a pale face, her skin smooth and ageless. He was staring at a leanansidhe. He cursed himself. What a fool he had been.

He stepped back, feeling sick, and hit something hard behind him. He was about to turn when he was dealt with a blow on the head. His sight blurred and he barely had the time to blink before he fell into unconsciousness.

****

As she was talking to Nene’s friend, Dru saw Jaime disappear into the forest with a faerie. What the hell was he thinking? They weren’t here to have fun.

She thanked her contact, who unfortunately didn’t have any information, and moved to where Jaime had vanished inside the forest.

The tree trunks were spaced, but their branches leafy and close enough that it was difficult to see beyond a few feet. She cursed Jaime silently as she got deeper inside the woods, the sounds of the revel now receding and being replaced by the sounds of nocturnal animals and insects. She thought about all the horror movies that warned you from doing just that.

If it wasn’t for her years of Shadowhunter training she wouldn’t have heard the soft footfalls behind her. She stepped further into the forest until she was at an advantageous position for a fight and whirled to face her stalker. It was a very tall faerie knight dressed in elegant velvety clothes. Probably gentry and part of the King’s guard. He smiled at her and she kept herself from shivering from the coldness of his grin.

“What are you doing here all alone, little girl?”

He probably thought she was a helpless mundane with the Sight. Admittedly, she didn’t look like the Shadowhunter women type, with her curvy figure.

“Minding my own business. As you should.”

“Do you know there are dangerous creatures lurking in these woods?”

“I definitely do. And let me tell you a secret…” She cupped her hand around her mouth and spoke in a stage whisper. “I am the scariest one of them.”

The faerie knight laughed.

“I am Ruadhan Fairburn. I used to be one of the best knights of King Kieran’s guard, and I have met him personally once. I am also acquainted with Gwyn ap Nudd, of the Wild Hunt. You certainly don’t frighten me.”

Oh, no. He did have a reputation as one of the realm’s best fighters, before King Kieran had suggested he retire, probably due to his attitude.

She mimed checking her watch (although she wasn’t wearing any). “Oooh, so it’s already time for a bit of name-dropping? Sorry, none of these ring a bell.”

No need to tell him she had seen Gwyn cry in front of Love actually a week before, on Friday’s movie night, and that she affectionately called King Kieran Kiki.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. When I am done with you, my name will be printed in your memory.”

“Hmmm. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll pass.” She started running her hand through her hair casually, intending to pull out her hair stick made with adamas. It was a gift from Jem who had it made by Sister Emilia.

The faerie’s expression turned furious. “I am not really giving you a choice,” he said in a clipped tone.

An audible sigh had them both whip their head toward the general direction of the sound.

A few feet away, up a large tree, a boy - or rather a young man judging by his frame and the length of his long limbs - was lounging on the thickest branch. He was reading, holding his book high, so Dru could not see his face, only white blond hair tucked behind pointy ears. He was dressed in stunning finery, all black, his collar turned up. He was wearing dark silk gloves and his long fingers were splayed across the cover of his book. He was most certainly part of the gentry, or even royal blood, Dru thought.

“You heard the lady,” he said in a bored voice, and Dru could not help but startle at the sound. It was a beautiful, lyrical voice. “She is not interested. Now, move along. Go hump a tree or something.”

“Excuse me?” the faerie knight spluttered, his delicate features set in a mask of shock. “Do you know who I am?”

“I don’t know who you are, but I know what you are, and that’s enough to convince me not to develop our budding relationship any further,” he answered, turning a page.

The knight started to advance on him, but the blond faerie didn’t even lift his nose from his book. With a flick of his hand, he had the faerie knight hauled away like a puppet, as if a giant invisible hand had grabbed him from behind.

“Don’t move any closer. What did I just say about me not wanting to develop our relationship further? Have you never been taught how to take no for an answer?”

The faerie knight was seething but he backed away, walking in reverse, before he whirled and disappeared inside the deep forest.

“Thanks, I guess.” Dru said, relaxing her stance. “Although we could have avoided the drama. I had the situation quite in hand before you intervened. I could have knocked him out before he had the chance to spell out the word asshole.”

The faerie laughed, and it was a beautiful chime sound.

“Ladies shouldn't have to dirty their hands,” he said, as if she had not just uttered the word “asshole”, disqualifying her as such.

“What century do you live in?” she asked, shaking her head. “Anyway, I am a Shadowhunter, dirtying my hands is part of the job description.”

She saw his whole body suddenly tense. Slowly, he brought the book down, just enough to reveal a pair of green eyes under delicate blond eyebrows. As soon as he caught sight of her, his eyes widened in surprise and he let the book fall on the ground, the resulting thump muffled by the grass.

In a single swift and elegant motion, he had jumped from his tree and was standing a few feet away, facing her.

Up close, she could see his eyes were a clear emerald green. It made her think of grass fields glowing under the spring sun. His features were sharp and ethereal, his white blond hair tousled as if they had caught wind. Physically, he was the opposite of Jaime, all pale white and thin silvery curls where Jaime had brown golden skin and dark thick hair. They both had a lean figure and a debonair manner, but where Jaime was almost gangly, the faerie was all graceful moves and regal stance.

He is absolutely gorgeous, Dru admitted reluctantly. And he was watching her as if he knew all the secrets of her heart, as if he had always known her and was merely returning to her after leaving for a short while.

Although she was almost certain she had never met him, something about him struck her as oddly familiar. She was idly wondering whether her mind had conjured up one of the princes of her books. Maybe, he was the product of her own fantasy and he would disappear from one blink to another… But no, she had not been the only one to see him. Get a grip, she told herself.

“It’s you,” he breathed.

Dru tried to regain her composure. She straightened up as she answered. “It’s definitely me.” She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

“Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night,” he whispered in a daze.

By the Angel, his voice. Everything about him ensnared your senses, enticed you to love and worship him. But Dru knew better than to let herself be fooled by men’s - especially faerie men’s - spells and enchantments.

She swallowed and answered in her most detached voice. “Shakespeare. Romeo meets Juliet. Act I Scene 5. Already bringing out the heavy artillery, I see. Do you always quote other people’s work to make yourself interesting? Or do you actually have a personality?”

The strange prince was taken aback for a second. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. He was breathtaking when he smiled.

“Oush,” he replied, miming a sword stabbing through his chest. “That went straight through my heart.”

“This line may work its spell on the naive and gullible girls you usually manage to sweep off their feet, but it definitely doesn’t work on me.” Dru sniffed.

The fey cocked his head, as if he was inspecting a strange wild animal.

“You assume that I am trying to seduce you?”

She rolled her eyes and whirled, avoiding to stare at him for too long. He was quite intimidating. And she needed to find Jaime.

“Don’t be a jerk, in addition to being a cliché,” she said without a backward glance, as she walked away. She could hear the sound of his laugh behind her, echoing in the forest like ringing bells.

****

Tagging @gabtapia sorry I’ve been so busy lately but I am definitely back now with more chapters.

#cassandraclare #cassandra clare fan fiction #the wicked powers #the dark artifices #jaime rosales #drusilla blackthorn #ash morgenstern #ash and dru #dru and ash #ash x dru #dru x ash #tda fanfiction #tsc fanfiction #the shadowhunters chronicles icons #the shadowhunter chronicles

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katehuntington · 4 years

Text

Title: Ride With Me (part twenty one) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±5850 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family. Summary part twenty one: It’s Dean’s turn to make an entrance in the main arena. The rides lead to an interesting business proposal by a new client, but brings a lot of doubt too. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: Watching From A Distance - David Ramirez (opening scene) Follow ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Prepare for cuteness and a bit of angst! Thank you @atc74, @manawhaat and @winchest09 for helping me. Also a special thanks to @jules-1999, who has offered me her knowledge about rodeo events like these, and @squirrelnotsam, who knows Arizona like the back of her hand.

Ride With Me Masterlist

Saturday morning has started early for the crew of the Gold Canyon Ranch. Before the crack of dawn Benny has mucked out the stables and fed the horses, making sure they had time to digest their pellets before the show starts. Together with Jo, Y/N has hand-walked the animals who are competing today, letting them stretch their legs and graze a bit. She took extra time for Meadow, who always seems to need a moment to adjust to new surroundings. The mare was fresh today, the brisk air only fueling her feisty temper. Her owner couldn’t help but snigger when she lifted her tail and started jogging next to her instead of just strolling along, showing off to anyone who would look at her.

It’s 8 AM when Dean puts his foot in the stirrup of the saddle, swinging his right leg over the back of the Bon Jovi, the light catching the fringe of his chaps. He pulls his hat a little tighter on his head once he’s seated, while the well-behaved stallion waits patiently for his rider to give him an aid, which he does, after adjusting the length of his reins.

With the sun only just peeking from behind the horizon, rays break through the leaves of the trees next to the warmup area, adding to the still peaceful surroundings. The commentator isn’t blaring through the speakers yet, the ring isn’t full of other riders trying to find a spot to train without running into each other. It’s the calm before the storm, a bit of peace and quiet both horse and human appreciate. No distractions, no sensory overload for the inexperienced stallion. It’s the perfect way to introduce him to the element of competition.

Y/N has just finished filling up the water buckets in the stables and rests her arms on the fence of the small arena. She watches Dean slowly start up the beautiful palomino, its coat seemingly made from gold in the morning light. Her boyfriend is wearing clean dark jeans and a navy button up, a black Stetson to match his show outfit. Never will she get tired of watching that man ride, but dressed like he is now, she can’t take her eyes off him. Y/N sighs deeply, swooning at the sight. She really did land the most handsome cowboy in Arizona, didn’t she?

The head wrangler seems composed as ever, not breaking a sweat over having to ride into the ring in thirty minutes, something that she admires and envies all at the same time. She wishes she could feel relaxed right before a test, instead of being the nervous wreck that she usually is. Meadow will not make her entry until later this evening and already Y/N dodged breakfast, well aware that she won’t be able to swallow a bite, stage fright blocking her throat. Just thinking about the premiere of her freestyle makes it slightly harder to breathe, but Dean takes that away when he rides past, breaking his concentration for a second and shooting her a wink and a soft smile. She chuckles as they keep a hold of each other’s gaze for a few seconds as his horse walks by. God, she wishes she has his confidence.

Other competitors join Dean and Bon Jovi in the warm up area, but the stallion only murmurs at a mare once, its rider gently yet strictly reminding him to keep his head in the game. Before they know it, the same voice that did the commentary on last night’s barrel race competition sounds from the amplifiers.

“Good mornin’, folks! It’s another beautiful day here at the Flagstaff Horsefair. We’re getting ready for the first class of the day, the Standlee Forage Reining Competition for four year olds. Highest overall score wins five bags of high quality horse food.”

The commentator continues to promote the sponsors of the event, Dean giving his horse a little scratch on the shoulder when he tenses slightly as the loud voice sounds from the speakers. Aware that it will soon be their turn, the rider allows himself to enjoy the atmosphere as he casts his gaze over the other competitors. He isn’t too worried about the fixture, confident in his own skills and those of his horse.

“Dean Winchester, two minutes!” A steward announces, looking down at his clipboard to double check the line up. The cowboy nods in acknowledgement, directing his gaze to Y/N as he waits for her to catch up. He watches as she puts down the grooming bag next to her on the sandy arena footing, attending to the bell boots that Bon Jovi is still wearing. She unbuckles the leather clasps, putting the leg protection away. “Would you like some water?” she offers. He shakes his head, casually, taking in the arena. “Nah, I’m good.”

Y/N looks up at him, trying to read what he is feeling. To her, it is strange how he doesn’t seem nervous. He’s relaxed, collected; reminding her of the still waters at Canyon Lake, where they swam together for the first time on the trail that changed everything. It is as if he can’t register the pressure that should be resting on his shoulders. Maybe he truly believed he is that good. “Break a leg,” she speaks, fondly. “Don’t wish that upon me, Yankee,” Dean chuckles. “Kinda need them to do my job.” She laughs and pats him lovingly on his denim clad thigh. “I don’t know how you can be so calm.” “Well, I have my good luck charm with me.” He lays his hand over hers, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “C’mere.” She steps closer to Bon Jovi, tiptoeing to reach up while Dean leans over to level with her. His lips brush over hers softly, his nose nuzzling hers in a sweet gesture. She smiles into the gentle kiss. “Go get’em, cowboy.”

The wrangler straightens himself in the saddle, while his girlfriend picks up the groom bag and steps back. He guides his horse into the tunnel under the bleachers towards the arena, concentrating on the gates in front of him, waiting for them to open. The reigns feel smooth between his fingers as he drowns out the noise around him. With his free hand, he encouragingly strokes the side of Bon Jovi’s neck, his pearly white manes contrasting beautifully against his flaxen coat. He has grown accustomed to these kinds of events, his nerves not bothering him anymore. He finds solace in his work, seeing it more as fun than as a chore. He enjoys the challenge the youngsters bring him, from the initial moment of putting on a halter, to getting in a saddle, to showing them all for the very first time. In less than a year, the horses go through such growth, and it’s always a pleasure to be a part of their journey.

“First competitor of the day is Dean Winchester, riding Bon Jovi, a stallion by Renegade. This horse is bred by Victor Hendriksen and owned by the Gold Canyon Ranch in Phoenix, Arizona.”

Y/N watches as the palomino calmly comes through the gate, not batting an eye at his new and impressive surroundings. Submissive and willing, the stallion responds to his rider’s aids when he’s asked to halt. To witness how trustful each and every horse is with the trainer, surfaces some kind of gratification inside of her. The way Dean schools the animals isn’t based on authority or rank, but much more about collaboration and respect. It’s something she admires about him from the get go.

Dean leads Bon Jovi through a precise pattern of figures, spins and stops. Reining is all about the athletic abilities of the horse, and the rider controlling every movement. The horse demonstrates attitude and willingness, while the signals given by the rider are nearly imperceptible. The run is evaluated by a panel of three judges, who mark each pattern individually. In this youngster class, speed isn’t key yet, but correctness is. Every stride must look effortless and relaxed, as if the animal and rider have become one. That’s exactly what is on display in the arena right now.

With a smile of adoration across her face, Y/N leans her forearms on the steel fence, watching the head wrangler. A small crowd that got up at the crack of dawn have occupied the first rows on the bleachers and by the fence, encouraging shouts and whistles rallying the first competitor on. The young horse is so fixed on his rider, that he doesn’t even pick up on the sounds. Bon Jovi isn’t fast in the spins yet, but that’s okay, because his footwork is close to perfect. After three well executed sliding stops, Dean gives the palomino the signal to back up, his spur not even touching the horse’s flank. Submissively, he reverses until his rider drops the reins and rewards the stallion, who blows out a purr through his nose, looking up at the stands curiously when they applaud the performance, much like the commentator.

“Well, if that ain’t setting the bar, I don’t know what is. What a solid ride from Dean Winchester and Bon Jovi!”

While Dean exits the arena, he searches the people along the fence and on the bleachers. He’s looking for Bobby, who he finds on the sidelines. His uncle holds his gaze and gives the head wrangler a nod, telling him so much without using actual words. They haven’t spoken about the elephant in the room yet, today’s pace being far too high to squeeze in the awkward conversation, and so both men have decided for themselves to let it rest. Besides, they might have sold a number of horses yesterday, that doesn’t mean they can lean back now.

The cowboy leads his horse back to the warm up ring, meeting his girlfriend half way. “Good run!” she compliments, taking Bon Jovi’s reins after Dean swings his right leg over the saddle and dismounts. She shoves the water bottle in his hand this time, knowing if she had asked, he would have declined anyway. “I had a little wobble in the second roll back, but yeah, the rest was good.” He twists off the cap and takes a swig, thirstier than he likes to admit.

Since Dean is competing two separate horses in the same class, he’s both first and last to enter the main arena. It’s going to be a race against the clock, and he looks around the warm-up area in search for his next four-legged dance partner. “Where’s Jo? Ringo is up in thirty minutes.” “Better get off your high horse, Mister, otherwise this is the last time I’ll tack up for you,” his cousin replies snappily, appearing from behind with a bay gelding named Ringo Starr in tow. Dean is about to counter her, but he bites his tongue, knowing she’s not kidding and will never do him a favor again if he gives her attitude. And so he mutters a ‘thanks’ under his breath when he takes the Quarterhorse from her.

As swiftly as he got down from Bon Jovi, he now mounts Ringo, the next four year old for him to compete. As he does so, his score is announced over the speakers, but he can’t quite make out the numbers. When he glances at the scoreboard, he’s pleasantly surprised. “218.5 points!” Y/N cries out, delighted. “That’s fantastic!” With a content smirk adorning his features, Dean nods satisfied; that is indeed a good score. Good enough to put Bon Jovi on the podium. Good enough to ask a high price when the buyers come calling. He doesn’t have time to settle on a high cloud, though; he needs to ready Ringo for his run.

Y/N hoists the groombag on her shoulder and takes the kind palomino stallion to exit the warm-up arena. This is her job after all, she might be dating her supervisor, she’s still the intern. They made a deal when she arrived at the ranch that Dean would not treat her differently, so she intends to do the work she’s come here to do. Jo, however, seems to have a different idea, and nudges her. “I’ll take Jovi. You go cheer on your John Wayne.” The blonde cowgirl winks at her friend, taking over the load.

She chuckles, handing the petite blonde the horse. Grateful to be able to see more of Dean’s horsemanship in action, she finds a spot by the fence. The sun steadily rises, casting out what was left of the night’s coolness, the light radiating down on her much warmer and brighter. Wishing she had brought a hat, the cowgirl takes off her jacket and puts it away in the groombag. She watches her boyfriend warm up Ringo, who seems a little bit more nervous, now that the ring is more crowded. His rider does a good job reassuring the young animal, though, giving the bay gelding some light exercises to keep his mind of the commotion around him, rewarding the Quarter every time he shows a sign of relaxation.

“Beautiful day to be buying horses, isn’t it, darling?” Y/N startles at the sudden gruff voice, snapping her head to where the sound came from. The supposedly kind words to start conversation are pronounced with a English accent, by a stranger dressed in black. The rather short man who she guesses would be somewhere in his fifties leans on the steel rail, his fingers laced together while he watches riders in the arena.

“Y - yeah, I suppose so,” Y/N stammers, unsure how to respond. “My apologies, where are my manners.” The man turns to her and offers his hand. “The name is Fergus. Fergus MacLeod.” The cowgirl frowns at his introduction. She has heard of him, but has never met the owner of the MacLeod Studfarms in person. “Y/N Y/L/N,” she returns, slightly hesitant. “Oh, I know who you are. I’m an admirer of your work. You’re quite the talent,” the Englishman admits. “That run at the State Championships was spectacular.”

Slightly creeped out, but not trusting her instincts entirely, she stays quiet for a moment. This is a man of great influence in the business, so she does want to hear what he has to say. “You saw me ride?” she replies. He nods, an amused smirk resting on his thin lips. “I did indeed, love. Talking about talent, that horse is something else as well. Meadowsweet, is her name, isn’t it?” “Yeah...” Y/N returns, somewhat suspicious. “Tell me; are you the owner of that lovely mare? Or are there parents and sponsors involved?”

Her stance becomes a bit more defensive, not just because of the rapid questions that are fired at her, no matter how charming this gentleman is trying to be. No, it’s his assumption that she’s too young to own such a horse that gets to her. “I am the owner, as a matter of fact,” she states, a new found strength in her voice. “Good to know I am talking to the proper person then.” Her company chuckles, apparently pleased by her feisty counter. “Because I have a proposition for you.” Before he can make her an offer, Y/N intervenes. “Meadow isn’t changing owners, if that’s where you’re headed, Mr. MacLeod.” Fergus takes her in, narrowing his eyes slightly, but the pleased little smile remains. “I can make it worth your while.” “I believe you can, but no matter your offer; she’s not for sale,” the cowgirl makes herself clear, a sternness in her voice that should tone the horse trader down. It doesn’t. Instead he chuckles dryly and takes a little booklet out of the inner pocket of his black coat; it’s a cheque book. Not taking no for an answer, he pulls out a pen and writes down his signature. “Everything is for sale, love. All one has to do is pay the right price,” he says, wisely.

Fergus MacLeod rips off the sheet of paper, handing her the cheque. Not wanting to be downright rude, she takes it, staring at the empty line; it’s blank. “You may write down whatever number you seem fit. It’s up to you,” the Brit elaborates. “Now that I’ve got your attention, would you happen to know where I can find Bobby Singer? I would like to have a little chat with my old friend.” “He’s by the main arena.” She points in the direction of the entrance. “Wonderful,” he quips. “It was a pleasure meeting you, darling.”

A shiver runs down her spine as MacLeod walks away to find her boss. She’s highly aware that he is a very influential and important person in the industry, but he has got some nerve. Y/N might look like an innocent and timid girl, but there is no way in hell that she would ever give up Meadow, no matter how large the figure.

She stares at the cheque, crumbling it in her hand before she stuffs it in her pocket, angrily. She has never met someone as brazen as Fergus Macleod at a show before, and she has been to enough to know. But she doesn’t want to waste time and think about the confrontation now. The cowgirl would much rather focus on her wrangler boyfriend who is wowing the judges.

Dean’s run with Ringo Starr is another great one, and with him being the last contestant of the class, the rankings are decided the moment the score comes in. With 215.5 points, he secures the third place, behind another rider and Bon Jovi, who has held on to the lead. An impressive result, one that he knows his uncle is going to be very pleased with.

When the Dean exits the arena, he is met by his girlfriend, who is smiling widely. “You nailed it!” she chirps with enthusiasm. “They did good,” Dean says, rustling Ringo’s black mane, more than satisfied with the performance of both young horses, but not taking the compliment upon himself.

The cowboy gets down from the saddle, noticing that the gelding is tired from all the first impressions and new sensories that come with the first show. Ringo’s coat is damp, a shade darker because of the perspiration; he gave it his all. Intending to hand-walk the horse back to the stables to shower the animal and give him his hay, he strolls to exit the warm-up area, but Bobby stops him. “Dean?” his uncle calls out, beckoning him to come over. Y/N glances up, following Mr. Singer’s voice. Noticing that Fergus MacLeod has found who he claims to be his ‘old friend’, her face falls slightly. She wonders what the Englishman would want, and why Dean has been invited into the conversation. Questionly, she looks back at her boyfriend and takes over Ringo from him, reckoning she should leave since it’s none of her business what will be discussed, but the man in black has different ideas. “Y/N, do join us, and bring the horse as well, love.” The hair on the back of Dean’s neck rises; what did he just call her? Unable to prevent his jaw from clenching, he steps towards the two ranch owners, trying to keep his cool. Who the hell is this dickhead? “That’s Fergus MacLeod,” Y/N whispers, as if she just read his mind. “He’s the founder of some of the largest stud farms in the country and even has stables in Europe. Owns at least two dozen licenced stallions.” The wrangler nods in acknowledgement. Great, some snobby bigshot. Very much aware that this new face might have something to offer Bobby, he keeps his mouth shut.

“Ah, the one and only Dean Winchester,” Fergus’ grins mischievously. “Nice work there in the ring. Your uncle here told me it’s the first time those two horses are competing.” “That’s right,” the cowboy confirms. “Macleod is the name. Pleasure to meet ya.” The Brit extends his hand, which Dean shakes a little firmer than normal. He’s not even sure what he’s trying to accomplish with the display of his own physical strength.

“Fergus here is interested in buying the four year olds,” Bobby explains, apparently noticing his head wrangler’s suppressed hostility, shooting it down with a piercing stare, warningly. Dean’s demeanor changes instantly as he raises his eyebrows. If this horse trader is going to bring the big bucks, he knows he needs to keep himself in check for the sake of the ranch. “Mind if I have a peek?” Macleod asks, gesturing at the horse. “Go ahead.” Dean steps back, making room for him to inspect the horse.

Fergus circles the horse, taking the bay gelding in from several angles. He feels the hindlegs for any swelling or abnormalities and does the same with the front legs, after Y/N has removed the bandages Ringo wore in the ring to prevent any injuries. The horse trader then proceeds to look Ringo in the face and check his teeth. After a satisfied nod the man turns around, straightens his impeccable suit. He then takes a tissue from his breast pocket and wipes his hands. “It’s a fine looking animal you’ve got here, Singer,” he compliments. “You may take the horse away, my dear.” Even though she isn’t fond of the degrading way he is talking to her, Y/N obliges. Taking care of the horses when she’s not riding herself is her job after all. “Oh, and Miss Y/L/N…” She halts the horse next to her and turns around. The Englishman has his hands in his pocket now, twinkling hazel-colored eyes looking her up and down. “Bobby here tells me that you’re a well-educated woman. A master degree in Business & Economics? Impressive. Someone as smart as yourself has to acknowledge that it’s a good deal. I assume you will consider my offer on your horse,” he pauses, more intrigued with every detail he learns about the woman before him. “I would like to point out there’s room for six figures on that cheque. What numbers to fill in, is your choice.”

Dean wants to snap his head at his girlfriend, but keeps his posture. Did this man just offer her several hundred thousand dollars for Meadow? Eyes wide in astonishment, he exchanges a look with his uncle, both trying to keep a straight face. “She’s not for sale,” Y/N makes clear one more time, pronouncing the words slow to prove a point. Amused with her stubbornness, the corner of MacLeod’s mouth twitches upward. Cocky, he holds her gaze, but eventually yields. “Very well, then. Let me know if you change your mind. The offer stands.”

Without responding to Fergus’ tenacious reply, she turns away, nudging Ringo to follow her. The three men watch her leave, Dean knows her well enough to be able to tell that MacLeod has her blood boiling. He’s not surprised Y/N didn’t think twice about shooting the bid down. Meadow means the world to her, more than any amount of money could ever buy. But holy shit. Six figures! Realisation hits him; it would be enough money to save the Ranch.

The Brit who made the generous offer pulls him from his thoughts. “Alright, lads. Let’s talk business, shall we?” The three walk away from the few people that are lining around the warm-up area. A little further down, on a crossing of two paths, they stop. The little square is still quiet at this hour. Safe from lurking eyes and eavesdropping ears, they gather around one high table near a drink stand. Even though it’s a non-serve area, the influential man calls the bartender to take their order. The young guy comes back with a coke for the rider - who still has a run later this afternoon - and two bourbons. Dean didn’t even know they served whiskey at this event, let alone this early.

MacLeod cuts right to the chase. “I will offer you thirty grand for the four year old Quarters, and I will take them off your hands right away.” Dean doesn’t flinch, being in these kinds of conversations before. He can maintain his poker face, no matter how amble the offer. It is a negotiation after all. The owner of the two horses thinks about it for a second, but then comes with a counter. “Forty.” “C’mon, Bobby. Is that how you treat an old friend?” Fergus clicks his tongue, shaking his head slightly after which he takes a sip from his drink. “Now, I know times are tough and that you’re experiencing difficulty staying afloat, but do realize I am already doing you a favor here. Thirty thousand dollars is more than fair.”

The head wrangler is taken aback by the Englishman’s comment. How would he know the ranch is struggling? Did people in their close circle spill the beans? Apparently MacLeod spots the unpleasant surprise on the faces of the men opposite of him, because he comments on it without missing a beat. “It’s a small world, lads. People talk. You should know that by now, Singer.” Bobby moves past the comment rather quickly and ponders about the sum. Fergus isn’t wrong; it’s not just a decent offer. It’s a generous one, one he isn’t going to decline. The Englishman across the table knows it too; the owner of the Gold Canyon Ranch is desperate for money. “Cash,” he demands, accepting the original offer. The dark haired man strokes his neatly trimmed beard. “I can arrange that.”

The head wrangler might not like the horse trader, but he did just make this weekend ten times better. He gulps down the last of his coke, crumpling the can before he dunks it in the trash on the side of the crossroads. The cowboy figures the deal will be sealed with a handshake before they go separate ways, but MacLeod has a second matter to settle. “I have another proposition for you.” Having their attention, the middle aged Brit observes their reaction, his eyes full of mischief. The two members of the ranch near Phoenix share a look. “We’re listening.” Bobby says.

Fergus swirls his whiskey, studying the amber liquid in his glass. “I own a stallion,” he starts off, putting the drink to his mouth in the short pause. “I bought him at the Derby Quarterhorse Auction for over a million dollars. He’s licensed, one of the best pedigrees I’ve ever seen, not to mention his conformation and movements. He already covered four hundred mares this year. I expect great things from this horse, he is supposed to bring in the money. There is one slight issue, however.” Dean listens, intently, wondering where he is going with this. “And what would that be?”

“The horse has some… behavioral issues,” the stud farm owner claims, careful in his choice of words. “It has quite the temperament, one his former trainers haven’t been able to use in their advantage, my advantage.” ��Slowly the head wrangler begins to realize why the price MacLeod is willing to pay for the two Quarters is so steep; he is playing a game of give and take. The way the owner of this stallion is talking about money and business, calling the animal ‘it’, doesn’t sit well with him either. Where is the horse’s well-being in all of this?

“What’s his name?” Dean likes to know. Fergus frowns at that, clearly not understanding why it would matter, but he answers anyway. “You might have heard of this horse; his name is Cain.” Dean has heard of the horse. The whopping 1.2 million that was paid for the talented Quarter made headlines in the industry.

“What are these behavioral issues?” he needs to know, not taking the bait just yet. “Typical stallion behavior; dominance is the main problem. The horse has character, what can I say?” MacLeod laughs it off. “Anyway, I am looking for a capable horseman. Someone who can actually break him in.” The owner of the horse in question shifts his penetrating gaze from Bobby to Dean. The cowboy realizes they are at a verge of a possibly very important business deal, but he cannot stop himself from commenting on the peculiar choice of words. “I don’t ‘break in’ horses. I teach them to trust and to cooperate,” he states firmly. “Potato, potahto,” Fergus dismisses. “Are you up for the job, or not?”

Dean exchanges a glance with his uncle, a silent conversation happening between them, only possible by years and years of working together. When Bobby rights himself, he has a crucial question. “What’s in it for us?” Again that small smile on the Englishman’s face; he knows he’s close to persuading them.

“A thousand dollars each month, paid in advance, and a fifty grand bonus when Cain successfully completes the stallion performance tests in April. Plus, five percent of his earnings in coverage for the coming year. After he passes the exams, we can set up a contract in order for you to remain his permanent rider,” MacLeod sums up.

Bobby analyzes the offer. It’s tempting in many aspects. Fergus just mentioned that the stallion already covered four hundred mares this year. With his stud-fee being at least a thousand dollars, they are looking at twenty grand cut already. Then there’s the regular income, not to mention the bonus. This deal might be the lifeline his family business was frantically fishing for. It’s up to Dean, though. He is the one who is going to work with this horse, and the only one who can make an educated guess if it’s achievable in five months' time.

“We would like to see Cain first,” Bobby decides, wanting to offer his head wrangler a moment to evaluate the animal. “I’m afraid that will not be possible at this time, but I tell you what.” The Brit finishes his bourbon, setting the glass down on the high table. “The horse will be delivered to your property and you will have a week to decide if you want to take on this job. If not, no hard feelings.”

Dean glances aside, spotting the slight nod of his uncle. Seems like they can’t go wrong here; if Cain turns out to be more difficult than Fergus leads on, they can always send him back. “You got yourself a deal,” Bobby concludes, extending his hand to the man in black. “Splendid.” The horse trader smirks, delighted with the arrangement they agreed on, shaking their hands. When he grips Dean’s hand tight, he looks him deep in the eye, as if he recognizes something in the handsome cowboy.

“You’re John’s boy, aren’t ya?” he realizes. “I bought a couple of horses from that Winchester back in the day. How is he?” Tension grips Dean’s body, the sound of his father’s name on Macleod’s tongue sending a shiver down his limbs. He tries to breathe in without it being too obvious, finding it difficult to keep his mask on. “I wouldn’t know,” he answers curtly.

Fergus furrows his brow at that, clearly curious as of why the two aren’t in touch anymore. He allows a silence to linger between them, their handshake holding on to the apprehensiveness. “Hmm,” he responds at the peculiar answer. “Well, you are just like your father. I could’ve sworn it was him when I saw you in the arena earlier; spitting image. You have his ways.”

It’s like MacLeod is deliberately trying to get under his skin, and no matter how hard the young cowboy fights it, the man he’s making a deal with is succeeding. The words spoken with that distinct English accent ring in his head, much louder than they were pronounced, cracking like a whip on his back. You are just like your father. You have his ways.

Dean releases the stallion owner’s hand, quickly slipping his into the back pockets of his jeans, drying his clammy palms on the denim. He hopes neither of the men in his company notice him shaking. He inhales through his nose, squares his shoulders and stands tall, pushing down the anxiousness that is stirring in his stomach. Disappointed in himself, he chews on the inside of his cheek in search for distraction. He can’t let a simple comment get to him like this.

Now that he has shut down the attitude the ranch hand was giving him, the Englishman looks down on Dean with a sinister smile on his lips. He keeps a hold of the Winchester’s gaze, until he averts his green eyes. Only then MacLeod steps away. “We’ll stay in touch. I’ll have my men pick up the two Quarters this afternoon,” Fergus announces, his long, dark overcoat swaying slightly as he turns around once more. “A pleasure doing business with ya.”

With those words, MacLeod walks away and leaves the two men in the middle of the square. The sun is suddenly uncomfortably warm to Dean. He sniffs and takes a few steps from his uncle, as if the two or three strides would actually be enough to walk it off. He places his hands in his side and dips his hat forward when he faces Bobby again, making sure the older man can’t sense how unsettled he is. But Bobby is no fool. He knows his nephew better than the boy’s own father did, and that’s exactly what’s bothering Dean.

“You alright?” he checks. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Dean returns just a little too rapidly, shrugging it off. “Just…” His uncle is careful not to address the subject directly, yet at the same time he needs to offer the opportunity for the wrangler to vent. “With what he said about John--” “Don’t.”

The simple word comes out harsher than he meant it to leave his lips, the darkness in his eyes when he shoots his father-figure a glare soon replaced by regret. Dean knows Bobby is trying, like he and Ellen have for the past fifteen years. But no matter how much time passes, he can’t bring himself to talk about what happened in the past.

His uncle isn’t mad, nor is he disappointed in his surrogate son. He just nods slowly at the dismissal, before he begins to make his way to the stables. Dean remains in the middle of the crossing, his hands still firm on his hips, closing his eyes for a moment as he breathes out. The deal they just made should bring much needed relief, but the meeting leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He gathers himself and follows after his Bobby. They have more showings to prepare for, but nothing can cast out the words spoken by Fergus MacLeod. Not the rhythmic thumping of hooves in the dirt, not the chatter and laughs produced by the growing crowd, nor the music that comes from the main arena. All he can register is the painful message, which reopens the deep scars on his heart every time they bounce off the walls inside his head.

I am just like my father.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part twenty two here

#Ride With Me #Cowboy!Dean x Reader #Cowboy!Dean series #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Dean Winchester AU #Supernatural AU #Dean fanfiction #Supernatural fanfiction #SPN fanfiction #Dean angst #Dean fluff #Dean x reader #Dean Winchester x reader #Dean Winchester #Jo Harvelle #Bobby Singer #Ellen Harvelle #Benny Lafitte #Kate Huntington

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sparkle9510 · 4 years

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Baby Robins and Tiny Ladybugs Ch. 3

Woooooo folks I finally finished it! I hate how long it takes for me to feel the flow and be able to write each chapter. I haven’t been feeling the motivation. I hope I am pacing this alright since I tend to rush it to not lose motivation to finish it. Like damn, I have 2 other mlb fics already in the making and I want to make animatics and draw. It be a busy time. Luckily SUMMER’S HERE! So free time!

PSA: With this chapter, my tag list is officially closed. If you guys still want to keep track of it, I finally published this to Ao3. I’ll post the link to my masterlist I’ll make after posting this. ;)

Speaking of Ao3, I proofread the chaps again before revising and posting and- Y’all ch 2 had so many mistakes?? I’m sorry ;-; Fixing it rn, with a few minor changes to clear up some things.

I’ll talk more after this chapter, so here, enjoy~

(posting at like 5 am so I’m sorry if there are mistakes)

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“My apologies for this entire mishap, Mr. and Mrs. Dupain-Cheng,” Mr. Damocles said. “Starting tomorrow, Marinette can come back to class. She is no longer expelled.”

Marinette sat in the chair in front of the principal’s desk, her parents standing right behind her. Earlier that day, Lila had planted the solution to Ms. Bustier’s test in her backpack. Not only that, Lila framed her so that she would seem like she pushed Lila and stole from her as well. It had not ended well and caused for her expulsion. It had almost caused her to be akumatized as well.

Now, here they are again, but this time, with good news.

“Mr. Damocles,” Her mom began, “I do hope that the school creates a better system in case such an incident began again. What if another person had to go through this same incident? What if she wasn’t as fortunate to have this all ‘cleared up’ as you said?”

“I understand your concerns,” he replied. “this was very unfortunate, and I am glad to have Marinette back. We will ensure that new measures will take place to prevent an innocent student facing punishment again.”

“I do hope so,” her dad huffed. “or we will take this to the school board.”

That had caused Mr. Damocles’ face to fall.

“Marinette, I really am sorry,” Lila apologized, catching all of their attention. “I don’t have control of my lying disease. Please forgive me.”

Marinette was puzzled. Why was Lila apologizing? Could she have learnt her lesson? How? When? Maybe... Maybe she had changed for the better?

“Of course, Lila,” she accepted the apology. “I understand but be careful. I hope there won’t be any more misunderstandings due to it.”

“There’s a few more things your mother and I would like to talk to Mr. Damocles about,” Her dad informed her. “Why don’t you and Lila head out while we do the boring talks?”

“Sure,” Marinette agreed, getting up along with Lila. “Have a good day, Mr. Damocles.”

“So, what’s going on?” Marinette inquired once they were outside and out of hearing range. “First you got me expelled only to lie in order to take back that expulsion. I find it a little hard to believe that you changed for the better.”

Marinette turned and crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow at her adversary. How was she going to reply? Lila smirked, pushing herself off the wall she was leaning on.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Lila mused. “Things aren’t what they seem. I don’t need to get rid of you to deal with you. You can stand right here and watch as I take everyone you love.

“Convincing everyone that you are a cheat and a thief was child’s play.” Lila continued as she stepped closer to Marinette. “Imagine what I can make your friends believe next.”

“Don’t you dare hurt my friends,” Marinette growled, “I-”

“Don’t worry,” Lila rolled her eyes, admiring her nails. “As long as they stay the sheep they are, I won’t do a thing to them. To you though...”

With that said, Lila walked off first, leaving Marinette to her thoughts. She glared at Lila’s back, silently fuming. Even if she doesn’t target them, Lila’s lies are going to catch up and they’ll lose chances at great opportunities in the end. The results aren’t going to be pretty.

“Marinette?” Tikki called, snapping Marinette out of her thoughts.

“I’m good Tikki,” Marinette smiled. “Don’t worry about me.”

She sighed in frustration. If only she could say something. Well, she could, but at this point, many wouldn’t listen.

Damian would probably be disappointed, she mused. She imagined what he would say to Lila’s face. She imagined all the ways he could insult her for not standing up to the liar, in ways to hide the concern he actually had. How she wished he were still here to tell her. She still remembered the phone call a year or so ago.

-----

“He’s gone.” Jason had told her solemnly.

“Jason, what are you talking about?” Marinette asked. “What accident? What happened?”

“His mother’s side of the family decided to visit,” Jason answered. “Shit happened and he got pulled in the middle and well ... I’m sorry but he’s gone.”

There was a hitch in her throat as she took in all this. Damian, her childhood friend, the one who was by her side for years, dead?

“N-no,” Marinette began to hiccup slightly. “H-how, I-”

“I’m sorry, Belle,” Jason apologized. “Sorry for springing this bad news to you. I’m heading over there right now, and we’re picking you and your family up for his funeral, sound good? Be strong, we’ll be there soon.”

Giving a sound of acknowledgement, she hung up the phone and went to her bed. She hugged the huge cat pillow that Damian had gotten her, trying to recall his voice and presence. Face-planting the pillow, she took a deep breath and screamed until her voice got hoarse.

-----

She went to Dami’s funeral and said her goodbyes. It still hurts, but she had made peace with the fact that he left the world too early. However, that doesn’t mean she stopped having contact with the rest of the Waynes. Nah, Jason was too much of a troll and loved dragging her into some of his shenanigans to let her get away. Even then, she wouldn’t have dropped them anyways. They were all special to her. Which reminds her...

She pulled out her phone and opened up her Tweeter. She then opened up her tweet from this morning to check on it.

@BelleOfGotham

You think it’s possible to make pants that will catch on fire when someone is lying? You know ‘Liar liar, pants on fire’? Just wondering.

@theJToddler

@BelleOfGotham Yo, who we raining hell upon, Tinkerbell?

@HeIsGRAYceHeIsSON

@BelleOfGotham You mean like real fire? Wouldn’t that be painful?

Calming down, she quickly wrote replies to them both.

@BelleOfGotham

@theJToddler Nah, it’s all good now.

@BelleOfGotham

@ HeIsGRAYceHeIsSON They can perish

“Come on Tikki,” Marinette grinned. “I wanna do some research about flammable clothing.”

--------

The next day came quickly. Marinette, after finishing her homework, had gotten really engrossed with her research and didn’t realize how much time had passed and fell asleep on her desk. Surprisingly, she had woken up an hour early, so she took her time getting ready and eating breakfast before she headed towards school.

As she reached her classroom, she could hear the chatters of friends and fellow classmates in there. Taking a deep breath, she walked in and braced for the worse.

“Girl, you’re back!” Alya grinned, waving her over. “How does it feel, to have joined the dark side and rebelled against the school?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Alya,” Marinette laughed. “It’s not like I meant to do it in the first place, so I was an unwilling prisoner.”

“Unwilling to ditch school or from seeing a boy?” Alya smirked.

“Marinette!” Rose and Juleka rushed over. “We’re sorry we had doubted you. It was so shocking we didn’t think straight, and we’re sorry!”

“Yup, same as those two,” Alix piped up from her seat. “Sorry I jumped the gun and believe you had cheated.”

The rest of the classmates also voiced their apologies, to which Marinette had accepted. It was fine! It wasn’t their fault after all. Evidence can be misleading and accusing without proof wasn’t exactly the best thing she did again. Just like the Rogercop incident.

“Marinette!” Lila cooed as she rushed towards her from the door, “I’m so happy that you’re back! I’m so sorry about accusing you! That was so wrong of me. If only I had control of my lying disease.”

“Thanks...” Marinette cringed away from her overly sweet tone. “Maybe next time make sure if it’s your disease talking or not?”

“Of course, Marinette! Though...” Lila continued, Marinette noticed a glint in her eyes, “I know what I did was wrong, but I think that pushing me down the stairs was unwarranted, don’t you? And how did my necklace end up in your locker?”

Murmurs then flew around. Yes, how awfully strange, she hears. She did push Lila earlier. How did the pendant find its way into her locker?

“Everyone, chill,” Alya talked over them. “Give her some slack. We don’t know for sure that was the case. Maybe she pushed Lila on accident, and someone may have planted it in Marinette’s locker to frame her.”

“Yeah, Lila,” Marinette grumbled, unfortunately too loud.

“Mari,” Alya frowned. “for the last time, you can’t just go accusing people without proof. Hell, that’s the whole reason why this started, remember? You’re not helping your case out at all girl. Plus, Lila being the one to plant it would be too obvious. It’s likely someone was framing the both of you.”

Marinette felt her nails digging deeper into the palm of her hands. How could she get people to see the signs? Lila for some reason still has a hold of the class and she’s not letting go.

“Alya, I never pushed Lila and there’s no way-” Marinette began.

“It’s okay, Marinette!” Lila interrupted plastering a smile Marinette knew was fake. “Of course Alya’s right, with her amazing detective work and all. I guess someone is framing the both of us. Maybe they want the tension between us two to grow bigger. I don’t know what I did for you to start to hate, but I forgive you! Even for pushing me down the stairs.”

“Lila,” Adrien cut in, frowning, “Marinette said she didn’t do it, and I believe her. She’s not the type to hurt, let alone cheat and steal from others. Maybe you accidentally tripped on the top of the stairs. Whatever the case is, stop making it sound like she had something to do with it.”

He stepped in front of her, seemingly like he was shielding her from the rest of the class. Marinette had no idea what he was thinking of, but she was glad to see he stepped in. He had her back after all.

*brriiiing*

“Class, to your seats please.” Ms. Bustier walked in, papers in hand. “We’re going to start class in a minute.”

The class quickly rushed to their seat, current conversation forgotten. They hurried to gather their tablets and prepare for the lesson of the day. Marinette sighed in relief as she hoped for the rest of the day to go by quickly. Already lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize how Nino and Kim were giving each other looks.

--------

And luckily, the rest of the day went by peacefully. No one else brought up the problems, no one was akumatized, and no one started trouble. Adrien was one of the first people who finished packing and before he left to his limo, he was grabbed by none other than Marinette herself. They reached a corner of the school building, where no one would give them any second glances.

“A-adrien, I-,” Marinette stammered, feeling slightly nervous. “hanks for telp- I mean thanks for helping me out there.”

“No problem, Marinette,” he grinned, which Marinette noticed wasn’t as big as usual.

He then proceeded to grab Marinette’s hand. “Marinette... I haven’t exactly been the greatest friend, have I?”

“That’s not-” Marinette began, only to have Adrien shush her.

“I know,” he continued. “I’ve been home-schooled and raised to let people walk over me and keep things civil. However, I said ‘what does it matter as long as we both know?’.”

“I said I would have your back and for a while, I didn’t. I let Lila lies hurt people, Kagami, Natalie, my bodyguard, and you.” Adrien grimaced. “I let you down, and I let her lies cause you pain and trouble when I could have prevented it.”

“I’m so sorry about that,” he apologized. “That’s why I had to stop her and make her lie to have you come back.”

Marinette studied Adrien, saw his sincerity. However, she also noticed how uncomfortable he looked. How hurt he was.

“Adrien,” Marinette bit her lips. “What did you do?”

“I made a deal,” he replied. “I’ll be her ‘friend’ and you return to school. It’ll be fine... I’ll be fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Marinette frowned. “But... thank you...for proving yourself to be a good friend.”

She wrapped her arms around Adrien. Adrien was stiff for a second before he melted in her embrace.

“If she causes you problems, let me know,” Marinette warned him. “She doesn’t hurt my friends and get away with it.”

“Thanks Marinette! From now on, we’ll have each other’s backs,” Adrien smiled. “I guess that makes us partners huh?”

“I guess that does,” she agreed, smirking and held her fist up. “Partners?”

“Partners.”

“Pound it!”

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Masterlist

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I hope you guys liked it! Let me know what you think!

Marinette’s handle, “BelleOfGotham” is from the Bell from Tinkerbell, but the French form (form? is that how you call it?) and being a mysterious friend of the Waynes, who are in Gotham.

Jason’s? We don’t speak of that. lol

Tbh I was planning on more stuff happening and Damian popping up again. (Oh no, he’s alive after all. Whatever shall we do?) Buuuut, it was gonna get too long and it was enough for another chapter, so I’m hiding Damian away one more chapter.

BUT we get Adrien with a backbone! I get how he is, honestly I’m kinda the same. I hate confrontations and trouble in general. So, he’s gonna learn to stand up for himself, and for his friends. Also, I decided that it may be class salt at first, but the class is going to snap out of it one by one. I don’t want this to end up being too salty and ooc. So, yeah. (Honestly, I hope Lila wasn’t too ooc during this ^^;)

I’m rambling too much, so I’ll stop here. If you guys want to know more about any of them, their relationships, au stuff, feel free to send me an ask. In fact, I welcome it! <3 Love you guys! Thank you for all the support!!

Taglist (damn this is a lot, but lemme know if any username is changed or I missed someone):

@mooshoon @bluerosette23 @zestyzealot @luciferge @gingerdaile @crazylittlemunchkin @queenmj10 @hypnosharkrebeldreamer @razzledazzle247 @dorkus-minimus @this-is-vander @abrx2002 @maribat-is-lifeblood @sturchling @witchsblackfox @noirdots @zalladane @jessigurl-design @myazael @velvetterabby @dawnwave16 @novicevoice @weird-pale-blonde-person @theyellowfeverexperience @lla-en-rouge @silverwhiteraven @corabeth11 @chocolatecatstheron @tired-butterfly @sassakitty @mon-berry @echpr @loysydark @miraculous-simmer7 @jardimazul @risingmoonyue @theatreandcomicfreak @dast218 @gracerosana @redscarlet95 @fusser90 @sam-spectra @elmokingkong @pirats-pizzacanninibles @shamefullove @xahriia @buticaaba @erick-rose99-stuff @emjrabbitwolf

#daminette #marinette dupain cheng #ml #mlb #miraculous ladybug #maribat #maridami #Baby Robins and Tiny Ladybugs #my fanfic

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thethousandyearwitch · 3 years

Text

The Show Must Go On! Chap. 8 [The End]

- A Youtuber AU you didn’t want and didn’t need -

Hisoka Morrow, italian Makeup Youtuber, enjoys his life in the comfort and occasional drama of his profession. But nothing brings more drama into his life than the eldest son of the Zoldyck fashion magazine empire.

Meanwhile, aspiring australian Twitch Streamer Gon Freecs forms a special bond to a Speedrunner commonly going by "Kil".

Chapter 8 "Born To Run” out now! The Last Chapter!

AO3 Link

Illumi Zoldyck has rarely made mistakes in his life, and any mistake was met with immediate punishment. It was supposed to lead to a perfect adult life, free of foolish mistakes and mishaps, for the prosperity and safety of the family.

But now there was an arm curled around his side, hot breath hitting his neck in a steady rhythm as the morning sun was rising, and there was no other way to say it:

He fucked up.

He let himself be lured into the lion’s den, and now the ‘lion’ was curled up asleep next to him, hair a mess, and a self-satisfied smile on his bruised lips.

Hooking up with Hisoka was objectively a mistake, but it wasn’t going to be the end of the world. He was an adult after all, capable of making his own decisions regarding relationships of any nature. Furthermore, whether this was going to be a temporary or a more permanent ordeal, the long distance would keep Hisoka far away enough from any family affairs, and with enough bribery it could kept out of the public eye.

Illumi grabbed his phone from the nightstand, disconnected the charger, and ignored the half-asleep murmurs from the other side of the bed. Whatever thiswas, could work out, no repercussions, no mistak-

’18 Missed Calls from Mother’.

Oh No.

’27 Missed Calls from Mother. 19 Missed Calls from Father’.

“Oh, my folks are soooo pissed right now.” Killua snorted and pocketed his phone again. Gon and him had decided to take a trip to a larger city that framed the Area that the young boy lived in, mainly to buy essentials that Killua didn’t remember to pack for himself, which resulted in him finally having phone reception again. Mito insisted on driving them there, mumbling something about keeping them under control, but generously stayed behind in a café to give the boys some space. It’s been almost 3 days since Killua had arrived, and so far, nothing had been set on fire and there were no trips to the ER, which she considered a personal win. The afternoon sun was beating harshly on them, at least to the standards of the young boy who had spent most of his life either in mildly weathered England or sheltered in the shade cool shade of the Japanese mountain-mansion.

“Aren’t you afraid that they are going to punish you?” Gon frowned.

“What are they goin’ to do? Double take my computer away? House arrest? I could probably set the world record at breaking out. They are just mad that I’m not dancing to their tune, like my stupid brother. My dad’s not even home most of the time, so I don’t know why he’d care.” He stopped in front of a clothing store that advertised bright flower-print shirts. “These look awful, we need them.”

His friend laughed but nodded his head enthusiastically.

There was something incredibly exciting about having a friend. Someone who agreed to go along with your whims and spontaneous ideas, not because they are paid to or want to gain something from it, but because they actively want to.

Inside the store, the boys decided to pick out shirts for each other, determined to dress the other one as ridiculous as possible, hiding whatever they picked out from the racks while giggling like madmen. After a couple of minutes, they shoved each other into separate dressing room cabins, and exchanged the meticulously picked out shirts via throwing them over the cabin separations.

Killua disregarded his black sleeveless hoodie vest and quickly clothed himself in the new shirt without having properly looked at it, to preserve the surprise. On a count of three, the boys simultaneously stepped out of the changing rooms, and stood next to each other, in front of a large mirror.

Gon wore a dark green shirt with the repeating pattern of a shirtless Santa Clause in a lawn chair, with sunglasses and a cocktail in hand. Killua had a galaxy print button-up with various pictures of cats with taco and burrito bodies.

The young teens stood there in silence for a second, before they broke out in loud laughter.

“You look like you’re a middle-aged dad on vacation with his wife Karen!” Killua snorted.

“Well, you look like your name is ‘Bradley’ and you sell knock-off sunglasses on the beach!” Gon replied, and as the boys continued to laugh, he slapped Killua lightly on the upper arm.

Barely a touch, really, and yet: “YEOWCH!”, Killua flinched back.

“Woah, you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, that just kind of stung weirdly. Maybe you’re loaded with electricity or something.” And Gon was ready to write it off, before he got a good look at Killua in the dimmed lights of the shop, away from the bright sun.

“Hey, get your arm out of that sleeve.”

“Huh? Why- “Before he could object, his arm was already being yanked out of the, frankly too big, sleeves of the tacky shirt. “What the hell, Gon?!”

“Killua, did you put on sunscreen this morning?”

“Uh, no? Sunscreen is for dorks.”

By now, Gon could barely supress his laughter, cheeks puffed out to hold it back. “I can tell.”

Killua looked back into the mirror and stared. There was a clear divide between the skin on his shoulder that had been covered by his vest until now, pale porcelain skin inherited from his mother, and the rest of his arm that had been exposed to the sun, now glowing bright red. Cautiously he pressed a finger against his skin, but retracted it immediately with a hiss as a burning sensation shot through his arm.

Gon laughed again, though this time with a bit more sympathy, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we have something at home against that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to rip off my skin, that’s not cool.”

“Nope! That comes later, all by itself.”

And Killua laughed, as they made their way towards the cashier, because of course they were going to buy those hideous shirts.

“…Wait, you weren’t serious, were you? Gon?!”

“This is the medicine?” Killua looked at the large plant with scepticism.

“Yup!” Mito took a kitchen knife and sliced off one of the larger leaves. She sliced the leaf vertically and squeezed out transparent goo from it into a bowl, which she handed to the boy with a smile. “There you go. Aloe is good for your skin and will help with the burning.”

A cautious look toward Gon, who didn’t seem suspicious at all, and Killua took the bowl. “Thanks.”

“And starting tomorrow you’ll put on sunscreen before you go anywhere near the sun, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He rolled his eyes with a smile, and the boys went back upstairs to Gons room before Mito would call them back later for dinner. Killua immediately jumped on his sleeping cot, eyed and poked at the contents on the bowl. “So, I just slap this on?”

“Yep!” Gon threw his shopping bag into his closet and flopped on his own bed.

A couple of moments passed, Killua continued to poke at the plant-goo. He wasn’t going to admit out loud that it looked gross, the consistency weirded him out, and that he thought he was being pranked. Though in the end, he didn’t have to say anything, as Gon sat next to him and took the bowl from him. “Looking at it isn’t going to help. Here- “He took the others boy wrist and yanked his arm forward. With his other hand, Gon started to smear Aloe Vera on Killuas arm, who briefly hissed before he relaxed at the welcoming cold of the mixture. The heat and stinging of the sunburn slowly subsided.

While his friend was already getting to work on his other arm, without being asked to, all Killua could think about is that this was…nice. He experienced something new even if it hurt a bit. He didn’t get scolded for it, but instead was just told how to prevent it for his own health. And now his friend was helping him with this as well- because he cares. This shouldn’t be something new to kids his age, he knew this, but the past few days still felt like something secret he unlocked, invisible to everyone else. A welcoming, caring environment, a vast open space to freely explore, not alone but with someone who looks out for you and who you want to look out for, too.

Suddenly, two cold hands were at either side of Killuas face, thumbs stroking over his cheek bones. He flinched with a yelp of surprise, though the others grip on his face kept him in place. “Hold still, you burned your face as well.”

Killua gently but assertively took Gons hands in his and slowly removed them. “I’m good, really.” He hesitated and looked at both their hands. “…I’m really happy that you’re doing all of this for me.”

“Don’t worry, I used to get tons of sunburns when I was little!” Gon snorted, and Killua gave him a playful nudge against his arm.

“I don’t just mean this, I mean like…everything. I’m happy you’re my friend. I didn’t think that could be this nice.” He looked nervously at his hands, uncomfortable with the sudden vulnerability, though before he could react, Gon pulled him into a tight hug.

“I’m happy we’re friends too, Killua. And no matter what happens, I will always be your friend. That’s a promise!”

Killua let himself be hugged for just a few seconds longer, indulged in the kind of physical intimacy that he now felt had been seriously lacking in his life.

“Gon! Killua! Dinner’s ready!”

The boys immediately separated and jumped of the sleeping cot with overlapping “Good talk”s and snickering, before they chased each other down the stairs and into the dining hall. Downstairs they were greeted by a sweet, savoury smell as Mito heaved a large pot onto the wooden table, decked with 3 dinner plates and another larger bowl with mashed potatoes. Gon was the first to arrive at the pot and took a curious peek inside. “Short ribs! Nice!”

“I thought that if I give you boys something you can stuff yourselves with, maybe you’ll be too full to spend the entire night up again playing video games.” She gestured for them to sit down with a proud smile. The teens didn’t hesitate and helped themselves immediately to full plates, the aroma of the food spread even more throughout the room.

As Killua tried to slice into the ribs, the meat parted from the bone after barely just a touch. As he took a bite, the tender meat tasted sweet, spicy, and everything in between. “These are the best ribs I’ve ever had. No Doubt.”

Mito laughed. “They better be! The trick to getting the meat this tender is to really just let them sit in the slow cooker for a full 9 hours, better even 10, and only interrupt to season to taste now and then.”

“Mhm. You know, I don’t think my mom even knows how to cook.”

“…Do you know how to cook, Killua?”

“Pff, no. Why?”

Gon swallowed another large bite of food before speaking. “Not even breakfast eggs?”

“Nope!” Killua continued to eat, as Gon and Mito exchanged a somewhat concerned look.

“Killua, would you like to help me cook breakfast tomorrow? We could try making pancakes.” Mito tried not to sound condescending as she suggested this, and Gon supported her with enthusiastic nodding.

“I-…Sure. But don’t blame me if anything catches on fire, okay?” The group laughed, and the rest of the dinner passed by peacefully, until the landline phone rang.

Mito got up and cleared her throat before answering. “Hello? …” She glanced at Killua. “…Mhm, sorry, who is this?” She covered the receiver with a worried look. “Killua, do you have a brother named Illumi?”

In a matter of seconds Killua had gotten up and snatched the phone from Mitos hand. “What.”

“Killu, it’s Illumi, how are you enjoying your spontaneous vacation?”

“How did you get this number?”

“I’ve got my ways.”

“Are your ways called Milluki?”

“Doesn’t matter. I hope you had fun these couple of days, but its time to come home. Mother is worried sick. If you come back now, you may even get your computer back.”

“HA! Fat chance. I’m too busy getting sun burned, buying ugly clothes and- and I’m going to learn how to cook with my friend tomorrow. So, suck it and leave me alone.”

There was a deep sigh at the other line, and what sounded like a second person snickering. “Killu, you have 24 hours to pack your things, book a plane, and think about how to properly apologize to mother and father for the trouble you have caused. If you fail to do so, I am going to have to come over there and take you back myself.”

“Don’t forget to pack sunglasses and sunscreen, Illumi. Bye.”

“Kil-“

Killua slammed the phone back into the loading station and sat back down at the table as if nothing happened. Silence weighed heavy in the room, but Mito was the first to find her words again and walked over to Killua to put a supporting hand on his shoulders.

“Are you alright, Killua?”

“Yeah! He’s kind of a control freak, I’m used to it.”

“But what’s going to happen when he actually gets here?” Gon asked nervously, though Killua merely shrugged as a response.

“Don’t know. Probably house arrest, maybe they are going to take my phone away but I’m sure I can just take my little brothers if I ask nicely.”

“This is so unfair… You practically just got here! There’s so much more I wanted to do together with you! And if they take your phone, we can’t even talk once you leave…”

And Killua was about to try to give some reassuring statements, but then it struck him-

“Hey, Gon, remember when you thought that me coming over spontaneously was kind of wild, crazy, but fun?”

“Y-yes?”

“Wanna do something wild, crazy, but fun with me?”

The woman behind him picked up faster on what he meant than Gon did. “Wait a min-“

“Huh?”

“Want to go to Japan with me?”

“Yes! Of course!!” Gon started to slap the table in excitement.

“We can visit my sister, and there’s servants there who definitely won’t snitch on us, and we can go hiking in the mountains! It’s great!”

“There’s so much food I want to try! And we need to go to one of those cool Zoos!”

“Definitely!! And there’s this great-

“Boys…”

“Hell yeah! Maybe there will be- “

“BOYS!”

The teens stopped in the middle of their lively conversation and starred at Mito; eyes blown.

“Do you seriously think you can just take a plane together, while running away from your family, without any supervision?”

Killua hesitated before speaking up. “Well, I did make it over here…”

“And now you’re in trouble with your family!”

The young boy sighed and hung his head in defeat, to which his friend took his hand in an attempt at comfort. Gon had the most well-trained puppy eyes, which locked onto Mito as their target.

“Well, if you had adult supervision though…”

Immediately both of the teens jumped up and hugged her. “Of course you can come!” “It’s going to be so much fun!”.

And as Killua explained how he can book last minute tickets to the nearest airport where his sister resided, Mito thought to herself that she may have bitten off more than she could chew. But maybe that didn’t matter. Because rarely had she seen Gon that happy, and maybe taking a risk once in a while for the sake of someone else wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“He hung up on me.” Illumi dropped his phone and starred at the wall.

“Well, did you really expect he was going to be obedient and say, ‘why yes dear brother I am on my way home right away’?” Hisoka was still in bed and rolled around leisurely, seemingly not a care in the world, though his grin was telling that he enjoyed the situation unfolding in front of him immensely. Illumi had been pacing the room ever since his mother called, hair a mess and Hisokas bathrobe half-heartedly thrown on, it was a welcomed view.

“He was supposed to. But this is fine. I can manage this.”

“Mmh, sell me on your plan~”

“I’m going to pack my things, then I will fly back home, make sure mother is well cared for, and then fly to Australia to drag my little brother home by his ears if I have to.”

“Then let me ask you this, caro mio:” The artist slowly separate himself from the comfort of his bed, and stood behind Illumi, slender fingers carefully combing through the black, sleek hair. “Have you ever been to Australia?”

“No, but I don’t see how that should be a problem.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you had a guide? Someone who isn’t going to chase you down some backroad that’ll turn into a dead end 30 kilometres in?”

Illumi turned around to face his weird companion. “When have you been to Australia?”

“I’ve been around~” He lied smoothly, one hand running along Illumis chin. “Doesn’t a little road-trip together just sound lovely? I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour~”

“Somehow I have trouble believing that. And even if I would agree to have you accompany me to Australia, I have to drop by home first, and I don’t want you stepping foot anywhere near our property.” Illumi slapped his hand away. “I might come visit after Killua is back home, though.” He turned to go and pack his things, but Hisoka had an arm around his waist and kept him still.

“Tesoro, listen to yourself. Your mother has a billion butlers, your father, and your siblings by her side. Why don’t you fly to Australia immediately to get the job done quickly? Otherwise, you’re just inefficiently wasting time, aren’t you?”

“You do have a point, unfortunately…” He tilted his head to the side, and immediately felt warm lips on his neck. “Still doesn’t mean I’m going to take you with me.”

“What if I say please?”

“How old are you?”

“What if I contact Machi for you and negotiate a collab that will contractually play out majorly in your favour?” Illumi let the thought run through his mind and considered the pros and cons. “And I won’t show anyone the candid photo that is my screensaver now~” Before he could ask what he meant, Hisoka was dangling his phone in front of him, with a shirtless picture of Illumi as his screensaver, just as promised.

“Hey- Give me that!”

Hisoka jumped out of slapping-range and snickered. “Take me to Australia, and that will turn back into a picture of myself.”

“This is blackmail, and I can sue you for this.”

“See you in court, amore.”

“Fine! If you insist, you can come with me. But I will bury your body in the desert if you give me enough reason to.”

Immediately Hisoka threw himself at Illumi. “Yay~! Our first couples’ vacation!”

“We aren’t…forget it.” Illumi sighed, though Hisoka could have sworn he saw a slight smile as he pressed a kiss to the designer’s cheek.

What’s the worst that could happen?

#hunter x hunter #hisoillu #killugon #hisoka marrow #illumi zoldyck #killua zoldyck #gon freccs #hxh fanfic #fanfiction #hisoillu fanfic #hxh fanfiction #AU #i can finally lay myself to rest

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yeehawetc · 4 years

Text

Title: Bachelor’s Grove

Pairing: none

Summary: It’s Christmas 1885. Dutch is talking to anarchists, Hosea’s trying to scam an old man out of his house, and Arthur’s trying to figure out the very weird kid they just picked up. Nobody knows if they’re going to keep him, and John doesn’t want to go back.

Warnings: some gory imagery; almost-kind-of-you-decide-whether-it’s-magical-realism?

On AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368408

@wolfmeat, I was your secret santa! (I bet you never guessed. Love you)

The sun glancing off the frosted windows of the station house blinds Arthur temporarily as he slips off Boadicea. He tugs off his heavy mittens to tie her to the hitching post, then stuffs his chapped hands quickly back into his coat pockets. There was an inch of ice on the water bucket this morning in camp. Arthur wishes Dutch had chosen a warmer morning to get caught with a known anarchist distributing anti-government literature.

He steps inside, and again can’t fucking see for a minute. The station’s dark even in daylight, old wood lit by dusty kerosene lamps that stink louder than the general musk of a constant cycle of drunks’ piss and tobacco spit. Arthur stops for a minute inside the door to let his eyes adjust, and the officer at the desk barks at him.

“What you want, son?”

“Payin’ a social call,” Arthur says, and takes the wad of bills Hosea counted out for him and tosses it onto the desk. The fella’s eyebrows hop nearly off his face, and Arthur scans the cells while he counts the money. It doesn’t take him long to pick him out. There’s not many people in the 18th district jailhouse wearing black silk and sitting on the cot like it’s a goddamn throne.

Dutch stands to meet him when Arthur approaches the cell, straightening his vest and checking the time on his pocket watch. As if Arthur were here picking him up from a social function, as if he didn’t have a huge purple bruise over one cheekbone.

“Good morning, Arthur,” he says, spreading his arms wide.

“Hosea’s gonna have your hide,” Arthur tells him. Dutch waves that away blithely, picking up his coat. He limps elegantly to the door of the cell and extends a broad hand to the jailkeeper, who doesn’t take it.

“A merry Christmas to you and your family,” Dutch says, beaming. Arthur can tell he’d like to knock the man’s teeth out. “Very sorry to insult your hospitality this way, but I’m afraid I ain’t inclined to spend another night in the company of the state.”

The guard isn’t impressed. “Go on,” he says, “before I change my mind.”

Dutch, Arthur notes with some dismay, is clearly in a good mood. For the first fifteen minutes of the ride back to camp, Dutch expounds on the uselessness of the state and the pathetic bankruptcy of soul that must lead a man like that wretch back at the jailhouse to feed his family off the profits of a government that’s nothing more than a tradition, and a cruel and foolish one at that, and Arthur picks at the loose wool on his mittens and watches his breath steam in the air.

“The true place for a just man, Arthur, is a prison,” Dutch shouts to him through the blistering chill as they wind south towards Bachelor’s Grove.

“True place for a man who can’t run on a sprained ankle, more like,” Arthur says, and Dutch throws his head back and laughs so loud a crow gets startled off the fence they’re passing by, and Arthur can’t help himself, he’s grinning.

“We’re onto something good here, Arthur,” Dutch says as they pass into the woods. “Silas tells me that Leslie Ashville—that haggard old maggot who owns the steel works where Silas’s poor cousin lost his hand last month—is losing his mind.”

“This the same Silas who got you arrested last night?” Arthur asks.

Dutch ignores him. “Old Ashville’s cracking, Arthur. Talking to folks as ain’t there and forgetting his own name. They say he ain’t gonna see the year of our Lord 1886, and it don’t seem right to me to let that fine gentleman die alone, with no one but his vampire of a nephew to carry on his legacy.”

“So,” Arthur says, starting to see where this is going, “you’re goin’ to apologize to Hosea for getting yourself arrested by inviting him to con a dyin’ man out of his money?”

“A dyin’ industrialist,” Dutch confirms brightly.

The camp’s a cluster of tents and wagons in a stand of oaks just south of the quarry pond, a respectful distance from the scattered headstones of Bachelor’s Grove cemetery. As they ride in, Arthur can see Hosea and Miss Grimshaw hurrying between the tents, ducking to look under the wagons and talking hotly. He catches Miss Grimshaw’s last sentence on the wind as he and Dutch ride closer: “...can’t have gone far in this cold.”

“What’s happening?” Dutch inquires as he slips down from the Count, favoring his hurt ankle just a little.

“The boy’s disappeared,” Hosea says, and Arthur doesn’t miss the relief that settles over Dutch’s features when he realizes this latest catastrophe is going to postpone a conversation with Hosea about his own sins.

“Go on, Arthur,” he says, “you look up thataways, and pray he ain’t fallen down that quarry. I’ll look off to the west, and Hosea, you and Miss Grimshaw stay here in case he comes back on his own.”

Arthur sets out grudgingly on foot. This ain’t the first time the kid’s given them trouble. In fact, Arthur reflects, he’s been more trouble than anything else since the moment Dutch caught sight of that rabble of homesteaders tying a noose to a walnut tree and decided to investigate. When they got closer and it turned out the fearful criminal due for a lynching that day was a twelve-year-old kid with an armful of onions and a crazy look in his eye, Arthur was the one who picked the kid up and carried him to safety while Dutch and Hosea argued with the would-be executioners. And then, Arthur was the one who got onion juice spit in his eye for his troubles and a nice set of bite marks on his neck.

The kid’s calmed down in the weeks since, or at least been effectively convinced Arthur isn’t trying to kidnap him, but he still bites. And apparently that ain’t all. Once they got him back to camp and a bowl of stew in front of him, he told Dutch his name’s John, his folks are dead, and he knows how to kill a man. Those facts, in that order, and if they didn’t light Dutch’s face up. Dutch likes the odd ones. Arthur tries not to think too deeply about how that reflects on him.

John’s odd, all right. He talks to himself all day; talks to animals too, and rocks and trees. And, strange enough, he’s a hell of a shot—hit every one of the cans Dutch lined up for him a week after he joined the camp, “just to see what he can do.” But he’s young, younger even than Arthur was when Dutch found him, and that’s a problem. Dutch said he’s safer here than on his own, Miss Grimshaw said a child his age got no business running with outlaws, Hosea said he ought to go to an orphanage, and John started hollering so loud nobody could finish the argument, and in the month since the question of what’s to be done with John has stood open. For now, it seems, he’s with them, but one of these days somebody’s gonna have to make a decision.

But maybe John’s made a decision of his own, now. This isn’t the first time he’s run off—he seems to have a special talent for that—but the longer Arthur trudges through the snow, the more it seems John might have made a real shot at it this time.

Arthur skirts the mouth of the quarry pond, looking reluctantly for any sign of a little body floating in the glassy dark water ringed all around with ice, and ascertains to his satisfaction and relief that John hasn’t drowned. He’d be sure to, if he had fallen, based on the almighty fuss he put up the first time Miss Grimshaw tried to get him to wash himself, shrieking that she was trying to drown him. Dutch finally intervened, grabbing John by his collar and belt and tossing him bodily into the creek, where it immediately became clear John’s never been in water deeper than his big toe. Arthur grins to himself as he picks around the clumps of buckthorn skirting the edge of the pond, remembering the look of dumb outrage on the kid’s spluttering face when he resurfaced and realized he was only knee-deep.

Arthur turns away from the quarry and up the snowy path towards the cemetery gates, squinting at the beaten stones that line the ground on either side. He can’t make out the names, but Hosea told him it’s mainly railway workers and homesteaders buried here, Russians and Germans and Irish. Folks who came from worlds away to get run over by wagons, or catch the grippe, or just to blow their own brains out when the crops failed and the government turned a blind eye. Ma’s buried in a place that looks like this. Pa too, maybe, only Arthur didn’t stay to see.

He watches a red-bellied woodpecker hammer busily at someone’s gravestone, and wonders if he should start to worry.

Then he turns onto the path leading up to the cemetery gate, a rickety wrought-iron arch planted between two spreading white cedars, and sees the kid. He’s sitting in the snow next to a tall granite monument, arms clasped around his legs and his head ducked down onto his knees, drowning in Hosea’s spare coat and Miss Grimshaw’s old scarf. His hair, as usual, hangs down over his pinched face like he’s trying to hide it.

“Hey,” Arthur calls out, and watches as John’s head snaps up like a spooked deer. But he stays where he is, body held tense and unmoving, as Arthur jogs forward through the icy cover of snow.

Up close, Arthur can see the kid’s been crying: his eyes are red, his cheeks are wet and chapped, and there’s a goddamn river of snot traveling down his chin. Still, when Arthur asks if he’s all right, he snaps, “A-course” and glares as if Arthur accused him of some grave offense.

“You scared folks, runnin’ off like that,” Arthur tells him, nudging John’s leg with the toe of his boot.

John shakes his head. “I ain’t scary.”

“Never said you was.” Arthur holds out a hand to pull the kid up. John doesn’t take it. “Come on now.”

John shakes his head, straggly hair flying side to side with the vehemence of his refusal. Stubborn as a horse’s ass is one thing they’ve already learned about John, and it ain’t Arthur’s favorite quality.

“What happened this time?” he sighs, settling himself against a gravestone opposite John. “Hosea said you just up and disappeared.”

John shrugs. “I ain’t talkin’ to you.” He’s picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of the coat, frowning furiously at it.

“What, did Grimshaw try to make you wash again? Because you know you stink.”

“Don’t neither.”

“You do,” Arthur assures him.

John sniffs, pulling his sleeve over his face and smearing snot even further across his cheek. “I ain’t goin’ back,” he says.

“Suit yourself,” Arthur says, shrugging broadly. “You wanna run off on your own, get yourself strung up by another pack of tetchy farmers, I guess that ain’t no business of mine.”

“No it ain’t,” John snaps, nodding in satisfaction.

“Awfully cold, though,” Arthur remarks, pulling his coat a little closer and squinting up at the sky. “I do believe that’s a storm comin’ in off to the east there.” John pokes his head up from the depths of Hosea’s coat to swivel his skinny neck around. “Still,” Arthur goes on, “you’ve obviously made up your mind, so I ain’t gonna try to talk you out of it.” He stands up, brushing snow off his coat. “Shame about them pies, though.”

John squints at him. “What pies?”

“Pies?” Arthur says. “Oh, the pies—oh, that ain’t nothin’. Only, I know Miss Grimshaw was plannin’ a heap of pie for Christmas. Mince pie, she said. Maybe apple. And Hosea, he’s made friends with a fella down at the slaughterhouse, figures he’ll get us a pig to roast.”

John stares. “I never seen a pig roast.”

“Well,” Arthur says, “I guess you ain’t gonna see one this year. Seein’ as you’re goin’ it alone now.” John squirms irritably in his snowy seat, frowning at Arthur. Arthur waits, listening to crows scream in the cedars.

“They was fixin’ to take me back to the nuns,” John says finally, in an unusually soft little voice. Not looking at Arthur.

“What,” Arthur says, startled, “Hosea and Grimshaw?”

John nods. “I heard ‘em. I was diggin’ in the dirt by that big ol’ stump an’ I was eatin’ some cheese an’ then I heard the lady say ‘this ain’t no place for a child, I heard him cough’ only I wasn’t coughin’, I just had some crumbs in my throat, an’ then Hosea said ‘he ain’t settlin’ in so good an’ I think we oughta see if them nuns’ll take him,’ an’ Dutch weren’t there and now he’s gone they’re gonna take me back there an’ so I got my coat an’ I snuck off ‘fore they could catch me an’ I ain’t goin’ back, if you take me back they’re just gonna make me go back to the nuns an’ they’ll cook me an’ eat me an’ then I ran an’ I ran an’ I heard someone comin’ so I hid behind the graves only then I thought maybe it was dead folks so I waited an’ then I heard someone else comin’ but it was you an’ I ain’t goin’ back, I ain’t gonna let ‘em do it.” He breaks off, breathing hard. His cheeks are red.

Arthur, a little dizzy trying to parse out that garbled spew of words, thinks he can see tears gathering in the corners of the kid’s eyes. Passing over, for the moment, the idea of cannibal nuns, he sighs and says, “Look, kid, ain’t nobody gonna send you anywhere without Dutch’s say-so, and Dutch ain’t decided yet.”

John frowns. “But he went to jail.”

“Yeah, dumbass, and I went and got him out,” Arthur says. “He’s out lookin’ for you right now.”

The kid’s eyes get wide at that. Arthur sees him take a shaky little breath and whisper something to himself that Arthur can’t catch.

“Come on,” he says, “I’m freezin’ my nuts off, and you ain’t gettin’ cooked alive by nobody this Christmas. Come on back, and I’ll tell Grimshaw an’ Hosea to lay off talkin’ about nuns.” He holds out his hand again.

This time, after a little consideration, John takes it, tugging hard as he struggles up to his feet. Arthur’s astonished at how light he is; the kid weighs nearly nothing. He sets himself on his feet, pulls Grimshaw’s scarf over his grimy face, and looks up to Arthur.

“An’ we’ll have pie?” he asks, hopefully.

“Sure,” Arthur nods. “Pie and pig.”

“I ain’t never had a Christmas dinner,” John tells him as they head back towards camp.

“What, never?”

John shrugs. He’s playing with the loose ends of his scarf, tossing them back and forth on his palms. “I heard about it, but I never had one. Me an’ pa, one time we stole a whole duck an’ he said that’s Christmas dinner, but it gave me the trots an’ I shit till I yelled.”

“Thank you for that,” Arthur says.

John nods, clambers over a wooden fence, and drops down the other side in a little flurry of snow. “What’s it like?” he asks, and the question’s so dumb and so oddly sweet that Arthur feels a little twinge in his chest.

“I dunno,” he says. “Like a party, I guess. Folks make good food and talk and sing, and go to church I suppose, only I ain’t been since I was a little, little kid, littler than you.”

“I ain’t little,” John interjects, scrambling over a rock.

“Well, I was,” Arthur says. “But my ma used to make supper, and we’d have turkey and fish and ham and potatoes and beans, and after she’d play on her organ.”

“What’s a organ,” John asks.

“A kinda musical instrument,” Arthur tells him. He hasn’t thought about this in years, can only vaguely picture the boxy little organ in the corner, Mama’s pale hands on the keys. The melody’s long gone. “Sorta like a piano, I figure, only it’s got pipes and pedals. My ma had one from a catalogue, and she said it kept her company out there in the country.” He remembers that: the way she’d sit at the organ in the evenings, not even playing some nights, just sitting. The way she cried when they came back from town and the organ was gone, sold to a man Pa found looking to pay good money for a secondhand Beckwith for his wife. Arthur remembers that, all right.

“So,” John says, “ya play music and ya eat?”

“More or less,” Arthur says. “S’posed to be some kinda holy day, but mostly folks just like to eat.”

They’re nearing camp, now, and Arthur can see the defensive curl in John’s shoulders. When he sees Dutch sitting at the camp table, though, he breaks away from Arthur’s side and dashes over, planting himself next to Dutch, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.

“So you found him, Arthur,” Dutch greets him as Arthur approaches the table.

“Out hidin’ in the graveyard,” Arthur says. “I guess he prefers the company of dead folks to ours.” Dutch laughs, and John scowls.

“I weren’t hidin’,” he says. “And I didn’t see no dead folks.”

Arthur leaves him with Dutch, leaning intently over Evelyn Miller’s America and shooting Dutch shy reverential looks, and goes to find Hosea. He’s by the fire, poking at the dull coals, and he raises a hand as Arthur approaches.

“Found him all right?”

Arthur hums his yes, settling himself on the log Dutch dragged out of the woods as a seat. “Told ‘im we’d have pie for Christmas,” he tells Hosea. “He liked that.”

Hosea laughs. “Our little associate seems mightily driven by food,” he remarks drily.

“Like a damn pig,” Arthur agrees. Hosea chuckles, stretching his legs out and lighting a cigarette.

“I take it Dutch filled you in on his latest scheme,” he remarks, and Arthur can tell from the crinkle at the corner of his eye that excitement’s overtaken his annoyance at Dutch.

“The Ashville thing? He mentioned it,” Arthur says. “Somethin’ about stealin’ the fella’s legacy, or something.”

“Legacy, Arthur, is another word for a fat bank account,” Hosea says. “Besides, if we can play this thing right, there’s a roof over our heads in January. That boy’s already got a cough, and I for one would prefer not to spend the winter thawing out my backside every time I need to shit. I’ll need your help with the paperwork for this one, though.”

Arthur nods, rubbing his hands together in the growing warmth from the fire, and feels odd. Doesn’t know why he feels, suddenly, choked. He feels the way he did when Hosea and Dutch first picked him up, as though any wrong word would have him out on his ear or worse. Like all his words were caught in his throat, because he couldn’t pick the ones that were right.

Hosea, naturally, doesn’t miss a thing. “What’s on your mind?”

Arthur hesitates, chewing his lip, thinking about John’s blank, tearful face; about Mama crying the night the Beckwith disappeared; about old Leslie Ashville alone in his house on Cherry Street, talking to people who aren’t there. About the look on John’s face, hope and wonderment, when Arthur said Dutch was looking. For him.

“He’s scared of us,” he says finally. “Scared of you. And Grimshaw, but that’s—I mean, she scares everyone.”

Hosea snorts gently, but all he says is, “Give him time.”

“How much time?” Arthur says. “Dutch ain’t said if he’s staying with us.”

“Dutch’ll decide when the time’s right,” Hosea says, as if that settles it. As if Arthur hasn’t heard John whimpering in his sleep every damn night since they picked him up. Arthur turns to look at him and Dutch—two dark heads matched at the table—and hopes the right time’s soon.

ii.

The house on Cherry Street is three dusty stories of Italianate brick, lit from within by a dozen candles. From the street, it looks warm, even festive—someone’s hung a grand ring of pine and holly on the heavy oak door—but as soon as Hosea steps inside, he feels the chill. It’s different from the brisk winter evening outside: a dry, sickly cold that seeps through Hosea’s coat and settles along the joints of his bones.

Someone’s dying in this house. Hosea’s felt that cold before.

He follows the maid down the hallway to the parlor, past the cavernous recesses of unlit rooms. Behind the false front of lamps, this house is dark and silent, save the single corridor of light that traces a line down its center. Hosea watches a chandelier of thick, ugly crystals sway mutely above his head as he passes beneath, and fixes his mind on his story.

It’s his second visit to the Ashville mansion. On the first, he introduced himself as William Ashville, the long-lost offspring of the affair a group of Ashville Steel workers told Hosea about over bad whiskey at the Red Hen. It seems the story’s well known among Ashville’s discontented employees: the lady’s name was Eleanor, and Ashville promised her marriage, then left her at the altar and came west instead to make his fortune off the work of honest men. Nobody’s been able to give Hosea an exact date, but one fellow, with a rough white beard and teeth so sparse and loose Hosea suspects he lost one in his beer over the course of the conversation, remembered the year Ashville turned up in Chicago as 1856, so Hosea’s dated the affair to about thirty years ago. He considered, briefly, having Dutch step in as the prodigal bastard, but this part requires a delicacy that Dutch, for all his charms, lacks. Besides, Hosea flatters himself that he can still play thirty. He borrowed a bit of Dutch’s pomade for the occasion, and a little of Susan’s face powder—and besides, old Ashville’s eyesight isn’t that good.

All in all, Ashville took the news of his unwitting fatherhood surprisingly well. Hosea, who after thirty-odd years of disregard for the fairer sex unexpectedly became surrogate parent to an unwashed teenage criminal, can attest to the shock that comes with that sort of arrival. True, there was a moment of initial skepticism from Ashville, but the family bible Hosea produced (purchased from a bookseller in the Levee, embellished by Arthur with the names of a whole fictitious lineage for poor forgotten William Ashville) seemed to turn the tide of his disbelief, and the love letter Hosea wrote after making a study of Ashville’s handwriting clinched the story. Today, Hosea’s back, in character as young William, with two missions: to lend cheer to his aging father’s lonely indisposition, and to lift a copy of the old man’s will.

He hears Ashville’s voice before they reach the parlor: halting, guttural, like water through a clogged pipe. He’s murmuring about the newspaper, about catching a train. The maid leads Hosea into the room, where an unfed fire lights a frail circle around Ashville’s chair and casts long shadows across the rich Turkish carpet, and Hosea can see that it’s empty; that Ashville’s talking to no one.

“Sir?” the maid says, leaning down to the high upholstered chair by the hearth. “Young Mr. William here to see you.”

Mr. Leslie Ashville, sole owner and proprietor of the Ashville Steel Works, looks molded of lean clay. He’s wrapped in a brocade robe that looks like it hasn’t been washed since the early ‘70s, his head bare save the airy thatch of white hair shrouding the glare of his scalp. Hosea finds him fascinatingly grotesque.

“Good evening, father,” he says, settling in the chair across from Ashville, who acknowledges his presence with a faint hum that turns into a cough.

“Is that you, William?” he croaks, finally, and Hosea leans closer to take his hand.

“I’m here.”

“Thought I saw your mother last night,” Ashville rasps. “Thought I heard her, in the walls.”

“Perhaps it was her spirit,” Hosea offers. “I do believe she’s glad to see us reunited.” There’s a bulk of shadow off behind Ashville’s right shoulder in the general shape of a writing desk. Hosea makes a note, and refocuses his attention on Ashville.

“She was beautiful, your mother,” the old man says, and then he’s off chasing the thread of that long-forgotten memory, a thread that seems to unravel every time he reaches another knot. Hosea plays the dream-weaver, dropping a hint or a suggestion every time he hears the man’s voice falter. It’s fragments he offers the old man, things that could have belonged in any lifetime, things easily forgotten and more easily misremembered: the color of a dress, the fate of an old school friend, the name of a parson or a shopkeeper; always just enough to get Ashville’s feet back under him and send him off along another strand of reminiscence. Together, between Ashville’s dying memory and Hosea’s healthy imagination, the two of them write Leslie and Eleanor’s love story by the light of the fading fire as the evening deepens into night.

The bells of St. Clement’s are chiming ten when it finally happens: Ashville stammers, trails off, and doesn’t look to Hosea for the next line of his memory-fantasy. Instead, his ancient head droops and lolls magnificently, and after a moment’s pause Hosea hears a loud, guttering snore. Ashville’s asleep.

Finally.

Easing himself off the slick horsehair of his seat, Hosea crosses to the shadowy desk he noticed earlier in the evening. It’s a heavy thing, made of rich cherrywood and full of drawers and cracks and pigeonholes. Hosea returns to the center of the parlor for a candle, and sets to work searching the desk, an ear out for the maid’s footstep or a shift in Ashville’s steady, ugly breath.

An hour later, he’s slipping out the front door into the midnight chill, bidding the maid a happy Christmas, with the thin pages of Leslie Ashville’s will flat against his side under his heavy coat. He found the lockbox easily enough, stowed in a deep drawer under a sheaf of old bills and past due correspondence, and five minutes was all it took to break the lock while Ashville snored in his seat ten paces away. The will itself is simple: all Ashville’s wealth and property deeded to his nephew Fred Ashville, the current junior proprietor of Ashville Steel and the devil himself as far as most of the working population of the west side’s concerned. Hosea thinks, as he makes his way down Cherry Street under a soft flurry of snow, that they’ll be doing mankind two services this December: keeping Leslie Ashville company on his trip towards the undiscovered country, and seeing to it that Fred Ashville never prospers again.

The campfire’s burning unusually bright when Hosea makes his way through the last bent hickories of Bachelor’s Grove. At first, Hosea thinks it must be Dutch who’s up, caught in one of those odd brain fevers where he can’t sleep till he’s filled fifty pages with words about God and death and man’s perverse indifference to nature—but when he gets closer he sees that it isn’t Dutch at all. It’s John, hunched gracelessly on one of the logs like a disgruntled little bullfrog, tossing little twigs and dead leaves into the flames to watch them sizzle and smoke. His lips are moving, but from his distance Hosea can’t tell what he’s saying. It occurs to Hosea that he’s spent quite a lot of his time lately in the company of people who talk to the air around them.

That’s the thing that worries Hosea. It’s not the taking him in—they’ve done as much before, and not only with Arthur. Hosea knows what it’s like to be ten and cold and empty as a tomb on Judgment Day, and he’s not about to turn away hungry mouths when there’s room at the fire and enough in the pot to go round. Besides, he’s never regretted letting Arthur stay. But Arthur was fourteen, not twelve, and Arthur didn’t talk to people who aren’t there. Arthur was just a kid whose father hit him too much, and a damn good thief. John’s something else, and after weeks Hosea still isn’t sure exactly what.

Hosea approaches the fire, and John starts, shoving his hands under his armpits as though Hosea just caught him doing something bad.

“It’s late,” Hosea observes.

John shrugs. “I’m not tired.” His eyes are huge in the firelight, and Hosea has the feeling he often gets when John looks at him—that the kid is sizing him up, calculating where to strike if trouble starts.

“I can see that,” Hosea says.

“Is he dead?” John asks. Arthur’s been telling him about the scheme, then. Hosea makes no pretense of sensitivity when it comes to death, but having spent a full evening playing the loving son to Ashville, Sr., he feels a mite put off by the ghoulishness of the question.

“Old Ashville? Not yet,” he says. “Go to bed.”

John doesn’t go to bed. He leans back, firelight catching the ragged ends of his hair, and says, “I seen a fella die once.”

“So have I,” Hosea tells him.

“He was coughin’,” John goes on, undeterred. “Blood was comin’ out of his mouth, an’ out of his nose, an’ all down his shirt an’ then—” he pauses dramatically, gathering a handful of rotting leaves into his grubby hand, “—then he shit in his pants, an’ a whole lot of blood came out his mouth, an’ the lady said he’s really dead now.” He tosses the bundle of leaves into the fire, which sends up a small gasp of muddy smoke. Hosea wonders who the lady was. Wonders where this child’s been, to tell that kind of story.

He doesn’t ask. “You’ve been dreaming,” he says, and it’s less a guess than most of what he spun for Ashville earlier tonight. He’s seen that spooked look before—seen it in Arthur’s eyes when he was barely older than John and still fighting his father off in his sleep; seen it in his cousin’s eyes when he came back from Sharpsburg a leg light and ten times heavier for it; seen it in Dutch, sometimes, too. Hosea knows too well what nightmares look like.

John scrubs at the snot trailing from his nose and shrugs. “I seen it,” is all he says. But he shudders, and his skinny shoulders hunch smaller against the night.

He’s clearly not going to go back to bed, and in a way, Hosea can’t see why he should have to. It’s well past midnight now, but Hosea isn’t tired either. The moon’s high, the air’s quiet, and he’s got a job to do. He might as well have some company while he does it.

“Come on,” he says, waving towards the table. John follows him over, and Hosea draws Leslie Ashville’s will from under his coat and spreads the pages across the pocked wood. John, who can’t read and tried to bite Dutch when he offered a lesson, peers at the frail sheets with the curiosity of a spider inspecting a particularly fearsome fly.

“Now,” Hosea begins, “what we’ve got to do is this.”

iii.

On Christmas Eve, something happens.

John isn’t sure at first what’s happened, only that folks are talking real loud and nobody’s telling him anything, but that’s not new. He goes into the trees and finds a big old stick and hits a stump till it falls into soft, stinking rubble, and stamps in the snow till there’s a flat circle all around. There’s a fat squirrel running around the base of a tree a ways off, and it stops for a minute and sniffs in John’s direction.

“I ain’t smelly,” he tells the squirrel. “An’ I ain’t stupid.”

The squirrel twitches and scoots away, tiny claws on the snow.

“John!” Arthur calls, and John kicks bits of rotten wood across the ground until Arthur comes through the trees. “Get your coat on,” he says, nodding back towards camp; “we’re goin’ into town.”

“Why,” John asks. He thinks about a wagon full of kids, rolling through the iron gates of the orphanage. He thinks he could kill Arthur, if he tried to put him in there. Kick his nuts, put his thumbs in his eyes and squeeze the jelly out, like that fella did to Pa in the bar, get his gun off him and point it to his heart.

If he had to do it, he thinks he could. He’d be sad about it after, though. He likes Arthur.

“Ashville’s dead,” Arthur’s saying. His face is split with a grin; John’s never seen him smile much. “We’re gonna be rich. We’re gettin’ the house.”

“Oh,” John says. He can see the old man in his head, wrinkled and tiny in a house like a tomb, the way Hosea told him the night he came back with that secret pack of papers. Worms in his nose. Gobs of blood pouring, pouring out of his slack, black mouth. “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s a cold ride into town, perched on the back of Arthur’s horse with his arms tight around Arthur’s middle. John can hear Dutch talking up ahead, but the wind’s too quick to hear the words. John probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. He can’t understand half what Dutch says. He’s never met anyone as smart as that. He wonders when Dutch is going to find out that John’s dumb as a rock. Dumb as a rock and the devil in him, that’s what people say. Dutch don’t seem to mind the devil so much, though. John doesn’t know what to think about that.

How exactly they got this house, John still doesn’t understand. Hosea took that dead man’s sheaf of papers, and said we’ll write these out again, and he and Arthur sat at the table for hours inking and scratching till Hosea said it was all perfect, and then there was some meetings with lawyers and magistrates and aldermen, and then it was all done, only the old man weren’t dead. John asked if Dutch was going to kill him, but Dutch just laughed and said I ain’t a murderer, I’m a philanthropist, and Hosea said that’s my old dad you’re talking about, and now John isn’t sure. But Arthur said it’s like a game, don’t you worry, and when the old man dies we’ll take his house, and now he’s dead. John squeezes a little tighter around Arthur’s middle, and tugs himself closer in the saddle.

They’re riding through the grand part of town now, the part where every house has three floors and curly carvings on the windowsills and a pretty little tree out front all its own. John remembers sleeping here one night last summer, after Pa died, in a little stand of apple trees behind one of the mansions. He ate the hard little apples off the ground till his stomach hurt, and fell asleep in a shed, and in the morning an old African man came along and told him to run or he’d be in a pile of trouble, so John ran. He’s scanning the houses as they pass, trying to remember which one it was with the apples and the old man who said to run.

The house where Ashville died is cold, and it smells like dust. John watches Arthur and Dutch and Hosea and Miss Grimshaw striding through the halls, crowing and laughing and saying Shakespeare, and looks to see if he can spot the place where the old man died. But there’s no blood on the floors or the furniture, just warm leather and shiny velvet and wood that gleams like gold when Dutch pulls back the heavy curtains and lets the winter sun spill over the room.

“Merry Christmas,” Dutch booms, and Hosea says “hear, hear,” and John wonders if the ghosts can hear them too.

Arthur takes him upstairs. Upstairs is a row of rooms, each the size of a house, each full of cobwebs and dead beetles and beds with heavy ceilings. Arthur tugs the curtains aside in each room while John sneezes in the bright dust and pokes at the silky wallpaper.

Then Miss Grimshaw comes up the winding staircase and sets them to work, hauling carpetbags up the stairs and beating dust out of the duvets with an old broom from the kitchen. She snaps orders like a policeman and drags John by her iron knuckles to a room at the end of the musty hall and tells him it’s his. John suspects a trap, but Arthur laughs and says I ain’t bunkin’ with you no more, and John understands. After supper that night, when Dutch and Hosea pop open a bottle of wine they found in the cellar and Arthur starts singing and Hosea says John can’t have any wine and Dutch says it’s all right and Grimshaw says it ain’t, John sneaks upstairs to the Room That’s His, and wonders when they’ll drop him at the orphanage.

He’s lying in the dust, watching moonlight crawl over the tall windows, when he hears the voice. It doesn’t sound like Dutch or Hosea or Arthur, but it’s a man, and it’s saying his name.

John.

John stands up. The door to the hallway opens, opens without him touching it, and on the other side’s a man who looks familiar. He’s not tall and he’s not short, with a little mustache and a fancy suit, and his hat reaches towards the ceiling and his eyes are fixed on John’s heart and not his face.

“John,” he says, “I’ve missed you.”

Then his face swells and melts. His eyes are hot black hollows, crawling with white worms, blood pouring out his mouth. John watches the river of black gore, swimming down his front, running over the rich, dusty carpet, the smell of shit rising thick and hot around him, and the man twitches and moans and heaves. Blood pouring out his mouth. John tries to scream and he can’t scream, he can’t breathe, and the smell of blood and shit makes him gag and retch, and the blood keeps coming, a black waterfall streaming from the strange man’s face as he sways and leers and shimmers in the dark.

“John!”

Someone’s holding his shoulders, shaking him. There’s carpet under his feet, warm and soft, and he gags, and hears Arthur say shit.

He opens his eyes. He’s in the dark, in the hallway, and Arthur’s here in a big white shirt with his hair mussed up from sleep. He’s got John by the shoulders, and he’s got an odd look on his face, like something bad is happening, and John wonders if it’s happening to him.

He looks worried, John realizes with a muffled shock.

“You okay?” he’s asking, and John shakes his head before he can think about it. His heart’s beating like an army drum. He thinks he can feel it shaking his whole body. He steps from foot to foot on the swampy carpet, and realizes his pants are wet. “What happened,” Arthur asks.

John’s stomach jerks and twists inside of him. If he tells Arthur the truth, he’ll be gone by morning.

Arthur’s hand’s at the back of his head, in his hair, steady and warm.

“Come on, kid.”

John sucks in air.

“It was him,” he whispers. “It was the devil.”

Blood pouring out his mouth.

Arthur sighs, a little sound that’s almost a laugh, and says, “There ain’t no devil here. You had a dream.” He leans in, smelling like wine and horse, and pats John on the back, one arm around him pressing close, his scratchy chin brushing against John’s forehead. John thinks it’s a hug. He doesn’t know what that means.

“I ain’t good,” John starts to tell him—heart in his stomach, stomach in his throat. “I’m crazy an’ I’m bad an’ I got the devil in me an’ he follows me an’ last year he made me shoot a man till his brains came out through his nose an’ the nuns’ll give me back to him,” but Arthur stops him, hand on his cheek, shaking his head and saying no, no, forget all that, you’re dreamin’, there ain’t no devil and there ain’t no nuns here. You’re home now, John. Forget that.

In the end, Arthur picks John up like he’s a kid, and John’s too tired to complain. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck and lets him carry him down the hall, away from the room with the devil’s blood soaking into the floor and into Arthur’s room, where there’s a heap of orange coals in the hearth and a wooly blanket that Arthur wraps him in once his sodden pants are gone. They sit by the fire, John a mute cocoon and Arthur more than half asleep, and Arthur pulls out his notebook and shows John a funny drawing of a man with an apple for a head.

John thinks about home.

“You’re a good kid,” Arthur says, his voice soft and silly. He’s drunk. “Dutch ain’t gonna send you back, y’know.”

John’s throat aches like there’s someone punching it. His cheeks are hot, lit up by the fire and the tears spilling up and over his eyelids. He can’t answer back. He thinks about a flat plain, gray grass wrinkled by the wind, and a heap of rocks at the edge of a hill. He can’t get the picture out of his head. Can’t get the devil’s voice out of his throat.

“You’re home,” Arthur says, and the warmth of the fire swallows him up, and he sobs into Arthur’s side for a long time.

Down the hallway, in the darkness, the door swings silently open and shut.

#rdr secret santa 2020 #rdr2 #john marston #arthur morgan #rdr2 fic #we got some christmas here and we got some wild handwaving towards the background plot i had in mind but didnt have the energy to write #this really might not make sense but it is gifted with love to my perfect wife

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