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poisonf0rest · 4 months

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𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

The sun has not risen for twenty-six years.

Daysdeath, ragnarök, the eternal eclipse, the final punishment of the Saints, the will of The Great Ones— it matters not what you choose to call it. Its name will not change its nature. Its name will not spare us from the reality that is the world plunged into a never ending night, a never ending Hunt where the only mercy is death.

And even death does not come easy now.

The blood of beast and man run the streets of Yharnam red, and with every passing hour, each one as unchanging as the last, the remnants of humanity dwindle. Perhaps it was the bloodlust that The Hunt inspired that further awakened that beast within man, or perhaps in a final act of desperation man has cast away his own humanity, hoping that would be enough to allow him to survive.

Fools. As if that did not doom them further.

But there are still those that dare fight. These Hunters who call themselves human even as they slay beasts who were once our neighbors and family and lovers. These Hunters hunt humans to save humanity.

Tonight seems to be especially brutal, the ceaseless wails and screams echoing throughout the never-ending darkness. And yet this Hunter does not heed them, his claymore merciless as it severs through flesh and bone, not the cracking of skulls nor the sickening gurgle of blood enough to deter him from his hunt.

Beautiful, horrible, the blood of his prey falling around him as it glows the same unearthly red as his hair.

He does not rest. Wrenching his sword from the ribs of a mutant, the Hunter staggers backward, slipping on the mess of gore and entrails tangled upon the cobblestones, already spotting a pack of Scourge Beasts feasting on what must have been the remains of someone foolish enough to be caught outside tonight.

The Hunter rolls back his shoulders, dragging his claymore to the side as he charges, an arc of blood spraying from the blade as it lodges itself into the thick, furry neck of one of the Scourge Beasts. It screams. The howl shakes the Hunter to the bone, his arms trembling as he fights to free his blade now tangled in the flesh and fur.

The Beast staggers to its hind legs, forcing the Hunter to release the sword's hilt as it thrashes wildly with its enormous paws. Another two are running up behind him. But the Hunter noticed too late. The monster's claws slash into his side, and the force rams him into a nearby wall, smashing through layer after layer of crumbling brick.

The pack is already upon him. Rolling, the Hunter curses as one Scourge Beast snaps its jaws mere inches from his leg, a shot from his pistole blasting through the damned thing's jaw. He shoots twice, thrice, darting between the raging monsters to find his claymore still lodged in the flesh of the first beast, its head hanging off by ripped skin, swinging as it charges once more. The Hunter does the same.

Running straight for it, he fires once more, blasting its left paw to pieces as it skids across the bloodstained ground, the Hunter leaping above it as he lands on his sword, kicking it clean through the beast's spine.

Another annoyed curse leaves the Hunter's scowling lips as he counts the bullets he has left, turning to face the remaining Scourge Beasts.

Three bullets. Four beasts.

The first two charge, tongues drooling out from their rotten mouths as the Hunter darts beneath them, claymore singing as it scythes through the beasts, the pair collapsing upon each other as he finished them off with a single shot. Two bullets.

Turning, the Hunter narrowly dodges another swipe, its claws slicing through empty air as he pulls the trigger. The shot rings true, but not before another set of jaws crunch down onto his shoulder. A snap and blood sprays across his vision, throbbing pain blinding the Hunter as he rams his claymore behind him, throwing both the beast and himself to the ground from the momentum. And with the last burst of strength, he writhes free, shooting the monster through the skull as he kneels in a pool of blood.

"Fuck." The Hunter's left arm hangs, shredded and broken, rendered useless as he pushes himself to his feet using his sword as a brace.

Grimacing, he has no choice but to hobble into the nearest alleyway, clutching his arm as he sheathes his claymore onto his back. Staying out in the open any longer would mean certain death. He needs to find shelter, not to mention a doctor or at least some blood to help him recover. The Hunters were all products of blood transfusions, and yet this Hunter in particular must bear the sin of his lineage, the horrors behind that long-forgotten castle of ice and snow passed down to him. Without blood, his hunger worsens.

The itching at his gums and the prick of fangs against his lip remind him of that. His thirst grows stronger.

Limping further into the alley, a small courtyard emerges, a decaying tree in the center, what looks to be the remains of a forgotten well, and a ladder trailing up to the roof of the houses.

"Well," The Hunter grunts, hauling himself up the first wooden rung with his one functioning arm. "It can hardly be worse than lying out in the open."

Perhaps by luck or perhaps by yet another cruel temptation by the Saints, there waits a balcony door at the far end of the roof. Limping forward, the Hunter rams his foot against the handle, rotten wood splintering at the blow, announcing the Hunter's entrance with a groan. It was dim room, likely an attic or storeroom of the residence— if any humans still occupied it, that is.

Still scanning the area, the Hunter tucks himself into a far corner, leaning against what appeared to be crates of empty beakers and vials. At least, that's all he manages to make out as his sight blurs with each flash of heat and pain. No matter. He wouldn't stay long, only just enough to catch his breath.

Darkness dances across his vision, the left side of his body going completely numb as he only half-registers the trail of blood made from his raw wounds. A laugh, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull. Yes, just a quick breather, a nap, he thinks, losing the battle to consciousness. He shan't be here long.

And with that, his head rolls to the side, and he slips into the cold embrace of death.

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

The Hunter awakens to two things: One, he is still frustratingly alive, his entire body burning like fucking hell.

Two, he is strapped down to a table with a rifle pointed at his face.

He doesn't get to so much as think of moving when the figure before him presses the muzzle of the gun closer. "I wouldn't recommend trying anything," the last word is little more than a growl as the figure leans in, your face illuminated by the overhead surgical light, highlighting your sneer of disgust. "Vileblood."

"I believe there has been some confusion. I was simply seeking refuge." Diluc doesn't bother struggling against his restraints, merely flexing his left hand as he realizes he can control his wounded arm again. He's healing. Slowly, but finally.

Seeing you have yet to relax your hold on the rifle, he clears his throat. "I am a Hunter. I understand you must be frightened, so if you would release me I'll leave your residence at once. I was only looking for an empty place to rest, but evidently, I chose wrong."

"A Vampyr who hunts monsters," You laugh. "Saints. What has the world come to?"

"Hell, by all manners of the word. Now if you'd release me I would leave your premise immediately and return—"

One more hysterical laugh forces its way from your lips, cutting the Hunter off as you shove the rifle forward, burying the barrel into his forehead. "Do you take me for a fool?"

His flesh burns. Diluc hisses through clenched teeth, the skin on his forehead bubbling and bleeding rapidly where it touches the rifle, the gruesome mixture dripping down his face. Silver. Just his damned luck.

Relenting, you prop the rifle up against the table he's chained to, pulling up your coat sleeve to reveal a clean row of puncture wounds along your forearm. The smell of blood and burnt flesh stains the air. "You were nearly sent back to the hell you crawled out of, blood-starved and bleeding out in my attic. I take it my blood saved you just in time."

"So why rescue me, Executioner?"

You grimace. "I am no Executioner, that whole damned Church and you Hunters can go up in flames for all I care. I am a doctor. My oath is to none but the sciences."

Diluc blinks, eyes darting from you, to the rifle, and back to you. "Of course," A scoff. "A doctor."

"Oui, believe it or no, it matters not to me. Truthfully, your appearance is something of a blessing, as I have need of something only you, dear mutant Vileblood, can give me."

Diluc is about to say something of particularly flavorful language when you begin shuffling items on an operating tray, pulling out a scalpel and syringe long enough to make the words dry in his throat. The restraints don't budge. Normally, breaking a set of chains- leather, metal, or otherwise- would hardly be considered a challenge, however Diluc is painfully aware that he hasn't fed in weeks prior to the fight, and the throbbing in his arm and across his body confirms that his body failed to heal itself completely.

Without blood, not only will his strength continue to wither, but so will his control. That means the once mighty Hunter really is entirely at the mercy of some psychopathic, self-proclaimed doctor currently unbuttoning his vest and spreading her hands across his chest, positioning the scalpel just above his heart.

You are just about to make the first incision through the Hunter's pale skin when the door creaks open, twin heads popping out. Two pairs of identical grey eyes stare into the clinic, mops of blonde hair bouncing as they peek out from the doorframe.

"Is breakfast ready yet?"

"I'm hungry and Eileen won't quit hitting me!"

"Liar! Liar! Timmy hits me first, it's true, I swear it."

"It's hit not hits, stupid!"

"Is not, Idiot!"

"Is too, dunce!"

"Lubberwort!"

"Smellfungus!"

"Gollumpus!"

A high-pitched scream. "Take that back! Take it back!"

Diluc watches, stunned, as the children bicker, the heavy atmosphere of the room all but dissipates as they continue to screech and squabble. Then, you stand, sucking in a deep breath— "Silence!"

The echo of the command befalls the room.

"Yes, Miss Doctor."

You pinch your brows, careful not to cut yourself with the scalpel, swearing this alone has eaten away at your already regrettably short lifespan. "Where is Alison? She was on cooking duty today. And do believe I already told the both of you not to interrupt while I am with patients." The twins flinch, looking between each other before their gaze falls on Diluc.

"Do you always tie them up before cutting them?"

"This one is dirty, scary looking. Like an ugly dog!"

Diluc feels a punch in the gut at that one. Children. Blunt as a hammer.

"Yes, he is indeed very ugly." Bitch. "But he is my patient and we are in the middle of a very, very important step in making him feel better. So please, mes petits choux, go find Alison or Edwin at tell them to get started on the food, lest they become it."

"Okay!"

Rattling footsteps echo down the hall, and you finally exhale as the twins scamper off, turning to face a still-bewildered Hunter. You slam the door shut, locking the rusted hinge. "Out with it."

Diluc clears his throat. "Not yours, I presume?"

A snort. "Saints, no. I already told you, I run a clinic... alongside an orphanage, research center, and theater depending on if it's Friday or not."

He fights a smile, something tugging at a memory long forgotten. "Ah. I see."

But there is no longer any lingering hostility, Diluc's arms all but slack against the restraints as the realization dawns on him. "I've placed you all in danger just by being here. Untie me and I'll leave at once, I have already exposed you to my blood for far too long. I refuse to endanger you and the children any further."

And, damn it all, your conscience finally catches up with you.

Cursing under your breath, you slam the scalpel and syringe back down onto the tray, unshackling the Hunter. Diluc is still weary as he sits up, immediately redoing the buttons on his shirt to preserve some modesty, about to make a run for his weapons when he feels a light touch against his shoulder. Contrary to your every action thus far, there you are, hand on his arm, asking silently for him to wait.

You clear your throat. "I already told you, you bloody stupid Hunter, I am a doctor. That means by oath no patient of mine is allowed to leave unless they are fully healed, Vileblood or no. We can skip the... extra procedures for now."

You lift up a box, vials clicking as Diluc picks one up. Blood vials. "I wasn't quite sure how a mutant such as yourself would have preferred it administered— through an injection like the rest of you Hunters or as a drink."

"Either." Diluc feels a prickle against his top gums as he pops off the cork, but swallows the desire down. "Either is effective."

"Very well, then drink."

By the Saints, he doesn't need to be told twice. Mouthful after mouthful, he empties the glass before instinctually reaching for another, feeling the strength return to his limbs, skin and muscle stitching back together on their own, blood coagulating and scabbing over, subduing the beast that dwells inside him once again. He's already thrown aside half a dozen vials by the time he bothers to take a breath. Panting, he wipes his bloodied mouth with his equally bloody sleeve, and you frown at the less-than-sanitary repercussions.

But alas, you suppose when you're wearing the dried blood of beasts akin to a second coat, the cleanliness of it all fails to bother you.

You were so lost in thought you failed to realize the Hunter had disappeared from the operating table, now standing behind you, fully donned in his black coat and hat, already having retrieved his claymore and gun before you could even blink. His voice jostles you, and you unconsciously shift back, reminded once again this man is far from human. "You are far kinder than I deserve." A deep bow, "I am in your forever in your debt."

"That you are, my dear Hunter."

Diluc freezes halfway, snapping his head up as he rises to full height.

"Surely you didn't think I'd give up vials of my own blood for free?"

Your blood. Diluc grimaces, suddenly hyperaware of the taste as it coats his tongue and throat. Heavy. Rich. Fucking addictive. "You're a Hunter so you've got no coin on you, that I'm sure. However, you can help me gather materials. As I mentioned prior I am conducting research," You clear your throat. "On what I cannot allow myself to disclose, but I would appreciate specimens only a gifted killer such as yourself can obtain. And, of course, free-range to test the walking specimen that is yourself."

He pretends not to be bothered by the way you eye him up and down as you say that last part. "Research, huh..." An unamused grunt. "Word of advice, little healer. I wouldn't mess with the Church."

"Doctor."

"Makes little difference to me. The warning still stands."

You scoff. "I know full well that the Healing Church is a far cry from holy, Hunter. After all, they created you." And you don't know what compelled you, but you continued. "That besides, my work is not directly dealing with the Church. I wish to find the truth behind, well, all of this: Ashen Blood, the Beastly Scourge, Vilebloods, the truth of—"

"Quiet." Diluc slams his hand over your mouth, muffling your words as you gasp. Surprise turns to anger as you yell, attempting to claw him off, to no avail. "Do not speak of such blasphemy aloud."

Completely ignoring him, you keep fighting his grasp, almost considering biting his palm before you remember how much filth his gloves must be carrying on them. "Just listen to me for a moment, would you? Quiet." The last word is a hissed whisper, but the ferocity in his glare silence you.

Then, you hear it too.

A rhythmic tapping, a movement of someone or something hopping along the weathered shingles of the clinic's roof. Diluc merely puts a finger to his lips, motioning you to stay put as he unsheathes his claymore in a smooth arch. Silently, he makes his way to a window, leaping out as he disappears into the endless night.

And then he's standing before you. But this time, a dead crow is dangling in his grasp.

The startled shriek from you makes Diluc flinch, and he's about to apologize for the gore when you cut in. "Your ridiculous bird is dripping blood all over my clinic!"

Oh.

"Well my apologies, Doctor. I thought blood would be somewhat commonplace here."

A huff and you inch closer. "Well?" You bend, investigating the crow. Or at least, what you thought was a crow, only it was well-past half your height, monstrously contorted and reeking of decaying flesh. "Why did you feel the need to bring this to me?"

"Carrion Crows. Appear to be rotting, unintelligible creatures, but I've seen far too many come in and out of the Church to believe they are simply wasted pairs of eyes." He meets your gaze and flicks the silver band forged onto the creature's foot. "Your roof just happened to be littered with them."

"Saints."

Diluc grunts, throwing the crow out the window, shaking excess blood from his palms. "As a man of my word I intend to honor our deal, despite your less-than-honorable method of trapping me in it."

"Wait just a moment, I'm not the one who broke into someone else's house half-dead and bleeding while—"

"But call for me, and I will bring you the specimens you require." You scowl as he cuts you off- again- stepping back from pure instinct as he walks towards you. Lifting his hand, Diluc hesitates, arm falling back to his side. He steps away.

You're scared. The smell of fear radiates off you despite your determination to look him in the eye, likely denying that visceral reaction to yourself even now. He can't blame you: if it has fangs and claws and a lust for blood, then surely it must be a beast. He accepted that fact long ago.

"I'll say it once more, stay away from the Church. If not for your own sake, then for the children you care for."

The Hunter had already made his way back to the window, clearly not intending to use the door like a civilized person, when you speak up again, quieter this time.

"It is for them I must continue. There is no future, not for the children nor for Yharnam, unless I find the truth."

Diluc doesn't move. He simply stares at you, finding a conviction, a light in your eyes that he swears he hasn't seen in the decades since this world fell into eternal night. And it terrifies him.

Hope.

"Until then, Doctor."

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin imagines #bloodborne #vampire #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x reader #diluc smut #eldrich horror #poisonwrites

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b-afterhours · 11 months

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Avenue of Sins: Neon

A sequel to Avenue of Sins

SUMMARY: '90s. It's the aftermath. Jaded, Bill and Alma navigate their new lives as they try to drag themselves out of the dark debacherous trenches they had once ensnared themselves in. It's easy to forget their evils when a silver lining introduces itself into their lives but can they create a less hedonistic life that would be just as satisfying?

WARNINGS: adult content, mature readers only.

The completed first series can be read and found here.

Chapter Three

December 1992

Alma was changing Echo into a blue sweater set that had embroidered lambs on the sweater while she waited for Ulyssa to come downstairs the next day. They were going out shopping and her daughter and Bill would stay home together. She was a bit nervous but she kept it to herself when she saw that Bill was much more nervous than she was. She assured him everything would be okay, that it was the same as any other day caring for her. It didn’t seem to put him at ease though.

“Yeah but what if-”

“No, nothing will happen,” she interrupted him. She didn’t need him second-guessing his parenting, especially not now because she had been looking forward to shopping. She was tired of shopping at the thrift or department stores full of dowdy clothing in Seattle. She picked up Echo and kissed her head. “Tell Papa you won’t give him any trouble today,” she said in her ear. She smiled and reached out for him. “See. She’ll be a good girl today.”

He held her in his arms with a grin on his face and she rested her head on him. “She’s always good. Okay… just us two then. Could you take a pager with you at least?”

They began walking out to the living room to meet Ulyssa but Bill stopped her and asked her to follow her into their room first. He walked over to the nightstand with Echo still in his arms and grabbed his wallet.

“I know you don’t like me to open this when your friend’s here,” he smirked thinking Alma was silly for not liking him to flaunt their money when it was quite obvious they had the means. He took a wad of cash from inside and gave it to Alma. “Happy shopping.”

“I have my own you know.”

“Don’t start a pissing contest, love.” He said happily watching her put it in her purse anyway. “Find me something nice, too. Something, lace or sheer.”

“I don’t think the lingerie department has your size?” Alma joked.

Bill smirked and shook his head. “Can you just say thank you and kiss me now?”

…

Alone in the living room, Bill gazed at Echo asleep on his lap bundled in a blanket. He brushed her hair back and thought to himself. These past weeks she had been home with him and caring for her he couldn’t help but wonder what his mother would think of him now. Compared to his awful carousing father she was a saint on earth. He couldn’t remember much about her because she had passed away when he was only six years old but his remaining memories of her always felt warm. She would have been a terrific grandmother to Echo despite how he turned out. He might have even turned out better if she were still alive. He hated to think that in a lot of ways he was like his father but when it came to his daughter that was far from the truth.

Deep down it infuriated him because what his father put him through wasn’t deserved like he thought so growing up. That maybe he was just a defective child. There were times in his adult life when he still felt like the kid who was locked in the basement cellar and had to sleep on cold damp filthy ground because he had complained that he was hungry. Even the scar on his cheek he earned as a teen when his father threw a beer bottle at his head but it burst on the wall behind him when he ducked yet a piece of amber glass ricocheted cutting him. Who could berate and belittle and beat their flesh and blood in that way? He couldn’t even fathom it. He had dwelled on what his father did to him and his brothers for far too long. Once Echo was in his life he tried to look in deeply for the memories of his mother instead. It was painful but necessary. It taught him more about himself, that he could be a father in the same way he was mothered.

That neglect and the loss of his mother is why he attached himself to Myrna when he was much younger. She didn’t judge him and she saw what a good kid he really was deep down. She knew his brash rudeness was a wall amongst many walls he had created to protect himself. He recalled a time when he was caring for her in her last days when she said he would make a good father one day. He brushed it off then, never intending for that to happen to him in his lifetime. Why would he want to continue his unpleasant lineage? When Alma came along again, they hadn’t ever spoken of having children. They liked their hedonistic freedom. He wondered if she had stayed in New York and told him that she was pregnant from the very beginning if he would ask her to terminate it. And he hated knowing that he most likely would have – mostly out of fear – had that been the case. It didn’t matter how much he loved Alma. It was probably another reason as to why she stayed away, he thought, because she knew.

Echo was here now and he wouldn’t want it any other way. He wondered if Alma would want another kid. From what she told him she had a hard arduous labor from the sound of it, it seemed unbelievably unbearable to want to go through again. He wasn’t so sure if he did but the thought of doing it again excited him in more ways than he wanted to admit. If Alma said yes, he decided then that he wouldn’t mind. If she said no, that was okay too.

As the day grew darker and colder he wondered where Alma and Ulyssa could be. Surely, they couldn’t still be shopping but they very well could be. It was the holiday season after all. Echo was sitting on the rug playing with her toys while a children’s show played on the TV. She wasn’t paying attention and being a bit bored Bill grabbed the remote to surf the channels. Echo screeched and looked at him with much offense.

“Ah?! Papa?” She said pointing at the TV she had been ignoring.

Bill sighed and put it back on the children's show for her to just ignore again. He decided to get up and grab the phone that sat in a little niche in the hallway and call Bianca to catch up on the club happenings. When she finally answered, she sounded a bit exasperated on the line. Bill checked the time on the large clock that sat over the fireplace, it was much too early for her to sound like she did.

“I was dealing with the bar supply guy,” she explained. “Something about their warehouse is back-ordered and we only got half our booze in.”

“What? Are they fucking crazy!?” Bill ran his hands through his hair now feeling the exasperation Bianca was feeling. It was the holidays and they couldn’t afford to be understocked when there was money to be made.

“Queenie absolutely lost it on the delivery guy. The only thing we thought of is sending some security out and having them buy out some other stores?”

“Shit, yeah,” Bill said as he anxiously fiddled with the telephone cord. “Yeah if that’s the only option, it will have to work for now.”

“Is Alma around? She used to talk nice with the liquor supply owner maybe she could pull somethin’?”

“Nah, she’s out with her friend. Shit… I’ll page her. But have the guys go and buy out where ever just in case. We’ll make the money back off that regardless.”

Alma and Ulyssa were on 5th Avenue looking through racks while other shopping bags hung from their arms when she heard the pager beep. She excused herself and walked up to a cash counter asking them to borrow their phone. Though hesitant, they obliged.

“Is everything okay,” she asked once Bill answered.

“No! I mean yes! Echo is fine,” he said pinching the bridge of his nose out of stress. “She’s okay.”

“You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!” She said with a hand on her chest trying to settle the spiked heart rate he gave her while ignoring the looks she had gained from other shoppers. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry! But there's an issue with the liquor shipment at the club. They only brought half of what we had ordered. I was wondering if you could talk to the warehouse owner for me?”

Alma sighed. “Did they say something bogus like it’s on back order?”

“They did. Has this happened before?”

“Forth of July in ‘88. He says that shit to upsell. Putting whatever is on ‘backorder’ as a rush order. Yeah, I’ll talk to him page me his number.”

Alma laid the phone back on the counter with so little as a thank you. She looked for Ulyssa and asked her if was okay by herself while she found a pay phone. She decided to follow her friend instead and stood by a bit as she called a number and began speaking sweetly to someone on the other line. It was even a bit overly flirtatious. She had heard Alma on the phone speaking to customers on the phone with a more jovial professional demeanor unless they were rude of course but this was different.

“Aww, that’s so sweet. Oh, I would love to see that Hank,” she lustfully hushed into the receiver. “Thank you so so so much. Oh and you too, Merry Christmas!” She sneered when she hung up the phone harshly. “Alright, sorry about that,” she said turning around to her friend. “You want to leave these bags with Ricky and grab something to eat?”

They found themselves at a queer dive bar that served food once they left their things with Ricky, the chauffeur Bill had gotten for them. Both of the girls discussed that they were almost tired of eating such big meals while shopping so they each shared an order of fries and had a hot dog. They ordered beers and sat by the window as the place slowly filled for karaoke night. This time Ulyssa insisted on paying. She hadn’t spent a single dime besides the fare for the subway and little souvenirs since being in the city. Alma let her, she knew her friend only wanted to do at least one nice thing after she had taken her shopping.

“Are you liking your time here so far,” Alma asked after a rambunctious drag queen dressed as an anthropomorphized Christmas tree opened the karaoke night performing a rendition of Wham’s holiday hit, Last Christmas.

“Hella fun! And thank you so much! Bill too. I almost don’t want to leave,” she giggled. “I think the last thing I want to do is go to a Broadway show?”

“Definitely! We can hopefully make that work,” Alma said after finishing her beer. Luckily, a server was walking around then and they ordered another round plus shots.

They were enjoying the karaoke surprisingly it seemed they were in a place full of decent singers. Though there was no doubt that the singing would get worse the more people became drunk. Alma could feel herself getting a bit tipsy and she looked over at Ulyssa who looked a little bit more drunk than her.

“You want another and we can go home?” She suggested.

“I put my name on the waitlist for the mic remember?”

She did not so she just nodded. She excused herself to go order themselves another beer and when she turned around with drinks in hand she bumped into a tan tall man with dark curls and her body went cold. She felt like she had seen a ghost.

“Fuck!” She said recoiling causing the liquid in the glasses she was holding to slosh around and spill out some.

The man looked down at her perplexed by her startled reaction. He was standing a bit close but it was a small bar, it wasn’t intentional. “I’m sorry miss… I’ll step out of your way.”

Alma straightened up and glanced back up at him for a second. He was just a young college student. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Craig. It couldn’t be. “Sorry, uh, thanks.”

When Alma came back with the drinks she noticed Ulyssa taking a shot by herself. “Where’d you get that,” she asked concerned.

“That guy over there gave it to me,” she pointed to a dark corner of the bar where there was no one. And after her fraught experience at the bar, that spooked her a little bit.

“Ulyssa you shouldn’t take shit from people you don’t know?!” When she said that the server from earlier had passed them by an overheard.

“Oh, I’m sorry it was me, girl.” He said pushing his hair behind his ear. “It was a wrong order and I offered it to her.”

Alma nodded relieved about that but the shot wasn’t going to help Ulyssa in her state regardless if it was spiked or not.

“Can I ask you something?” Ulyssa said a bit slurred but straightened up trying to gain some composure.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Is Bill in the mob or something?”

Alma laughed. “No, he’s not. He’s not Italian either.”

“Ha! Ha!” Ulyssa sarcastically responded. “I don’t know there’s something…” she trailed off. “I was talking to my cousins yesterday and they went to this bar, right? And I think I know?”

“Know what?” Alma asked fishing for her next assumption.

“You know like I believe women should be free to express themselves and make a living however they like so I’m not judging okay? I’m not judging!” Ulyssa stressed.

“So you’re cousin’s told you then?” Alma nervously sipped her beer.

“No! I figured it out when my young cousin Luca said he drank a shit ton of Alma’s at a strip club the night before.”

Alma’s heart fell to her ass for the third time that day. Bill was right she wasn’t as naive or oblivious as she assumed. She knew about that drink. Queenie had added it to the bar menu in her absence as a form of respect for taking over her position.

“And I know you used to be a bartender,” Ulyssa continued. “But I get it, okay. If you used to dance I would never judge you for that!”

“What?” Alma tossed her head back in confusion.

“Wait,” Ulyssa took a deep breath and rubbed her brow. She was getting her thoughts crossed. “Fuck I’m drunk. I didn’t mean that. I mean Bill, he works there?”

“Um, yeah… that’s his business. That’s how he makes a living.”

“Holy fuck. Alma, why did you think you’d have to keep that from me?”

“Well, it’s not really an easy topic, you know?” She said gulping her beer as did her friend. “I hope you won’t look at Bill differently now that you know. He’s still the same person he’s been this whole time you’ve been around him.”

Ulyssa’s eyes were heavy then, she could hardly keep her head up. Alma sighed and all that she could hope for was that she would be too drunk to remember any of their conversation the next day.

“Um, how ‘bout we finish these beers?” Alma proposed.

“Huh? Right right,” Ulyssa nodded.

They arrived home a little past midnight. Bill answered ready to thank Alma for getting their other half of the liquor shipment delivered to the club until he saw her struggling to hold Ulyssa up on her feet.

“Jesus,” Bill said amused. “What happened?”

“She’s a lightweight, obviously. Could you help?” Alma said straining to keep her upright.

Ulyssa could only keep one eye open enough to focus and she said hi to Bill when she finally noticed his presence but then she was out again. Ricky walked in to set up their shopping bags by the entrance and left on his way just as quickly.

“I’m going to pick you up,” Bill told Ulyssa and scooped her in his arms before she could agree to it but it didn’t seem like she could anyway. Alma hurriedly collected two bottles of water from the fridge and some snacks and met them again in the hallway.

“Are you drunk?” Bill asked peering down at Alma.

“Eh a little,” she shrugged but she had a silly grin on her face. “She knows about you. Like where you work.”

“You told her?”

Alma shook her head. “She figured it out.”

“Well, I thought you said you didn’t care if she knew or not.” They stopped just before reaching the back stairs and Bill repositioned Ulyssa so that half of her slung from his shoulder while he held her legs so he could walk up the stairs better. Alma followed behind. She helped Bill gently lay her down on the edge of the bed. Almost as if they were dealing with an oversized baby though flashes of them rolling Craigs' body in plastic came to mind but they shook those memories away. Bill grabbed the small bin by the nightstand put it next to her on the floor and turned her head towards it while Alma took her shoes off.

“Well?” Bill said putting his hand on his hips as Alma covered her with a blanket. “Do you or do not care if she knows?”

“I don’t. I just want her to see who you are outside of that. I want her to see you the way I do.”

Bill pulled her in for a hug. They looked back once before leaving down the stairs and it looked like she’d sleep stiff the rest of the night.

“I get it, okay,” Bill said watching Alma get out of her clothes to take a shower.

“It’s just, you’re sort of a different person there. Hell, even I am. It’s just how it is in that environment.”

“Can I get in with you?” He asked even though he was following her right into the shower across the hall as he undressed behind her.

He didn’t even follow her for sex. He could tell she was more drunk than she was letting on with how she was cautiously taking her steps but they just looked awkward to someone sober as he was. Most times she could get away with it – she could be pretty high functioning while drunk – but he knew her. She let him wash her hair and a couple of times she would place her hand out on the shower wall to rebalance herself. The liquor was hitting her suddenly, she thought maybe it was the steam of the shower making it worse. Bill hurried so that she could go and lay down while he finished showering himself.

Bill walked into the bedroom and dried himself off with a towel and he was surprised Alma remained awake drinking a glass of water in the light of the red marquee. He had expected to see her passed out.

“How much did you drink,” he lightly chuckled slipping into bed next to her.

“I didn’t eat well enough, that's all,” she sighed laying her head on her pillow and facing him. “How was Echo? Not so bad right?”

Bill smiled. Earlier in the evening while Echo was playing with her toys he was making himself a hearty sandwich for dinner and had gotten momentarily distracted. He felt too comfortable because he could see right into the living room from the kitchen. He noticed suddenly it was too quiet and when he looked up he saw her little hands digging in the edges of the fireplace. Luckily, he hadn’t turned it on that day but she had managed to run soot through her hair, rubbed it in, and was licking it off her little hands. He was a bit appalled because surely that had to taste disgusting but she didn’t seem to think so by the way she gleefully giggled to herself. He quickly went to her and moved her away which only made her cry revealing her blackened mouth. He figured she had to be hungry if she was eating soot but also she needed a bath so her mother would never know of this incident.

“She’s an angel,” he smiled.

~~~

Ulyssa woke up with an awful taste in her mouth and her head pounding almost as if it were expanding. As she slowly moved her stiff body she winced as she sat upright on the edge of the bed and suddenly felt nauseous. She noticed the trash bin next to her ducked her head inside it and vomited. There wasn’t much in her stomach to purge but she felt better. Embarrassed she tied off the trash bag in the bin and brought it with her to the bathroom to stuff into the bin in there. Weakly, she brushed her teeth and she could hear Echo babbling loudly from downstairs and her parents laughing and speaking to her. Her anxiety kicked in then. She could hardly remember last night. She vaguely remembered leaving the dive bar but had no recollection of coming home. However, she could partially remember that Alma confirmed her suspicions. Bill owned a strip club, it didn’t matter how drunk she had gotten she couldn’t forget that.

She started to draw a bath when the phone rang in the room. It sat on a small stand in the loft area by the loveseat. Hesitantly, she left the bathroom and was just about to pick up the receiver when it stopped ringing. What she didn’t know is that from below Alma could see her shadow cast on the ceiling and so she called out to her from the living room.

“Ulyssa? Are you okay,” she asked.

“Uh, yeah I just need to, get my bearings I guess,” she said peeking her head out from the loft. Alma smiled at her as she held the phone and she saw Bill looking at her while Echo stood on his lap and pulled his ear which made him flinch because she tugged at the thin gold hoop he wore in it. She was surprised to see that they had erected a freshly chopped Christmas tree next to the fireplace.

“That’s okay. Take your time,” Alma assured.

Ulyssa lazily walked back to the bathroom with a bottle of water and graham cracker snacks and turned the tub faucet off. Though she was moving slowly she eagerly undressed and settled into the warm bath. She sighed with relief but her anxiety loomed over still. She felt like an idiot. These people invited her into their home and all she did was pry. She usually wasn’t a nosy person but curiosity got the best of her. What right did she have to dig into their private lives? Sure, Alma and her were friends but she didn’t have to know every single detail of her life and because of that she felt so juvenile.

Down below the family was lounging around the living room. The TV was broadcasting some old black-and-white Christmas movie which Bill muted to turn on the radio to have music lightly play. Meanwhile, Alma unboxed ornaments as she sat on the rug with Echo by her side inquisitively watching on.

“How’d she look,” Bill inquired when he sat down on the couch and Alma scooted to sit between his open knees. He was just about to flatten the empty boxes to feel included before Alma stopped him reminding him that they’d be reused after the season.

“I don’t know,” Alma sighed. “A bit haggard. She’ll be fine though.”

“Does she usually get wasted?” He lightly laughed.

“Not really,” she said resting the back of her head on his knee, and looked up to speak to him. “We’ll have a beer or two after work sometimes but I’ve heard stories from Ash. The first time I ever hung out with her outside of work she invited me to go hiking.”

“You went hiking,” Bill said surprised, running his hand through her hair affectionately.

“It’s what people do there,” she laughed. “But it was fine because she offered me shrooms and it kicked in when we got to this cute little hidden stream. I just kind of laid there looking up at the canopy of trees and it felt like I sunk into the earth. I was like that for like two hours.”

“Okay, I see why you went then,” he chuckled.

“But yeah, I didn’t know she got down like that until then so she’s not a big square. I just wonder what she remembers from last night?”

“Maybe I should just talk to her?” He asked looking up towards the loft for a moment. “Whenever she comes down.”

“Yeah, just keep it surface level. She dabbles but she doesn’t do hard stuff. She doesn’t need to know all that.”

“You told me her cousins told her about the place maybe she already knows?”

Alma paused. She should have dug into what Ulyssa knew more when she had the chance last night. “Maybe. But if they know their cousin probably not.”

“What is the deal with everyone treating her like she’s twelve years old? She’s like what 23? She’s not naive.”

“She’s 24 but yeah I know. But not everyone needs to be fucking corrupted like us.”

“I suppose...” Bill sighed.

Alma handed him some sparkling crystalline ornaments of various sizes and shapes and then grabbed her share after Bill helped her to her feet. “You cover the top and I’ll cover to bottom,” she instructed. “When it sounds like she’s coming down, I’ll fuck off and you can talk to her. Just say I’m wrapping presents, it won't be a lie.”

“Besides what I asked you to get me yesterday. Did you get me anything else?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Only if you got me something?” She winked.

~~~

She was chugging the second bottle of water upstairs after fixing her hair. After the bath, Ulyssa walked out to the balcony, pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands, and held herself as she inhaled deeply. The cold air settled her head but she missed how crisp and earthy the air in Seattle was this city smelled like motor oil and garbage. Finally, she mustered up the courage to finally go downstairs. Passing the alarm clock she noticed it was a little past two in the afternoon.

It was fairly quiet downstairs until she descended the back stairs and could hear faint music playing as she walked down the hallway. She spotted Echo giggling past as she ran from the kitchen to the living room with her stuffed bunny in one hand and a piece of cheese gripped in the other. When she turned to her left she saw Bill looking into a crockpot full of what smelled like pot roast. He turned his head when he noticed her standing at the threshold and he flashed her a dimpled smirk.

“Hey, you feeling better?” He said resting his hands on the other side of the island where he stood.

Ulyssa snickered a bit embarrassed. “Uh yeah kinda. The tree looks nice,” she said pointing at it with her thumb.

“Thanks, I don’t think I’ve had a tree up in a few years. We have aspirin?” He quickly suggested walking towards a cupboard behind him and he was glad that Ulyssa took it upon herself to grab a bottle of water from the fridge herself. He felt a bit awkward being alone with her. He relied on Alma’s cues regarding her friend the whole time she was with them and now he was left to his own devices. He slid the tablets across the island towards her when Echo ran past her and up to his shins tapping them.

“Papa. Sheese?”

He laughed when he heard Ulyssa laugh and cut another piece from the cheese he had out on a cutting board on the island. She gleefully ran back to the living room after.

“She so stinkin’ cute. She’s grown up a lot being here I think. When she was born you could just tell she’d have a big personality.”

Bill scratched his stubbly mustache uncomfortably. “Ah yeah,” he nodded.

“Sorry, I uh-”

“It’s okay. Well… not really but that situation isn’t your fault,” he turned around again and grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and decided to make coffee. Alma could wait a little if she finished wrapping presents.

He invited her to sit with him at the dining table. He angled the chair at the head of the table towards the living room so he could keep an eye on Echo while Ulyssa sat to the left of him in his eyeline. She was nervously holding onto her warm coffee mug.

“Where is Alma,” Ulyssa asked.

“She’s wrapping presents in our room,” Bill said taking his focus off his daughter to look at her. “So I just wanted to say, ah, thank you. For how you helped Alma when she was pregnant and how you and Yolani have helped with caring for her like you do. I’m glad Alma had someone.”

“Oh. Thanks. I could just tell… she needed someone.”

Bill took a sip from his mug to swallow the lump in his throat.

“She told me at the time, that you two had broken up?” Ulyssa continued.

“Mhmm,” Bill responded. It was a lie, Alma told her. “It was a lot of things,” Bill shrugged and wished that he had a cigarette right then. “I heard you figured out where I work?”

Ulyssa gazed down into her caramel-colored drink. “Yeah…”

“I’m sorry if that may offend you,” he really wasn’t he didn’t care if she approved or not but for everyone’s sake he’d play nice. “I think Alma was worried about revealing that because people generally have terrible preconceived ideas about strip clubs.” And they’re mostly right, he finished in his head.

“Right,” Ulyssa nodded. “But I wouldn’t have cared either way. I would have still been Alma’s friend. And I get how people think but I don’t think it’s anyone’s right to judge how a woman should and can earn money. Female sensuality is constantly under scrutiny and overly regulated.”

Bill was slightly prepared to hear her feminist interpretation of his establishment but he had to agree. “You know I inherited it from an old friend? She was a vaudeville dancer way back. Her name was Myrna.”

“Echo’s-”

“Middle name,” he finished for her and nodded. He loved that Alma gave her the middle name but he must admit that it was a bit dated he thought it fit enough to juxtapose the unconventional first name at least. “It was kind of a dump once it was given to me. It had some challenges here and there but I built it back up and once I and my business partner Bianca merged we remodeled this past year and it looks fucking great if I say so myself,” he said smiling.

“Do you think I’ll be able to visit while I’m here?”

Bill was surprised to hear that, he wasn’t expecting her to actually want to go for whatever moral principle she had. Just then Echo ran to him with her fist out so he put his palm outwards and she dropped a balled-up piece of soggy cheese in his hand.

“All done,” she said as she ran off back to her toys.

“She’s a little crazy, isn’t she?” Bill laughed placing the ball of cheese next to his mug. “Um well, I’ll have to talk to Alma about that. We have Echo so…”

“Right, right I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I don’t have a problem with it at all.” This was actually the best-case scenario for him. He had been throwing bread crumbs trying to convince Alma to go to at least see the new renovations. He had built a whole new loft that sat above the bar and he wanted to show it off. “Do you mind watching Echo for a moment?” He said rising from his chair.

Once Ulyssa delegated herself to the living room to play with Echo she had run off and tried to follow her father. He scooped her up, kissed her on the cheek, and brought her back placing her next to Ulyssa.

He assured his child that he’d be right back and then paused a moment. “Do you think sometimes you could tell me more? About, you know, how she was when she was smaller and how Alma was? She’s told me plenty but… I’d like to know it outside of her perspective too. Objectively.”

Ulyssa looked up at him and nodded. “Yes of course.”

Bill excused himself, turning back a few times to make sure his daughter wasn’t following him. When he knocked he heard Alma yell at him to hold on a second. He could hear paper crumpling and her walking around the room trying to gather things.

“Okay, come in.”

He slowly opened the doorknob peeked his head in and saw her rerolling wrapping paper.

“Don’t look in the closet,” she said to him. Once he closed the door behind him she spoke again. “So… was she fine with it?”

“Um yeah, she’s actually pretty chill about it.”

“I knew she would be but thank god.”

“She asked me to take her to Trigger Finger.”

Alma’s eyes widened in shock and then she looked highly annoyed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

#my bill writings #bill skarsgard #avenue of sins #aos neon #aos

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aoicourier · 3 months

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October 31st, 2281

I'm writing this from REPCONN, trying to tune out the triumphant pre-war music that keeps playing on a loop from every single speaker in the building.

Jason Bright and his Bright Brotherhood have set off on their Great Journey. I hope they get to the Far Beyond like they hoped, and didn't just spiral into the ground a few miles away and explode. I suppose they're in the Far Beyond either way.

Sorry, Pip, I'm getting ahead of myself. It's been a long day. Let me think back to how it started.

When I woke up, I sought out Boone, who was still on sniper shift in Dinky the Dino's mouth. I asked him if he'd join me for a while, since it seems likely I'll be coming into conflict with Caesar's Legion again before long, and (in the short term at least) our interests may align. He was reluctant at first, but eventually agreed. I took him with me to Clark Field, a short distance from Novac, to track down the radioactive fuel that Chris needed for the Brotherhood's rockets. I thought it'd be a good trial of our ability to work together.

Clark Field was so radioactive that I could feel it in my flesh as we approached. I told Boone to hold back and cover me, dosed myself up on Rad-X to resist the worst of the radiation, and waded in. Huge mutant geckos infested the area, but Boone picked them off from a distance while I tore them apart with my shotgun. I found the man who had purchased the fuel nearby, stone cold dead, still in his yellow radiation suit. Not sure which killed him first: the geckos, or the radiation. Luckily, the container of fuel was undamaged, and I was able to retrieve it.

As we returned to Novac, I asked Boone a few questions. He's a man of few words, uninterested in talking about himself or his past. I can respect that. Then I threw up. By the time we got back to town, I was sweating and vomiting profusely. Damned radiation sickness. Threw another 100 caps at the town doc for some RadAway, and started to feel human again. Maybe I'll wake up as a ghoul tomorrow, who can say.

On the subject of ghouls, I left Boone in town and headed back to REPCONN to deliver the rocket fuel to Chris. Now that they had all that they needed for the Great Journey, Jason Bright made a grand speech thanking Chris and I - humans - for helping his kind. He declared Chris a Saint, and then he and the other ghouls began to board the rockets. Chris, finally realising that he was human after all, was livid at first, saying he'd been used, that the human race hated him and he didn't want to live among them again. But I told him to give life in Novac a try, and he said he would. He left me behind to handle the launch. It took me a while to find the launch platform, but when I did, I hit the button without hesitation.

Off in the distance, the dome opened up, triumphant music began to blare from wall-mounted speakers, and three giant rockets spiralled off into the night sky, carrying the Bright Brotherhood to their final destination, wherever it may be.

It's too dark to travel now; there are still feral ghouls wandering the nearby wasteland, those who succumbed to madness before they could go on the Great Journey with their leader. I've decided to stay in Bright's lab until morning. I managed to disable one of the speakers blaring music, but there are many others that I can't even find. Hopefully I'll be able to get some sleep… tomorrow, we begin making plans to move on.

#fallout #new vegas #roleplay #journal

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libidomechanica · 2 years

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To fetch in the poet

A curtal sonnet sequence

Of all heroes. Toot, toot! To fetch in the poet is whirl’d into the greatnes of death; and singing light, or his pulse, or even at night he lives is holy! And saints— a laugh, a cry, the blinks o’ Earn, and o’er the slave it in my head, which we no more, let me see us whole, beside! Blew, with grace man, always face, thoughts of life is gone. Did thus some days. Pleasure and her jewels, to the red heart of lies; my foe outstretched swindler’s lie?

But did refrain because it never flinch when some stanzas back. The white thornless when she turn’d to waft here, a fleeting vision, thus I will color the devil’s line, no static beam—More like the gallant came next valley, crown’d by his sight of Phœbe served to greet, Weep no more, for why should Arthur’s reign— back to tell us women need I was found its mouth will surely dead; you still pudding and drinking sweet of sorrows on the coming.

By interest and village free, and her honey and the breast with your first half: leave the women most destroys, and wisdom’s Quixotic, and a wretched swindler’s lie? Tell me, what could give no more, because this island dwelt with reasons rare, that this island dwelt but half an hour too slow, his man of honey has a dash of a harsh and crush it under the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, when I kiss thy garments doen, which is, of course!

Is mostly stranger who knows how? The brief night,—without a Single seasonable months hence! On the still true brought so foul a crone was construe is amo, I love the fair; the ornament. ’Ve done, spread out an infant-stare a moment so that when com’st thou wilt, as thoughts o’ the clamour of six. As if t would bring in poesy, unless that draws is a love I bore to be the tree; the wife: the maids are broken board her in.

Large acquaintance tells me when pyramids, as mortal river. And crush it understand my own meaning back to old that wants to me, and he answered to him the only sad one; for freshly blew the early morning. How I have dances appear to never bound and bind a heart to me? So ill, to see pearl garland winds her height, has flown, come back to you. Washed by the banquet and Madeira strong necessity comes too late.

Be heir it, than what good newes know: is it peace be to my tale. So if, my dear, its neighbour that same year were stable, wi’ thee, in sack of such a life will be to plucks me by the impure scourge; they not claim the great tactician, and complying wife: the mair they have treated me who have years ago when I’m with skin stretched over Theotormon’s Eagles at her fit, as passions serve a knight answer his locks, had a mother groand!

Determine his silenced him whipped—how have I invoked the city listening which none were wont on wastfull hylls to sing the silent shore the Adonian feast; whereof this boy. Your bra and I need to full perfect rows where it but with fine Conceits, all her shame. The old choral wall: others rose that purple and I rose up at thy pictures, or gazing on the day, and a palpitating soft, were once more a woman of the sea.

True, the gloom of a coterie; also because and since there’s the wild thyme and yet has been elsewhere the trophy, and like halfway summiting Everest. He lights; and try to add; and last, has flown, come back from the wat’ry floor mocks your epitaphs our fair cheeks, of mild silver current glide, and follow the race? Its dwell: at entrance Theotormon once his judge’s joke for convent, studied the lava ravish’d, she three, I feel whole.

For you should I, after hastely let you shuddering air, rend away the creed and we drop scent the butter fire is bright as Love’s school, its dwelling-place of flesh, I can’t get our frail deeds might drown all lie. Prayer, both her breath, to their extreme verge the prouder o’ the Crucifix was only object, His works are here the moth for the dreary Fuimus’ of all-judging Jove; as he durst love, you believe in Heaven, far removed.

Car nor the shock of cataract seas that I feel, across my fingernails are they would not becomes a fee; mine eye or ear of seeming, Juan’s company is Heaven’s high-prompting: not that good instructed wrong to endure till I have known them to the walls: this my object, His works—paint it the woods, we sprinkled holy voice! The fireworks blistered and the skies their lady he swung, so little linnet fondly dream of Camelot.

Did he stolen light—or darkness, bound to kill or save. Moorland hill. But these, how hard as his motives, who for longer than twelve sainted. No time hath some melodie the least partake all night of Intelligence; prudence at eye level: spatter of Wisdom or her tenderness, which, having a friendship, love, of having Love upon the evening faire Beauty, life, and full of the gear that loosely flew her zone in sight; mine ransom me.

Himself is mild, that’s call my pain, till be bards: thought of vintage! We held break, and the ground. Still would I see; my forces razde, thy lieutenancie to this sweete Art can be shown, a vestal shrine, god being stupid, for I will drink to Ovid, and surfeit day by day, till pudding and drink. For by some had a mother, she is new, and married at an Eleventh to the time to her all your lips, if thou a nymph! From the bank must thing.

And General Fireface, famous Druids, lie, nor long locks, the churchyard over my troubles. Which to the Grotesca—such as true to nature, long milk-bloom of life in thine and yet the Southern autumns and outfalls from the spring gush’d through thou art blamed shall call forgotten, and religion, the long years could there suspicion now had bene vext, if vext I had a mother, there, long have wived. You need no danger, for pity!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #184 texts #curtal sonnet sequence

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enhyia · 2 years

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Yang Jungwon vs Reader - CHAPTER 1

Kill the saint

Genre: Thrill, Action, Detective.

Summary:Yang Jungwon is the most beautiful, most wise, most trusted,most responsible, most of all, he’s the most angelic person anyone can describe. But what lies beyond the skin? Flesh. You don’t know his flesh, you can only see his skin but never his flesh, everyone can only see the Yang Jungwon what they want to see. However, you, who thinks you know all tried to prove to everybody that, this saint is lying, he’s a devil. Have he killed his parents? Maybe. Have he killed his aunt? Possible. Have he killed a classmate? Not sure. Have he killed your parents? Perhaps. Did he kidnapped you and tortured you? ……

.No one believed you when you ask for help.

You have to kill the saint.

Warning : Murder, Death, Psychopathy, Torture, abuse.

Note: unfortunately they will not fall in love. And I changed this to a short series for atleast three chaps, cuz my plans didn't go well and some scenarios are added from what I was originally imagining, so yeah, it's not a oneshot anymore, sorry.

Y/n have been standing in the hall for five minutes now looking at the ranking board terrified. It's probably lying, how is that possible? They must've been cheating, no one was able to surpass you before, how come someone is better than you now? You're the genius, you're the smarty-pants no one can mess with within this School, so who is this guy Yang Jungwon? Who is he? Y/n has never heard that name before, until now.

" Excuse me please" a voice called, passing through the crowd of students, making his way to the ranking board.

"Jungwon!! I can't believe you surpassed S/n, no one was able to do that since Junior high." A female voice said, which made Y/n move her head to the side and saw where the voices came from.

"Anyway, congratulations!! It's really a great achievement, your mom's probably so proud of you," said the girl. Looking at them, you saw how this guy has a smile, he looks calm and you hate it, you hate that he surpassed you, you hate how proud looking he is, when he obviously stole that position to you. While your eyes are on him, his eyes swift to your side and met yours in straight two seconds, you broke the intense eyes contact by looking at the ranking board once again and continue your day.

It's been a while since that incident, and the name Yang Jungwon is now well known all over your school. How annoying, you think, It's just because you surpassed my rank and nothing more, so why the hell is everyone hovering over you like you're some kinda god to worship?

He's known for being kind, for being smart, for being handsome and cute, for having lots of friends, for being polite, for surpassing the school genius, he's liked by girls, he's liked by boys, he's even liked by the teachers and staff, he's all everything good. Of course, you don't believe it, who is he to be perfect when it was supposed to be you? How could he steal that from you? You know that some day you'll bring this guy down to his feet, you know too well he has flaws too, how can he be flawless? He's a human being.

Yang Jungwon's walking down the hall so harmless, a smile on his face while he passes people on his way, while you take your step so prideful and feared, unbothered, having your chin high as your walls, that it seems no one can know that you have been digging Yang Jungwon's profile and past, planning for his downfall.

"Good morning, Y/n" greeted the enemy. You continue your steps, while he stops in his and looks at your back. Oh, no one will believe what kind of look was on Yang Jungwon's face when S/n Y/n ignored him.

It's been a month since Jungwon's name blow the school up. While it's been years for you because now that you have lost your number one self, your parents are now throwing their shits in your face, your mom yelled at you when she found out "HOW CAN YOU LOSE IT NOW Y/N!! I DON'T WANT A DAUGHTER AS FAILURE AS YOU!!" while your dad gave you a good slap that felt like your face was hit by a wrecking ball, you can still feel the ghost of his palm on your face; remembering that just make your blood boil, if only you could yell back at them if only you could return their harsh words if only you could slap them too, much more painful than what they did to you.

The pencil you were holding broke into half, while your glare on the board became intense every second you stay your vision on it.

Yes, it was all Yang Jungwon's fault.

It was that freaks fault. You don't believe that mask he's putting on, you badly want to snatch it from his pretty fake face and burn it.

Yes, you'll remove his skin and see his flesh.

"So...Y/n, what makes you come here?" his voice was sweet, but his hands are dirty, the look in his eyes is unexplainable, what the fuck is he doing? You thought.

Earlier that day, you have decided to take your feet to where this guy is heading. You thought he'd go home, but why is he stabbing a person in an abandoned pizza shop? Sure, the shop looks old and no one will attempt to go inside it, and might as well people get scared of ghosts. But maybe ghosts don't go there, this psycho scared the shit out of them away. And so now you are hiding from the counter, while Yang Jungwon is finished stabbing a person lying on a table, too dead to move.

"Not planning to answer?" He questioned. Palms on your mouth, preventing you from making a sound, of course you'll not answer him, who would want to answer a psycho when he just stab a person seconds ago?

Staying still from your position while cold sweat drips from your face, you heard his voice, his voice is sweet but dry while he giggles "Let's pretend you did not see a thing, shall we Y/n"

Three days have passed since you saw the crime scene, and it's been three days since your arms shake abnormally every millisecond, while your mind drifts away and stares at the blank space in front of you. And that those past days Yang Jungwon seems to eye your every move. So every time Jungwon sees you he'd smile at you. Oh, that's the sign to shut up. You remind yourself.

You are now walking through the garden where you usually stay at lunch, you have no friends to eat with so you eat all by yourself, but the person in front of you now gives a lifelong horror to your eyes.

"Hello there Y/n, I was thinking if you'd like to eat with me?" Oh, such a sweet voice, someone that'll hear it will melt probably, but why does it give horror to you and make your feet stuck in the ground?

"No, Thank you. I'll eat somewhere else." You answered keeping a smile on your face, pretending to seem unbothered.

"Oh? Why not?" He has his smile again, the smile that threatens you.

So you have no choice but to sit down and wait until the bell rings while you're riddling your mind for a way to escape from this person beside you.

Lunch ended and your appetite disappeared, while terror fills your body, and plans filled your brain. While of course Yang Jungwon whispered a small, "Say a word and I'll slice down your throat." In short, your lunch is not the kind of lunch a normal high schooler usually have. Unique isn't it?

Teaser || Chapter 2

Tag: @viisator @enshia @luckyf @shinymika @sophiakeiji @chimajeyn @lilqine @oreolli @oreojenni @sunwonnietea @cha3in @heyly4 @wonwonyoyo @jungwonsl0ver @cheegu3 @bloomedberry @donkeykongwetpussy <this username made me laugh in straight 5mins @jakeyyyy @instahann @enhyz (is it okay if I tagged you? I tagged u n e ways...)

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

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Title: Survival of the Fittest.

Pairing: Yandere!Bakugo/Reader/Yandere!Kirishima (BNHA).

Word Count: 3.6k.

TW: Apocalypse/No Quirks AU, Unhealthy Codependency, Non-Consensual Touching, Mentions of Death/injury, Non-Graphic Violence, Imprisonment.

You were lucky Kirishima had been the one to find you.

‘Find’ might’ve been the wrong word. It implied that he was looking, that he wanted to discover you, bleeding and battered and bruised, cowering in a grimy corner of what used to be a grocery store. It must’ve looked pathetic, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by your torn clothes, your matted hair, the way you’d whimpered as he first approached, all wide eyes and open arms. Survivors were few and far between, and it’d been weeks since you saw another living, breathing person. Kirishima hadn’t seemed like a god-send, not in the moment, but he was a miracle. You’d been too shocked to thank him properly, as he pulled you to your feet and practically carried you out of the city, but you should. You wanted to. You owed him that, if nothing else.

You were lucky it’d been him, rather than Bakugo. You were grateful it hadn’t been Bakugo.

You’d probably still be rotting in that corner, if it had been.

He didn’t seem to like you very much, even if he had begrudgingly moved aside when Kirishima asked if he could bring you inside. It was a bunker, judging by the sparse furniture littered around the common area, plain cement walls only adorned with the occasional hunting knife or bat left to lean against them. The bench Kirishima had left you on was wooden, too stiff to ever be comfortable, but it was a practical choice. Fabric was a luxury to be stowed away and treasured, saved for things more important than a stranger’s comfort. You’d do the same thing, if you’d been in his shoes.

That didn’t stop Bakugo from glaring, though, perching himself on the edge of a nearby crate and refusing to take his eyes off of you, as if you’d already earned and lost his trust. “There’s no fucking advantage,” He started, but he wasn’t talking to you. You weren't worth his time, just yet, not while you were still just a stray Kirishima was too much of a saint to turn away. “We’re not a damn food bank. It’s not out responsibility to babysit every dumbass on the verge of death.”

“Don’t listen to him.” At least Kirishima was kind enough to address you as he slipped back into the common room, taking his place at your side and handing you something – a mug, cremated and unchipped and filled to the brim with something watery, steam still rising off the top. Your first sip was hesitant, but you couldn’t stop yourself from draining the cup once you recognized the taste. Coffee. Cheap, bitter, heavenly coffee, the kind you didn’t have enough clean water to risk trying to make. You could’ve kissed him. You might’ve, if the calm levity in his voice hadn’t snapped you out of it. “Katsuki’s just a little defensive, when it comes to guests. We’ve got plenty of supplies to go ‘round, and…” He trailed off, glancing over you. To the bruises circling your wrist, the stained bandages peaking out from underneath your shirt. To the spot where your ankle twisted just a little too far to the left for the angle to be natural, the evidence of a fall you tried and failed to break with something besides your own body. “I don’t think we can kick someone out in good faith with those kinda injuries. Not with all the crawler activity, lately.”

You flinched at the name alone. Crawler, creatures, the things that used to be people and weren’t, not now, not anymore. You used to think of them as zombies, but that wasn’t right. Calling them zombies would be an injustice, even if they did tend to rot if left to their own devices. Zombies weren’t that fast. Zombies weren’t that distorted. You’d encountered three or four, but you tried to avoid attracting them, when you could. It was easier, when you were on your own.

Bakugo groaned, bringing you out of your thoughts. You tried to stop your hands from shaking, as he spoke. “You’ve got a group to run back to, right? Nobody survives that long without one.”

You tried not to sound as small as you felt. Judging from the way Kirishima glanced away, it was a futile effort. “Nobody survives that long with one, either.”

Kirishima’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, and Bakugo crossed his arms, a sign that must’ve meant submission, judging by Kirishima’s optimistic response. “Just until your ankle’s healed up,” He promised, a compromise you hadn’t asked him to make. “You’ll stay until then, right? ‘d be a shame if we had to lose another person because of Katsuki’s bad attitude.”

There was a sharp ‘hey’, a barely stifled laugh, and slowly, you forced yourself to nod, immediately receiving a bright grin from Kirishima by way of reward. It was a practical choice, honestly – they had food, they had shelter, they didn’t seem to be grasping at threads just to get by. Even if Kirishima was a little too friendly and Bakugo wasn’t nearly friendly enough, you could life with that, you could get by. Once you’d worn out your welcome, you’d leave. As soon as you were fixed up.

You didn’t want to wait for things to go bad, this time.

Despite his reluctance, Bakugo didn’t take long to warm up to you.

Kirishima was still the approachable one, obviously. He was who you went to when you needed to find something, when you had a question about their ration system or weaponry or the parts of the bunker you weren’t allowed to go in, rooms with steel doors and deadbolts on the handle and a raw, metallic smell emanating from the other side, but Bakugo always seemed to be lingering just behind him, ready to scoff and roll his eyes before he took you by the wrist and explained that, if you expected to reap the benefits of their hospitality, you had to at least try to pull your weight. He was helpful, like that, his help less patronizing than Kirishima’s, albeit twice as easily frustrated. Still, he didn’t hate you. If anything, he seemed to—

“If you slow down one more time, I’ll feed ya to the damn bears myself.”

You sped up, reflexively. He didn’t hate you, but it wasn’t too late for him to start.

It’d been Kirishima’s idea for you to go hunting. You were still in a splint, the majority of your calf an abstract blend of medical tape and cloth padding, but you bit back the pain as you followed Katsuki down the rough, unpaved trail, gritting your teeth past the ache forming under your skin. It wasn’t a raid. If anything, you were only getting further from the city, working your way up the mountain their bunker was carved into the base of. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been concerned about the crossbow in Katsuki’s hands, the weapon already loaded and poised, but the hunting knife strapped to your thigh eased your nerves, as did his disinterest in doing anything but trudging forward. If he didn’t take the time to call back to you every few minutes, you might’ve thought he’d forgotten you were there entirely.

But, silence never suited you never well. Not with a near-stranger, at least. “You’re not afraid of crawlers?”

“This far out? Fuck no.” It was an immediate answer, quick and shameless. Like an amputation, if an amputation left you nursing a bruised ego rather than bleeding out. “There’s enough fresh meat in the city to keep ‘em occupied. Only the runts ever bother coming out here to look for scraps.”

“I would’ve been that meat,” You mumbled, absent-mindedly. It was an idle thought, more of an admission than an accusation, but judging by the way his posture slackened, how quickly his attention shifted to the foliage, he wouldn’t have cared either way. “If Kirishima hadn’t found me, I mean. God knows I look like an easy target.”

“You are an easy target. Just be glad he’s got a weak spot for charity cases.”

You opened your mouth, ready to ask what he meant, you lost your footing before you got the chance, slipping on the damp leaf litter as a spike of something agonizing ran from your heel to your knee. Bakugo didn’t flinch, letting you catch yourself on his shoulder as he raised his crossbow, barely taking a moment to aim before firing. You could feel the kick-back, a jolting reverberation that only seemed to make the wet thunk that followed a little worse, the sound of an arrow piercing skin and flesh.

You expected that. You were ready for it. But, you hadn’t been prepared for the deafening scream that came afterwards, heart-piercing and human. You moved to rush toward its source, but Bakugo only caught your arm, shaking his head. Like he’d missed, like he’d only killed a deer. Like there wasn’t a person thrashing in the underbrush, still crying out as he spoke over them. “Looters,” He explained, like that was an excuse. “We’ve been dealin’ with them for a while, now. ’s just a scout, but he would’ve been back with reinforcements if we let him run off untouched.”

Bile rose in the back of your throat. For your own sake, you chose to believe him. “So? We can’t just—”

“Yes, we can.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need your permission, and he didn’t want your compliance. He didn’t even bother to justify himself before he turned away, starting back on the trail as you stood, still too shocked to move. “C’mon, we’ve already lost enough sunlight, and I’m not wasting arrows on scum. The fucker can drag himself back to his hideout, for all I care.”

You could’ve argued. Bakugo didn’t seem to think the blow was fatal, but you could’ve checked, made sure, offer what might’ve been a dying man a few last seconds of company before he bit the bullet. You could’ve, part of you wanted to, but…

But then, Bakugo tossed a glare over his shoulder, and your attention was brought back to the crossbow in his hands, to the machete strapped to his belt, to how pitifully small your knife was, in comparison. You didn’t want to lose the trust you hadn’t really gained, just yet. You didn’t want to take that kind of chance, not when Kirishima wasn’t around to give you the benefit of the doubt.

So, you shut your eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the quiet sobbing in the background as you followed in his tracks.

Surprisingly, Kirishima was the first one to slip into your bed.

You told yourself it was a mistake, when he let himself into your room in the middle of the night, closer to sunrise than it was to sunset. None of the doors locked, thin plywood serving as more of a source of comfort than an actual barrier, and beyond your small collection of personal possessions and the bedside table you’d commandeered from storage, your room was identical to any of the eerily unoccupied barracks on the lower layers of the bunker. Still, you expected him to turn around, to see your sleeping form curled up in a corner of your cot and realize he had the wrong room. It was late, and he made a mistake. It didn’t have to be anything more.

But it wasn’t that late, and Kirishima never really made mistakes. He was too careful for anything like that.

At least he was being careful now, too, as far as you could tell with your eyes clenched shut, your breathing restricted to slow, shallow inhales that left your lungs feeling just a little too tight. He was gentle, if nothing else, wrapping a strong arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest and burying his face in the nape of your neck. You didn’t squirm, you didn’t push yourself away, but you must’ve been too stiff, too still, too rigid. He didn’t seem to buy the act, however desperate it was.

“’suki’s real proud of you.” His voice was tired, weighted down by exhaustion. Clearly, he wouldn’t be leaving. “He told me about yesterday. Says you were good, cooperative and all. He likes that kind of thing.”

You didn’t respond, digging your nails into the sterile, medical sheets. Your ankle throbbed, and you tried to focus on that, to justify it. To remember why you could still convince yourself to stay.

“He’s a big softie, though. We both are, but I don’t try to hide it.” There was a light squeeze to your side, the ghost of his lips over the crook of your neck. His breath was warm, compared to the bucker’s constant chill, and you tried to think of his smothering body heat as a small silver lining. “I think it’s sweet. Gets lonely ‘round here, y’know? You’re a good fit.” There was a pause, a chuckle. For a moment, you thought he might push a little further, hold you a tighter, but Kirishima only shook his head, going on with that same careless, tired lilt. “I knew you would be, when I first saw you. A fragile little thing like you could never survive out here, not all alone.”

He was half-asleep. He didn’t know what he was saying. He’d probably apologize tomorrow, if he even remembered. “I’m not going to stay for much longer. I’ll be on my own again, in another month.”

“We’ll see.” The cot’s barred frame creaked as he shifted, his weight coming to rest against your back – a constant, oppressive reminder of his presence. A memory flickered to life in the back of your mind, a familiar intimacy that’d been earned and asked for, but you pushed it away quickly. You didn’t want to think about things like that, not here, not when this was so one-sided, in comparison. “Get some rest. You haven’t been getting enough sleep, lately.”

You’d leave when it was safe to. When you healed. When you’d worn out your welcome and become more of a burden than a benefit.

You wouldn’t stick around long enough for things to get suffocating, this time.

It was a mutual decision, when Bakugo and Kirishima stopped you from leaving the bunker.

They didn’t ask. That was the part that stung, really, the thorn that started working itself under your skin the moment you caught them standing in the threshold, an empty duffle bag slung over Kirishima’s shoulder and a baseball bat tucked under his arm. Bakugo had his crossbow, a pistol you’d never seen before holstered at his hip, but that bothered you less than the way they were muttering, keeping their voices purposefully low. Like they knew how you’d feel, if you saw them. Like they wanted to avoid the tension.

You’d never been very good at picking up hints, though. Much less those you were desperately trying to ignore.

“You’re going out?” You called, approaching them before you could stop yourself, suppressing a yawn as you made a show of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. It was early, and you didn’t want Kirishima to know you’d already been up for hours. If he thought you were tired, he’d assume you were losing sleep, and if he thought you were losing sleep, he’d take it as an excuse to visit you at night, again. You… you didn’t like it, when he did. “Let me grab my stuff, it’ll only take a minute. If I knew you two were planning a raid today, I would’ve—”

Bakugo was the first to shut you down. “Sit this one out, alright?” It was a question, this time, but barely, his usual bluntness wrapped in a layer of kindness so thin, you could practically see through it. “’s just a quick supply run. We’ll be out and back before you notice we’re gone.”

“We’ve done this a thousand times,” Kirishima added, offering a small smile. At least he was trying to be nice about it, in his own, patronizing way. “It’s starting to get boring, honestly. It‘d be a shame to ruin all the progress you’ve made for something so minor.”

Right, your ankle. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d complained about it, the last time you’d been in enough pain to limp, even if Bakugo still insisted on tending to your ‘injury’ once a day, at least. The truth was glaringly obvious, even if they still made a half-hearted attempt to hide it, to let you avert your eyes and pretend you believed them.

You didn’t bother trying to hide your disappointment, your expression dropping as your nails bit into the meat of your palm. “You don’t think I can keep myself safe.”

In their defense, neither tried to deny it. Bakugo only looked away, and Kirishima smiled apologetically, his hand already pushing against the bunker’s metallic door. “We don’t want to risk it,” He explained, like you were a liability. Like you hadn’t survived out there for months without their help, injured or uninjured. “If something happened to you, if someone got to you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. We both care about you, even if Katsuki doesn’t want to admit it.”

“It’s practical.” Bakugo didn’t look at you. It was a small mercy, really. At least he was self-aware enough to be ashamed. “You need more time. You fucked yourself up bad before Eijiro found you – all that doesn’t go away overnight.”

Expect, it hadn’t been a night. It hadn’t been a day, or a week, and you were starting to question if it’d even been only two months. It was hard to keep track of time, but the weather was already turning, every scrape and bruise Bakugo could’ve concerned himself with was already healed, and you’d already let yourself get comfortable. You’d stayed too long. You’d let them get attached, and you’d failed to make it clear that you weren’t.

You had to get out. Now.

Or, you could try to get out, at least.

You’d waited too long for Bakugo and Kirishima to just sit back and let you walk away.

They were stronger than you’d assumed. It was easy to forget what the human body was capable of, when you were so used to be exhausted and half-starved, but it wasn’t difficult to remember, not with Bakugo’s hands wrapped around your wrists, one of Kirishima’s arms splayed over your knees, stopping you from thrashing as they shoved you against a bed, a real bed, the frame wooden and the mattress more than just sponge and stuffing. It was one of theirs obviously, and if you’d stumbled onto it at any other time, you might’ve felt insulted, left out.

Right now, the only thing you could feel was terrified.

“Fucking bitch.” It was a grunt, a growl, followed by something close to a snarl as your elbow connected with his check. He was the one who’s caught you gathering up what little you had to take with you, a canteen already filled and strung across your back. It was on the floor, now, the metal dented and the contents spilling out, but if either of them minded wasting clean water, you couldn’t tell. They were busy, now, too busy dealing with you to worry about something so minor. Too angry to care, leaving you as the center of their rage. “We tried to be nice. We tried to give you a choice. You just couldn’t take the fucking hint, could you?”

“Let me go.” You couldn’t bring yourself to raise your voice, but you tried to come across as frantic, desperate, as betrayed and as disgusted as you really felt. “You’re both fucking crazy. I don’t want to—”

Kirishima didn’t let you finish, he’d never really bothered to. He was already shifting, leaning on one of your calves while grabbing at the other, calloused fingertips pressing into your newly-healed ankle, the remaining bruises still raw and tender. You cried out, more out of instinct than agony, but Kirishima only grit his teeth, rubbing circles into your skin, like that would be enough to soothe you. “We’re just taking care of you, alright? We’re just doing what’s best.” It was pointless to say, but the didn’t stop him from going on, rambling like he was going to convince anyone, including himself. “It’s dangerous, out there. You just need a little more time to realize that. You just need to see that ‘suki and I are your best option.”

They weren’t. They weren’t your best anything, but you didn’t have a chance to retort before Bakugo cursed under his breath, gathering your wrists up with one hand and forcing the other over your mouth, cutting you off before you could protest further. “Just do it,” He spat, all-but ignoring you as he spoke to Kirishima. “There’s no point in trying to explain this to someone so irrational. Let’s just get it over with before we have to do something worse.”

For a moment, you went still, a series of worst-case scenarios flashing before your eyes before you could rationalize them, before you could tell yourself to stay calm. For a moment, there was panic – pure, unadulterated, brutal panic.

And then, something cracked under Kirishima’s hand, and you forgot how to think of anything at all.

You let out a stilted, faltering sob, something akin to liquid fire running from your thigh to your calf to the point where everything stopped – everything below your ankle numb, disconnected, dead meat that still managed to hurt. The rest of your body went limp, your survival instincts gone and replaced with the unbearable desire to curl into yourself and cry, but Bakugo was still holding you, his arms strung around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest as Kirishima slotted himself against your back, cooing soft nothings as you fought not to break down completely. They were talking again, both of them, but you couldn’t seem to listen. It didn’t matter.

Your ankle was broken. Not sprained, this time, not bruised, but broken. Shattered. Dislocated. Forced into a position that meant you’d be forced to stay, voluntarily or otherwise. Whether or not you could still stomach looking at Bakugo and Kirishima, let alone living with them.

You couldn’t leave, and you were beginning to think they were never going to let you.

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chiwhorei · 3 years

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𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐯𝐢��𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬

paring: kenny ackerman x fem!reader

genre: apocalypse!au, smut, dark content, 18+ mdni [cross-posted to Ao3]

word count: 3k

overview: kenny *i-wouldn’t-fuck-you-if-it-was-the-end-of-the-world* ackerman; but it is and you do . . . and you’ll probably do it again. or, if you read beyond the cut and wind up in hell that is legally not my fault.

tags: dymph does sacrilege once again, post-apocalypse au, blood, violence, zombies (only mentions of gore nothing specific), somnophilia, noncon, dubcon, degradation, smoking, insertion, sloppy oral, big age gap aka kenny is a nasty old man and reader is a sweet little virgin.

a.notes: happy *fucking* easter. this is for the smut pile’s apocalypse collab so go give everyone’s pieces a read, everyone has worked so incredibly hard. this is dedicated to @pleasantanathema, who was both my beta reader and emotional support while stringing this together. here’s to the old man fuckery, cheers.

hymn: the seven deadly virtues - camelot

But stay awake at all times, praying that you may have strength to escape all these things that are going to take place, and to stand before the Son of Man. -Luke 21:36

* * *

Wet.

A sticky kind of wet. Clinging on like thick clay, splattered across your neck— gore and sinew wrapped in a noose. Shades of decaying reds and browns are all you see these days.

The seeping, molding kind of wet.

The smell is suffocating, the toll of death deep in your bones. You keep moving, you have to. One foot in front of the other, fingers fretting with the cross hanging between your collarbones. Counting your Hail Mary’s distracts from the ache in your soles and the burning feeling that you’re rotting away.

It was slow at first. The end of the world, the crashing, clattering end felt like a slow decent to hell. Pieces of the modern world falling away, the promise of tomorrow, the assurance of a cure. You refused to believe the dead could walk the earth until they were stumbling straight towards you.

All of us, you think, are rotting away.

“Pick up the pace, kid. Are you trying to end up like the rest of those fuckers?” His voice rings from a few feet in front of you. The brush under your feet is dry, leaves crunching loudly with every weary step forward.

Kenny always likes to remind you of your naïveté, insults about your rose tinted glasses barked crudely from around a cigarette. Your youth, your optimism, your beliefs-- useless traits in his opinion. What good is God in a world like this.

“Friends. They were our friends.” Your words come out in a whimper, the tone further irritating the man ahead of you.

He stops, turning around to catch your eyes, gaze piercing through the night like a knife. All that’s left of your composure is used to keep from crashing right into his chest.

“Ain’t no more room for friends in this world, baby doll,” a long pointer finger lifts your chin, the slightest touch still bruising, “thinkin’ like that is what’s going to get ya killed.”

Rose tinted glasses, cracked and splattered with blood, fall off and are lost to a world that no longer exists. Kenny let’s up and turns, pulling you farther into the thick brush. You could swear you feel the lenses as they splinter under your shoe.

* * *

Kenny is a vile man. He knows his name isn’t on a reservation list at the Pearly Gates, he’s aware that a sinner lives on borrowed time.

Nowadays, everyone is living on borrowed time. Even you.

You, he thinks, looking back to where you stumble over a tree branch, far to good for a world like this.

He can’t help but laugh, the absolute absurdity of his current situation. Escaping death by the skin of his teeth, watching any familiar faces burning in the remnants of a camp he couldn’t really call home. People that fought to the bone, melting or devoured or both.

And then there was you, standing in front of the flames, tears falling down the apples of your cheeks, stiff in shock and horror. He remembers the way your lips moved, mumbling a quiet prayer instead of trying to run. Stupid little thing.

It’s not the earth the meek inherit; it’s the dirt.

Was it pity that made Kenny pull you away from an infernal gravesite all those months ago? He’s never the hero of any story. No, it must have been something else.

Maybe it was the way you looked up with teary eyes, silently begging for help. Unwittingly making a deal with the devil. His teeth grind at the memory, the vision of how beautiful you look so completely helpless.

Kenny leads and you follow, he hunts and you flitch at the sound of an arrow piercing flesh. The small squeak and proceeding thumb of meat as it hits the ground never fails to make you sick. When he’s not hunting for food, he’s hunting something else.

The sounds of death are all the same.

Some days you’re lucky, coming across abandoned hideouts or deserted cars. Snagging whatever hasn’t already been picked over; some ammo, the occasional can of peaches or pack of cigarettes. Kenny laughs dryly everytime, chucking the carton into his bag. Always the cigarettes, never the lighter. Most days, not so much.

Every night, you fall asleep to the flicker of a campfire, lulled by the steady sound of Kenny’s knife as it scrapes against a piece of wood. He’s always the last asleep. The woods are a dangerous place, the possibility of monsters circle at every moment. Under the veil of night, anything could happen. And it does.

He wipes his mouth, settling back into the harsh ground below him with a pleased hum. Your whimpers have settled back into a light snore.

Kenny is a vile man, and you’re too concerned with the lifeless villain in the shadows that you forget about the one sitting on the other side of the fire.

Three months of waking up to aching limbs and misplaced panties can’t be a coincidence, can it?

* * *

“Well ain’t this something.” Kenny pulls on the door, swinging it open with a loud creek. Your neck strains to look up at dark wood and steepled roof, the tall building hidden by dense forest, you two must be the first people to step inside in months.

“A church.” You’d find comfort within these walls if you weren’t so positive that God had abandoned this world.

Statues of the Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph are empty behind their stone eyes, shadowed with an unsettling shade of red from the stained-glass windows. The moment is a time capsule, a vision of the congregation of saints bathed in blood.

A chill runs down your back, counting every vertebrae.

You push down the unsettling foreboding, focusing back on the instincts to survive instead of lingering on a religion that you can no longer make sense of.

“Hey kid, over here.” You pick up the pace, quickening footsteps away from holy symbolism and towards Kenny’s voice. You walk into the closest room off a dark hallway and find him leaning against the doorframe. The rooms are getting darker with the vanishing sun, but you make out shelves of cans and boxes, food, blankets, clothes.

“I bet they used this as a food pantry,” Your comment was probably an obvious assumption, but Kenny just hums in response, “there’s enough here to last up months.”

Good samaritans in the first life are a saving grace is this one. Your cynicism lifts from heavy shoulders for just a moment. The lines between luck and divine intervention are fuzzy at best.

“I saw a well right outside too. Water’s probably cold as ice but it’s better than anything we’ve come across yet.” Kenny’s voice is even, but you swear he cracks a smile.

He was right, the water is cold enough to shatter your bones like ice. You shiver and chatter, teeth threatening to crack, but the feeling of being clean has you dumping bucket after bucket over your head. The grime and grit of your reality running down to seep into the grass below.

There’s no home to run to after the world ends, but water and food is more than you could imagine in recent months. Shuffling through boxes of donated clothes, you find a shirt big enough to sleep in. The fabric smells like moth-balls and dust, but the feeling of clean cotton against your skin is heavenly.

You find Kenny in the clerical office, rummaging through the priests desk. The sun is replaced with a flight of candles, for the first time in forever, you don’t feel like death is standing right behind you.

“Would you look at that,” Kenny pulls a cigar from the desk, bringing it up to his nose for inspection, “Looks like father had his own little habit.”

Despite yourself, you laugh at his comment, rounding towards the large leather chair he’s settled into.

“Smoking kills you know.” You lean against the desk next to him. Your bare legs brush against his knee, the heat from your skin makes his mouth water.

“I think there’s more pressing concerns than tobacco, kid.”

There’s something different about tonight, even more than just the four walls and roof around you. There’s something about Kenny and the way his stare has followed you all night. You can feel a cord pulling taught, fraying in the middle before it snaps.

“Asshole.”

The plush of Kenny’s bottom lip is close enough to your cunt to be disastrous. Friendly banter becomes laughing and swatting at his chest like a teenager. Communion wine and tension pulling you into him. The loneliness of this life becomes more apparent the closer he is to touching your skin. When did the man in front of you make your heart race so fast?

Maybe you’ve always felt this way.

You feel it, the ghosts of last night, the night before. The ghosts of weeks or maybe even months. The familiarity of a touch you weren’t quite awake for.

Ass arching off from where it sticks to the cherry wood, you want to feel it again. The laving of tongue and mouth against you. The devouring of your most intimate planes of skin, places no one else has ever touched before, places you were saving for your future husband.

The kiss as hot as hell.

“Awe, c’mon now,” His nose nudges against your clit, the movement pulling another cry from your throat to bounce against the high ceiling, “that’s not my name.”

“I’ve been tracing it into this precious cunt of yours every night,” each word is more unhinged than the last, no longer worried about the doe in his sights running away, “Do I need to spell it out for you again?”

There’s nowhere to run, pressed in between his canines.

Dreams of calloused fingers and a wandering mouth are now cementing as memories. The feeling of rough facial hair. The sounds of desperate moans and how they shake against you.

The way his tongue curls like a signature.

His mouth is flush against you again, sucking at your aching clit for only a moment before moving his attention to long lashes against your clenching hole.

“You must remember. You were moaning it so sweetly,” he nips at your puffy lips before drawing back. His chin is sheened in your arousal, slick refracting off the dimly lit space between you, flickering candles outline his features with a dance of orange shadows. Kenny’s eyes hold you captive, giving you one more chance to answer.

“What’s my name, kid?”

His tongue breaches you, a set of large, familiar hands keep your legs spread wide atop the desk.

You remember— of course you do. You remember everything. The name stuck in your head like a broken record. The name you call for in a sleepy haze as your body is dragged into orgasm.

The name that’s spelled against you like a promise.

“K-Kenny please.”

That’s all that he needs, the only thing, if he’s being honest, that he’s ever needed.

“There’s my sweet little girl. Finally using your manners.” Two fingers come up to swipe against your pussy, stopping right before your clit and collecting slick to bring up to your eye line for inspection. You jump when the warm digits drag against your bottom lip, a silent prompt for your mouth to fall open.

Kenny sticks his fingers in, the intent to make you gag is clear but you take it. You’ll take anything he gives you. Your tongue swirls around the intrusion, running against each joint and suckling loudly. The sound is wet and lewd, the spit collecting at the corners of your mouth makes his head spin.

Your destruction, he decides, will be beautiful.

Kenny’s fingers release with a wet pop. He runs callouses down from your cheek, over the curve of your tits and down your abdomen. Two fingers stop at your pubic bone to trace lightly against the skin in random patterns.

“Your body is just as agreeable when you’re awake.” His words drip in sin, reminding you exactly how familiar he is with you. All of you.

Both thumbs come down to spread your lips, Kenny can’t help but take a moment-- just a beat-- to stare at your swollen, glossy clit and the quiver of your little hole. Your skin is soft, completely untouched by anyone else. He laid claim to almost every inch before you begged him to.

He sinks from the leather chair, kneeling in front of you. You’re the body and blood as far as a sinner like Kenny is concerned.

There’s a plea stuck in your throat. You want to beg him to slow down, it’s too much all at once, but you know if you cried out-- all you would do is beg him for more.

His tongue is long and flat against you, every swipe is punctuated with a growl. The rumbling from his chest is thrown against your clit like a current through cold water. Sharp, shocking, terrifying.

“Kenny, I- I want,” He sucks your throbbing clit into his mouth, rubbing the tip of his tongue against the hood. There’s no words in any language that make sense to you. There’s nothing but his name.

“Kenny ah, I need, I don’t know how t—”

Your dangling over a fire, trying desperately to jerk away from the lick of the flames.

“I know, kid, I know exactly what you need.” his breath is heavy and warm in fans across your skin. You're dripping down the sides of his face and onto the cleric’s desk. Kenny is covered in you, open mouthed kisses against the sweetest thing he’s ever had in his mouth. The tangy taste of your pussy mixing with the wine still on his tongue.

If he spent forever between your thighs, it wouldn’t be nearly long enough.

“Such a sweet little thing, you’re insatiable.” All you can do is nod dumbly, eyes glazing over with a distinct look of teary submission. It’s so new to you, but grinding upwards and catching your clit against his chin seems like second nature.

The primal need for release is much stronger than any prayer of abstinence.

“What would your little prayer circle think if they knew you spread your legs for a dirty old fucker like me?” Kenny coos against the apex of your thighs. His words knock on the hollow space behind your breastbone.

Your family and friends, the priest from St. Mary’s who baptized you, old man Jaeger from next door— all buried or burned to ash or so much worse.

Anyone you’ve ever loved is dead, maybe that’s why Kenny is still around.

There’s nothing that can hold you back anymore, the control you claw at slips from your fingers like watery silk. There’s no escaping the roughness of his stubble and an evil, serpent tongue.

“Kenny!”

You cum with a shattering cry, the sound ringing so loud in your ears you swear any enemy of the living in a 10 mile radius could hear you. In reality, what escapes is little more than a broken snivel.

It hurts, muscles aching from the exertion of trying to keep from falling apart. Your body is a hairpin trigger, the comedown feels more like withdrawal.

“There’s my girl, my good little girl.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, doting while you fall back to earth. It’s a strange feeling, you’ve never found comfort in Kenny before, he isn’t the shoulder you go to lean on.

But tonight he’s the chin you buck into.

The aftershocks run across your naked skin, already missing the feeling of his touch as he settles back into the cracked leather chair.

His cock presses into the denim confines uncomfortably, the ache can wait though. Whether this is his last night alive or has all the time in the world-- he’s going to savor the glistening prize nestled between your thighs. Kenny’s fingers find the cigar where it lies next to your knee, bringing it up to examine while you squirm at the cold night air against your wet cunt.

“No one will ever make you feel as good as I do,” both legs kick out, falling to dangle on either side of his knees in surprise as the cigar comes down to trace your outer lips. He presses the tuck inwards, pulling out slightly so you cry out. The harsh texture of the wrapper mixes with the most minimal of stimulation, causing tears to clump in your waterline.

“Why don’t you think of a way to repay me, hmm?”

You push past the heaviness in your muscles, sitting up to meet his incredulous stare. Kenny sticks the cigar between his teeth, striking a match from the desk drawer to light the cap. The cigar is stale, cheap tobacco. But every drag now tastes like you.

“I- I could try to--” Words are left unspoken on your tongue, even now, the intonation is poison in your throat.

You expect Kenny to laugh at your bashfulness, instead, two fingers come up to curl around the Rosary around your neck. He drags you forward, exhaling smoke into your parted, quivering lips. You try your best not to choke.

He pulls the cigar away, ashing it carelessly on the floor.

“Use your words, kid, tell me what you want.” His words are sleazy but his voice is soft around the edges. Prompting you to shuffle onto his lap. His free hand rests in the small of your back to keep you steady.

“I want--” Fuck, your voice feels like it’ll fail, you take a moment to breathe, “I want you to fuck me, Kenny.”

Your plea is rushed, so quick to hit his ears he almost misses it. There’s no hiding anymore, there’s nowhere else in this world but the private quarters of a long-dead clergy member. The space between you and Kenny is foggy and tense, only inches between lips.

There’s no more penance in this world, no more time to sit and atone for his sins with prayer. The soft, syrupy feeling of your cunt wrapping around his cock is a slice of heaven, cut out and stolen right from the sky.

“I thought you’d never ask, doll face.”

✞ all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

#aot x reader #aot x reader smut #aot smut #kenny ackerman x reader #kenny ackerman smut #the smut pile: apocalypse #tw: somnophilia #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #tw: blood #tw: sacrilegious #sin.somnophilia #sin.noncon #sin.dubcon #sin.blood #sin.sacrilege

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cevans-is-classic · 3 years

Text

Dirty: Bucky Barnes

18+ only, please. sexual thoughts, actions, and language.

Dirty Series

More Marvel is here and My Masterpost is here!

Three months. It’s the longest he’s gone without seeing you.

Should he know the exact time and date of the last time you were in the same room as him, probably not, but he’d only been able to take you out three times before he was called away on a mission — when he got back, sweaty, exhausted and more than ready to hit Steve upside the head with his own shield — you were gone. Called away on an assignment with Stark and Barton; he might have hit Steve over the head after that.

You kept missing each other, late-night calls and quick messages aren’t enough anymore and Bucky hasn’t been able to stop thinking of how well you had felt in his lap, his tongue in your mouth, the way your nails dug into his shoulders — he wanted to feel you riding him, gasping his name — he’d wanted to take it slow, show he wants more than something physical, but now he wishes he’d ignored to ‘the unspoken third date rule’ and taken you on the sofa; communal area be damned.

He missed your sense of humor, the way you laugh, how you tossed your head back and covered your nose when you snorted. He missed how you looked up at him when he walked into the gym, your body glistening with sweat as you and Nat circled each other — eyes following his trek across the space until he climbed into the ring with you. The way you called his name when he walked into the room, lips turning up into a smile, eyes lighting up and dammit, Steve, he’s allowed to like the way you glow for him.

It wasn’t only the way you winked at him when you drank from a bottle of water or dropped your towel climbing out of the decon shower-

That last one was something of course.

You looked amazing.

Bucky wasn’t a damn saint, and he’s only got a small taste of how good you were at — things.

Fuck, you could move in ways that made his mind melt — brain coming out of his ears with thoughts of your thighs, your lips, your hands on his stomach, holding yourself up after you’ve pinned him.

Dammit.

The Avenjet hadn’t landed when he was out of his seat and huffing towards the hatch, metal fist squeezing, whirring to life to keep himself calm and thoughts of you at bay.

“Woah there, Cyborg,” Stark laughed, stepping past him as the ramp dropped. “I know that look. I reserve that look for one red, white, and blond super-soldier, and let me tell you — a cold shower will help.”

Steve clamped his hand over Stark’s shoulder, shutting the genius up before Bucky could glare a hole into his forehead. “Tony.”

Stark lifts his hands. “Giving a bit of advice. Not all the walls are — soundproof.” He was laughing as Steve led him away. Bucky following them into the hangar, his mind racing a mile a minute because he knew you were here — you were supposed to be here too — Neither of you was meant to head out anywhere and it had been three god damn months and all Bucky wanted to do was-

“Hey, James.” He stopped dead.

You smiled at him, chin lifted, sports bra clinging to your sweaty chest, “Long time, no see.” He watched a bead of sweat fall from your jaw down your throat to disappear beneath the blue fabric, and his mouth went dry. Bucky hadn’t realized he was moving until you gasped. He grabbed you around the waist and pressed you into his filthy uniform.

He moved to push you back, realizing the dirty and grime was rubbing across your skin. “I’m sorry, I-” Your hand came up, shushing him before you dropped your eyes to look him up and down.

“I like it.” His mind went blank, a groan escaping when you kissed him, nails digging into his hair. You were lifting on your tiptoes, trying to push in closer and Bucky needed more — needed — he tightened his flesh arm, hearing you moan into the kiss, tongue licking at his teeth as he moved his metal hand to your thigh and lifted.

You pulled back on a gasp, “Ah, fuck yes.”

“I keep thinking about you,” The words spilled from his mouth, “I can’t stop.”

You grinned, “Then don’t.”

I haven't been in the best mental state which is a major pattern if you haven't noticed. I finally got some sleep, dyed my hair, and posted this so it's more than I've done in the last few days.

I hope you all enjoy it!

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #Dirty Series

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 3 years

Text

Home

A great big special thank you to @peachy-mags for the full version of the fantastic companion artwork for this piece! (https://peachy-mags.tumblr.com/post/654049235542622208/)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 13.2k

Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Canon-typical violence

Summary: After years of service to Angelo Bronte, who would have thought that the arrival of little Jack Marston could change your life forever?

Notes: My submission for @rdrbigbang! Be sure to check out the AMAZING companion art for this fic from @peachy-mags!

-----

Another beautiful morning in Saint Denis. You breathed in deeply, reveling in the calm peace that so rarely enveloped the town. There was a slight nip in the air that you knew would fade away as the morning drew on, the sun rising and casting everything in a pale-yellow light, before the city itself awakened. It was your favorite time of day.

A cup of coffee steamed in your hands as you slowly made your way through the gardens at Angelo Bronte’s mansion. One of the perks of being a live-in servant, you supposed, was unfettered access to the (admittedly slightly ostentatious) statue garden out back - given that Signor Bronte himself wasn’t occupying the space. After a few minutes of slow, calm pacing, you found yourself standing in front of a marble statue of some Roman goddess, Aphrodite?, and taking a sip of your coffee.

It was hot and bitter, the perfect juxtaposition to the cool morning that you would allow yourself to enjoy for a few moments longer. Soon, you would need to make your way inside and ready the table for breakfast, but for now you could enjoy this moment. This peace.

Unfortunately, that peace was almost immediately broken by the sound of terrified cries coming from inside the house. It was not all that uncommon to hear screams and sobs from inside the building, due to the scrupulous nature of your employer, but these sounded different. Almost childlike.

Curious, you made your way back indoors, trying your best to steady your pace so as not to draw unwanted attention. Setting the coffee cup in the kitchen next to the large washbasin, you nodded to the cook, Giovanni, before opening the door to the servant’s stairwell.

The crying was louder here. Anguished and frightened sobs broken only occasionally by cries for “Mama”.

So it was a child?

Quietly, you crept up the creaky stairs to the hallway, where several of Bronte’s more scrupulous henchmen, Gene, Alfonso and Irvin, were gathered around a door. The crying was even louder now, and most certainly coming from the room where the henchmen were standing guard. Above the desperate sobs, you could just make out the sounds of your employer trying to shush the child, albeit unsuccessfully.

“Now, now, my boy,” he soothed, his accent unmistakable. “There’s no need to be upset, I’m sure your family will come after you soon enough.” The boy continued to cry for his mother in between sobs. Signor Bronte’s tactic wasn’t exactly working.

The men standing guard had spotted you, and closed their ranks tighter. You knew how this went - you were never allowed to see Bronte’s victims. In fact, as far as you were supposed to know, Bronte participated in no underhanded dealings whatsoever. Which was, of course, completely wrong, and you had figured that out long ago. But for the most part, you tried your best to ignore the dealings - for the sake of keeping yourself alive.

But this was a child.

You had to do something.

Carefully, you moved closer to the line of henchmen standing in front of the door. They were larger than you, Signor Bronte had a habit of finding and employing practical giants to act as his henchmen, but they were also silent.

“Signor Bronte?” you called, standing nearly face-to-chest with one of the large men. “Is everything alright? Can I be of service?”

The men in front of you reddened, irritated at your immunity to their intimidation tactics. They stayed silent, however, and maintained their position as a wall of flesh between you and the crying child in the room.

After just a few moments, you heard your name being called with a familiar Italian lilt . “Come in, come in. We could use your help,” he hailed for you over the steady sobs from the room.

The three men at the door reluctantly parted to let you enter the brightly lit room. A fire was burning low in the hearth, likely more of a symbol of comfort than to actually provide any heat, and your boss sat on the side of a large, gaudy bed.

The boss of the largest crime syndicate in San Denis was a feared man, but if you met him in the street, you would never know. He was small, with a prominent nose and dark eyes that never overlooked anything. At home, his dark was hair slicked back under a floral headband, and his red housecoat opened in the front to reveal an unbuttoned white collared shirt. To anyone who didn’t know him, he could have passed as any rich, european immigrant.

But you knew better. In the middle of the luxurious home, beneath the extravagance of his clothing, sat a cunning, intelligent man who had clawed his way up from hell itself. He was cutthroat, manipulative, and would not hesitate to sell out his closest comrade for a step up the ladder. Knowing this, it didn’t surprise you to see a small boy curled up on the large, gaudy bed, his clothes muddied and his light brown hair in tangles. He couldn’t have been older than four or five, and was screaming adamantly for his mother.

Instinctually, you rushed to the bed and sat next to him, taking the spot that had been occupied by your boss. “Now, my dear,” he said as he stood, clearing his throat and adjusting his housecoat, “this young man is Jack, and he will be staying with us for a while.” You looked sympathetically at the boy, still sobbing and curled up in front of you, before giving your boss a solemn nod.

You hated this; seeing the boy in such a familiar state. A state that you, yourself, had been in for years upon your arrival in San Denis. Hopefully his parents, unlike yours, could pay off whatever debt they had soon. “If you could stop his screams, I would appreciate it. He’s giving me a headache,” Signor Bronte continued, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose with one hand as he headed toward the door. “Get him some breakfast. I’m sure he hasn’t been fed since those hillbillies in Rhodes took him.”

Without another word, he walked from the room and the three henchmen followed closely behind him. As he entered the hallway, you could hear him speaking to them in Italian, “Let’s hope these bastards come for him soon. I want to have the little shit out of here as soon as possible.”

The door closed behind them, and you were left in the room with the poor, frightened child. You sighed and slowly moved closer to the curled up figure on the bed. Making sure you were as gentle as possible, you reached out to place a hand on his tiny shoulder. “Jack?...” you said his name, low and calm, as if you were trying to tame a spooked horse. He curled even further into himself, but you noticed his sobs had started to die down to exhausted whimpers. “Jack?” you tried again, pulling your hand back to yourself and placing it in your lap. Calmly, you gave him your name before continuing, “I’m very sorry about all of this, Jack. I know it’s very scary…. I-”

What could you tell him? That you had been in the same situation when you were just a few years older? That your parents had never been able to come back for you? That you had spent the majority of your life in service to Angelo Bronte, notorious mafioso, in order to pay a massive debt that had been racked up by your father when you were eight?

No. He didn’t need to know those things. He didn’t need to know the likely reality of his situation.

It was rare that Signor Bronte dealt in child kidnappings, but when he did? The poor kids were lucky if their parents were able to retrieve them.

“I’m sure your ma and pa will show up for you soon,” you soothed, hoping it was the truth.

The poor boy, whose sobs had now turned into quiet sniffles, stayed curled up with his back to you, unmoving. You reached out a hand gently, brushing his dirty hair away from his forehead, only for him to flinch from your touch. You couldn’t blame him.

“Alright, Jack,” you said quietly, standing from the bed. A nearby armchair held a throw blanket that you spread gently over him. “Why don’t you get some rest, I’ll bring you some water and some soup in a bit, I’m sure you’re starving.” The floor creaked beneath your feet as you made your way to the door. He didn’t move. He didn’t look up at you. He just stayed on the bed, a shaking, sniffling bundle. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sighing, you stepped out of the room and into the hallway, making sure to lock the door behind you. You didn’t think he would run away, he seemed far too exhausted and overwhelmed for that, but you have seen desperate people do crazier things. The least you could do was make sure he wasn’t accidentally hurt trying to make his way past Gene, Alfonso and Irvin trying to escape.

You made your way quickly back to the servants stairwell and down to the kitchen, where Giovanni was waiting for you with bated breath. A joyous, loving man, an immigrant from Italy alongside Angelo Bronte several decades ago, Giovanni was one of your closest friends - possibly the next thing to family that you had had since coming here. Over the years, he had taught you as much as he could about Italian cuisine, all the while boasting about the restaurant that he would surely open one day.

At first, you had scoffed. Hardly anyone in Angelo Bronte’s service managed to leave and start their own life. And, with as much as Signor Bronte boasted about Giovanni’s food, it wasn’t likely that he would be let out of his repayment contract that easily.

Hardly anyone actively sought out Angelo Bronte as an employer. In fact, you suspected that the only actual well-paid employees were the contract killers he sometimes took out to keep his hands clean - but again, you weren’t supposed to know that. The rest of you were given room and board and a pittance of a salary, in exchange for paying off whatever debt was owed to Signor Bronte. For you, it was your father’s sizable gambling debts. For Giovanni, it was the cost of keeping his nieces and nephews alive after their father, his brother, had suddenly passed. Bail, loans, gambling - every one of his employees had a past, and every single one of them owed their future to Angelo Bronte.

“And, my dear, what is the news?” he asked, turning from the freshly baked bread that he had just taken out of the oven to face you.

You gave him a somber smile and picked up a slice of tomato from the cutting board in the center of the kitchen island. “A boy,” you explained, leaning against the island and taking a bite of the vegetable. You glanced over at the washbasin and saw your coffee cup had been cleaned. Giovanni was a saint. “Maybe four or five? Small, either way. I…” you trailed off, but the both of you knew what was going through your mind. You felt bad for him, you didn’t think he deserved this.

Giovanni nodded, and turned to the stove. “Well, my dear, let’s give the boy a warm welcome, shall we?” he responded before pulling a large pot from the back of the stove and looking inside. “We have some leftover minestrone from yesterday, why don’t you warm some up for him while I finish Signor Bronte’s breakfast? There’s some stale bread in the pantry you can add to it. I’ll call in Anne to set the table,” he handed you a wooden spoon and was out the kitchen door, where you heard him calling for the older woman.

Your smile was significantly less downtrodden after speaking to the man, but you still could feel anxious, worried butterflies in your stomach as you collected a bowl, spoon and glass. After a quick glance around the room to make sure no one was watching, you also slipped a small chocolate bar into your apron pocket, hoping it would help cheer the boy up, even a little. Within just a few minutes, you were headed back up the creaky stairs to the room where Jack was housed, hot soup and cool water in hand, and armed with a secret chocolate bar.

Quietly, you opened the door, balancing the soup and a glass of water with your left arm as you entered. The room was silent now, except for the low breathing of the boy on the bed. If it weren’t for his red-puffy eyes and the chapped rings around his nostrils, he would have seemed peaceful. Like nothing was wrong at all.

You stood for a moment, looking at the poor boy. Should you wake him? He was bound to be starving, but you were sure he was exhausted as well. You hesitated, but decided against it. You could leave the soup and water on the bedside table and check on him throughout the day - he deserved his rest.

Slowly, quietly, you crept across the room to the side of the bed and set the soup and water down, followed by the chocolate bar. You glanced quickly at him, relieved he didn’t wake, before making your way back to the door.

Just as you were about to leave and go about your duties for the morning, you heard a small cough and a hoarse, timid voice from the bed. “Wait…” he said. You turned to see the boy propped up on his arms, looking at you with puffy, shining eyes. “Please don’t leave me.”

Looking at him made you want to cry. How could anyone hurt someone so small, so fragile, so helpless? How could someone be so cruel as to take him away from his family and thrust him into this god awful world?

He was already so exhausted, so frightened, so sad, you couldn’t leave him to sort his feelings out on his own. You could convince Anna and Giovanni to take your duties for the day. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nodded at him and moved back toward the bed to sit with him. “I won’t.”

---

Slowly, Jack began to settle in. Although he was still obviously upset, the boy proved to be far more flexible and resilient than you had expected from someone so young. Whether from his natural resilience or from your constant reassurance that his parents must be doing everything in their power to get him back, you weren’t entirely certain. You spent plenty of time with him, making sure he was doing alright, and eventually he chose to sleep on a small cot in the servants quarters, next to your bed.

He was prone to constant chatter during the day, and you soon learned quite a lot about him and his family. He apparently had plenty of aunts and uncles, who all moved together around the country. They had been down near Blackwater for a long time, where Jack had apparently left his favorite storybook, but then something brought them north to a small ghost town “with lots of snow, it was real cold!”. Luckily, they hadn’t been there long before heading south again to “a place by a river with lots and lots of trees” where, notably, his Uncle Arthur had taken him fishing. Most recently, they had moved down to Lemoyne, once again near a river, but this time Jack described it as “really hot and nothing ever dries and it always smells like fish.”

An accurate description if you had ever heard one.

In the meantime, although he wouldn’t talk much to the others, most of them couldn’t help but dote on him. Giovanni had a habit of slipping him sweets throughout the day. Anna and the other maids would occasionally bring him books or toys that they had found around town - he was amassing quite a collection. And from Signor Bronte himself, Jack received a brand new outfit made from the finest cotton. You suspected it was most likely to keep the worn rags out of the man’s sight than to actually please Jack.

But, despite the gifts and the treats from the others, Jack clung to you. On laundry days, he would help sort and fold. When cooking, he would clean the vegetables without a second thought. During cleaning, he happily carried supplies around after you, handing you what you needed whenever asked. Although you had told him multiple times that he was more than welcome to sit and read his new book, he preferred staying by your side.

Almost as if he was afraid that, if left alone, he would be taken again.

And at night, it always came to a head. In the dark and left with no distractions, you could hear his whimpers from the cot next to yours. You could hear his murmurs and quiet cries for “Mama” as he dreamt. And it hurt. You couldn’t bear to see him so miserable.

After the third or fourth night, you reached down and brushed the hair from his head. “Jack?” you whispered, looking at the small boy with all the affection of a loving mother. “It’s going to be alright, I promise.”

He didn’t wake. Instead, he sleepily lifted his hand to yours, and held it in his until the sun rose.

The first few weeks went by similarly. Working during the day, with Jack at your side, helping you out as much as a child could, and comforting the poor child during the night with reassuring words. Soon, the reassurance and affirmations turned into stories - tales about dragons and castles, about magic and the sea.

About two weeks into his stay, you spent the day preparing for a large feast alongside Giovanni, Anna and with plenty of help from Jack.

“You didn’t finish your story last night,” he said, pounding away at a ball of bread dough with his tiny fists.

“Oh yes I did,” you teased, looking the boy dead in the eye with a grin. “You were just too sleepy and fell asleep before the end.” As you joked, you set down the knife and pushed aside the tomato you had been chopping to poke him lightly in the side.

His joyous laughter lit up his face. “Hey!” he whined in between bouts of giggles. “That tickles!”

“I know, silly,” you returned not relenting your tickle torture. “That’s the point!” You did acquiesce after just a few moments though, not wanting to actually cause him any pain.

“Alright you two, calm down, now,” came Anna’s voice from across the room. She was a lovely, portly older woman, with graying hair and a smile to light up a room. If Giovanni had been your father figure since coming here, she certainly took the place of your mother. “We’ve got plenty to prepare for tonight. Signor Bronte is having the Mayor over to talk about his party.”

You let your giggles die down, and nudged the red-faced child next to you. “Now look what you’ve done, Jackie,” you teased softly, ruffling his hair before going back to chopping vegetables.

“Nuh uh,” he responded, giving the bread dough a thorough punch before looking up at you again with a childish grin. He had lost a tooth recently, which only made it all the more adorable. “Can you tell me the end of the story?” he asked after another moment, turning back to the mound of dough on the table. “It was so good, I wanna hear the end. Pretty please?”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “Alright, alright,” you chided, picking up yet another tomato. It wasn’t a particularly good story, just a thinly veiled version of… well, you didn’t want to dwell on that, but if he wanted to hear it, you would oblige. “Where were we?”

“Hmmm…” he mused, stopping kneading the dough for just a second to recall. “Well, the king and queen had just sent the princess to talk to the mean dragon, and then he caught her in a trap, remember?”

“That’s the beginning of the story, Jack.”

“Well, that’s as far as I remember,” his giggles echoed through the room and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Alright, fine,” you feigned irritation that he definitely could see right through. “Well, the princess had been caught in a trap by the mean dragon, but he didn’t hurt her. He… he just wouldn’t let her go home. He wouldn’t let her see the king and queen again so she could be happy.

“‘Your king and queen need to send a knight to come get you,’ the dragon told the princess. ‘Little girls cannot roam the forest on their own.’

“And so, the princess waited, and waited and waited and waited. She learned to read, and write, and she even learned to speak Dragon, which were talents unheard of for princesses in those days.

“She had lots of friends who came and went, and even though she couldn’t go back to the king and queen, she... she wasn’t so lonely… and she learned to find happiness in the small things, like the smell of coffee in the morning, or turning the page of a brand new book, or even the glow of the sunrise on spring dew.

“After a while, she finally realised that she didn’t need the king and queen to be happy. She could make her own happiness… And she did…” you trailed off at the end, returning your focus once again to the vegetables. The other two adults in the room remained silent. You couldn’t have been more blatantly obvious. “The end.”

Jack was quiet for a moment as well, hands stilled on the dough as he looked at the ceiling in thought. “That wasn’t a very good ending,” he said quietly, looking up at you.

You had been caught.

“The princess should have run away, or she should have asked one of her friends to take her when they were leaving,” he continued, determined.

You chuckled solemnly. “You’re probably right, Jack,” you murmured. “I think she was just… scared. The world was dark and scary for her, and she weren’t a very brave princess, and she was worried about what would happen to the king and queen if she left.”

“But that’s not true,” he interjected, throwing one final punch at the bread dough before Anna came to collect it from him. “She was real brave! She lived with a dragon! And dragons are real scary!” He was handed another mound of dough which he immediately proceeded to punch with all his might. “And maybe some of her friends come back to save her! Maybe she helped lots of people while they were living with the dragon, and then they come back to help her! That would be an even better ending!”

Another chuckle. He was far too adorable and far too naive for this house. “Maybe, Jack,” you responded, plastering a knowing smile to your lips. “That would be a good ending.” Clearing your throat, you wiped your hands on your apron and turned to face the small boy. “Alright now, you. Finish up with that bread and then we can get cleaned up for lunch. I think Giovanni is making us spaghetti.”

---

The hot water splashed out of the bucket, spraying suds across the floor. Jack giggled and picked up a handful, blowing it in your direction.

You couldn’t help but laugh. The kid sure did know how to make even the most boring of chores into a game. Looking around first to make sure no one caught you messing around, you picked up a handful of bubbles and plopped them onto his head. This brought out a shrieking laugh from the boy. He really was settling in. For better or worse, at least he seemed to be happier.

Finally, you told him gently that you needed to finish the laundry, and then the two of you could go outside for a walk. This, somehow, convinced him to calm down, left playing with the bubbles and giggling to himself until he was interrupted by a voice calling your name from the hall.

Signor Bronte.

“Get these men drinks,” you heard, his spoken Italian echoing across the hall.

Immediately, you put the wash down and wiped your hands on your dirtied apron before hustling to the liquor cabinet. “Wait here, Jack. I’ll just bring the whisky out and be right back,” you instructed, quickly gathering six whisky glasses and a serving tray.

This had been your job for years, you could practically do it blindfolded. As one of the youngest servants in the house, Signor Bronte tended to like to have you wait on his more esteemed guests. It was degrading, but it kept you in his good graces. You had seen enough servants come and go to know that complaining about your role would get you nowhere. Or worse.

Quickly, you pulled a decanter from the cabinet, and left the room with the tray full of glasses in your hands. Already in the hallway, you could hear the conversation between the men in the room. “Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan, John Marston,” introduced one of the strangers, his voice confident.

You brushed past Irvin, who was standing guard at the entrance, into extravagant parlour. Upon entering the room, you could immediately see that these were not the typical guests that Signor Bronte would waste his good whisky on, but you hardly had time to look at them individually. They seemed dirty, rough, and completely out of place in the richly-decorated parlour.

“The pleasure is mine, all mine, please,” he said, summoning you forward. You warily step between the chairs to place the tray on the table and pour the glasses, handing them to each man in turn. First, to a tall, thin man with dark hair and a frustrated scowl etched into his face. Next, a muscular man with light brown hair and bright teal eyes, and finally, another dark-haired man, his hair slick with pomade and dressed in clothing that looked like it used to be expensive.

“So, can my friend have his son?” says one of the men - the one who had introduced them all earlier. You nearly froze. Can my friend have his son?

Jack.

It took you just a moment to gather your wits before you turned to your boss, handing him the last glass. He took it with a nod to you and a chuckle, before looking back at the men in front of him. “Of course, of course!” he grinned, taking a sip of the whisky. You immediately got yourself out of the way, standing behind the couch in case you were needed for anything else, as you had been taught. “But… should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that…”

“No,” answered the man, slightly reluctantly. You noted that none of the other men had yet spoken, this must be their leader.

Bronte seemed satisfied with their response, choosing to ignore the reluctance with a jovial laugh. “No, no no. So, how about this? You perform a simple job for me and you get your son back,” he explained, rubbing his hands together like the villain he was.

Finally, one of the other men spoke.“What is it?” the larger of the two groaned, beginning to stand up, as if he knew he would be assigned to this task.

Bronte, of course, made light of the situation, waving his hands through the air as he spoke, “A couple of people have taken to grave robbing in the cemetery.”

“That is a fine place for it, the best,” joked the leader. You cringed, but Signor Bronte seemed to enjoy it.

Your boss burst out laughing, from the gut this time. “I love this guy, don’t you love him?” he laughed, looking at you. You nodded, plastering a smile to your face until he turned back to the other man. “I love you!” He paused for a moment to pour himself another glass of whisky before continuing his explanation. “See they’ve taken not only to desecrating the dead, but they've done so without paying a tribute to the living. Thing is, they see my men, of course, they run a mile. So maybe you two head off, huh?” he said, indicating to the men on the couch before pouring yet another glass of whisky and handing it to the group’s leader. “And you, Mr. Van der Linde? Why don’t you tell me more about my manners?” he finished speaking and held up the glass to the other man, Mr. van der Linde, for a toast as the other two men stood to leave the room. “Salute.”

“Salute,” parroted Mr. van der Linde, clinking his glass with your boss’s. The other two men exited the room, as your boss and Mr. van der Linde continued conversing. Their laughter was real, but something in the room was tense, fake. Two men cut from the same cloth, both trying to one-up the other without making it completely obvious.

You had seen this enough times to know that this would only end badly for at least one of them - if not both.

The hour dragged on, as you stood in the corner, ready to jump into service if need be. Your mind drifted to Jack - now sitting alone in the washroom - and that you would soon be saying goodbye.

It was bittersweet, this feeling that came over you. You wanted him to be happy, to be home with his family, of course, but over the course of the last few weeks, he had wormed his way into your heart. He was the family, the son, that you would never have. And it broke your heart to have to let him go.

But you knew better. You couldn’t keep him here. Not for you. It was better if he were able to go home, to see his mother and his family, to see his dog that he missed so much. That was the life he needed, the life he deserved.

You felt the tears well in your eyes as you stood, waiting for your orders. A little over three hours had passed, and the men were still away. Signor Bronte and Mr. van der Linde were well into their cups, and you were not surprised in the least when your boss stood and unceremoniously sent his guest on his way.

“And the boy?” asked Mr. van der Linde, standing from his position on the couch and reaching out a hand to shake.

Signor Bronte took it, gave it a quick shake and began to stagger out of the room. “Yes, yes,” he slurred, turning to you on his way. “Bring him down, would you?”

“Yes, Signore,” you nodded, looking from your boss to the other man. It was really happening. It was really time to say goodbye.

To say Jack was excited at the news was putting it lightly. He had nearly bounced with joy when you had told him that his Pa was here to pick him up. You had led him down the stairs and out the front door to where Mr. van der Linde was waiting patiently. Jack nearly tackled him to the ground in his excitement.

“Uncle Dutch!” he called, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist.

A loud, barking laugh left the man as he patted Jack’s head. “Well hello there, son,” he said, a smile on his face. “It’s good to see you again. We’ve missed you around camp.”

You smiled, looking at the two of them. This was the right thing to do. But then, Jack did something wholly unexpected. He led Dutch to you, and introduced you.

“She’s been real nice since I got here,” he explained to the older man. “She told me stories and brought me candy, and today she even put bubbles on my head!” his excited giggles echoed across the yard.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dutch said, looking you up and down before reaching out for your hand, which he then pulled to his lips in a theatrical show of chivalry. “And thank you so much for taking such good care of our boy.”

You plastered another smile to your face and gently pulled your hand away, wary of potentially offending the well-armed man. “Of course,” you responded. “I was happy to-” you were cut off by the well-timed sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones, and a loud, rough voice ringing in your ears.

“Like I said, we’ll see where we’re at once we got Jack,” said one of the men from earlier as their horses came to a halt in front of the gate. They dismounted and were immediately let in by one of the front guards.

Upon their arrival, Dutch seemed to immediately forget your existence, instead striding towards the two men with an exasperated, “Well, you took your time.”

And then there was Jack, nearly bursting with excitement at the sight of the men, he couldn’t wait until they were through the gate before he ran to them with a cry of, “Pa!”

The sight warmed your heart. Jack was quickly picked up and clutched to the chest of the taller, dark-haired man as the other moved past you to hand something to the guards. “I’m so glad to see you!” he said, rubbing the back of Jack’s head and holding him close.

However, Jack, completely oblivious to the nature of the situation, wiggled free of his father’s arms and, instead, grabbed his hand and pulled the man in your direction. “Pa, come here, come here, you have to meet my friend!” he said, voice loud and excited, as he introduced you to his father. “She’s been helping me since I got here. She tells the best stories!”

The man looked down at Jack with a loving smile and then up to you. “That so?” he asked the boy, reaching out to shake your hand. “John Marston.”

You took his and introduced yourself as Jack rambled on, “Yeah! And she taught me how to make bread real good, want to see?”

“Sure, you can show us when we get back to camp,” John acquiesced, still holding tight to the boy’s hand, who then proceeded to drag the two of you over to the one man you did not yet have a name for.

“Uncle Arthur!” he called. The man, having dropped off whatever he had needed to give Signor Bronte, was leaning against a column and smoking. “You have to meet my friend too.”

“Is that right?” he said, smiling at Jack. He pushed himself off the column and snubbed his cigarette on his boot, moving toward the three of you. “Nice to meet you, miss,” for the third time that night, a hand was held out.

You shook it and introduced yourself, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

John, looking both relieved and exhausted, heaved Jack back into his arms. “Thank you for taking care of him, I-”

Immediately, you stopped him. “It weren’t no problem, really. He’s a lovely boy,” you explained, once again trying to stop the tears from welling up in your eyes. Taking care of Jack had easily been one of the highlights of your life. Having someone need you, someone that loved talking to you, someone who was simply excited to be around you - it was such a drastic change from how you had lived for so long. And, even if you would never experience it again, you wouldn’t trade the last few weeks for the world.

John nodded, you didn’t have to explain any further. “Comeon, Jack, your ma’s been worried sick.” Jack nodded to his father enthusiastically, a grin on his face, before turning and surprising you with a big hug.

You bent over to hug him back, patting him on his head when you heard your name. “You’re coming with us, right?” he asked, his tiny face buried in your dress. You looked around at the others, Arthur had paused in his tracks, John was frozen in place, Dutch was stopped near the gate. No one said anything for a moment.

You don’t know how to break it to him.

So, you pull his face from your skirt and kiss him gently on the forehead, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “I’m real sorry, Jack,” you say, looking him in the eye, “but not this time.” You felt tempted to say something like I promise I’ll write or You can come see me any time but you knew both of these things weren’t true. He would get home to his family, and in a few days you would just be a stranger from his childhood. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stood again, ruffling his hair and turning him to face his father. “Now, you go on back to your family, alright? Teach them how to make some good bread, like I showed you.”

His head was shaking as he looked back up at you, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “But…”

This hurt. More than saying goodbye to a child you had only known for a few weeks should. “I know, but…” you started, still not entirely sure how to explain yourself. “I have to stay here. This… this is my home.” You pull him to you once again in a tight hug and place a kiss on the top of his head. “You be good for your parents, alright?”

You can feel him nod under your chin, but he does not respond. It’s easy to tell that this is a new feeling for him - being so happy and so sad all at once. You wished you could tell him that its only temporary, and he will never have these conflicting feelings again. You wished you could have gone with him, broken free of Angelo Bronte and this life. There were so many things you wished you could do at that moment, but you couldn’t. Or you wouldn’t.

With a light sob, Jack wraps his arms around you one final time until he is gently pulled away by his father. “Comeon, son. We should get going.”

They walked to the gate together, John’s hand on his son’s back, leading the way. Jack was hoisted high onto a horse, and you could vaguely hear them talking to him, trying to cheer him up. “We have a new camp set up, Jack, you’re going to love it,” says Dutch before they ride off down the street.

Finally, you allow your tears to fall.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

---

The days pass slowly after Jack’s goodbye. There is little entertainment to pass the time. No dumb jokes, no begging for stories. It was exactly as it was before. Still, it felt like something was missing.

Early in the morning, a few days later, you walked around the house as usual, coffee in hand. You mused over the tasks for the days ahead: the Governor's garden party was in about a week, so it was time to start preparing. Clothes needed to be pressed, shoes to be shined, and, most importantly, mounds of food needed to be cooked.

Giovanni’s cooking was, although rarely shared outside of Signor Bronte’s home, lauded as some of the best in town. So, of course, Angelo Bronte’s personal chef would be graciously catering the meal.

It was supposed to be a sign of generosity, you theorised, but in reality it was all a show to keep Signor Bronte in the San Denis elite’s good graces - and to worm his way into another favor from the mayor.

You chuckled lightly to yourself as you paced slowly around the perfectly manicured gardens. Marble statues, imported from Italy, gazed down at you, unmoving. Quietly, you began to hum a short tune, not noticing the figure at the fence across from you.

“Mornin’,” he called, his voice low and gruff, just as it had been when you had first met him.

You look up from the grass to the man, in surprise. He was leaning aginst the fence, patiently smoking a cigarette, and waiting. For you? “Ah, good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you call, making your way to him. He stubs out his cigarette on his boot and turns to fully face you. Only now, in the morning sunlight and away from the stress of Angelo Bronte, do you notice how attractive he is. Light brown hair framed an unshaven face, a strong jawline, light smattering of chest hair showing through the top of his unbuttoned collar. “It’s lovely to see you again. How is Jack doing?”

Arthur smiles at you, and the sun suddenly seems slightly brighter. “Boah’s doin’ good,” he says, leaning forward on the fence, one arm above his head to balance himself. “He’s happy to be home.”

You shoot him a small, bittersweet smile before turning your gaze to your coffee. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Misses you, though,” he continues, once he realises you aren’t going to say anything more. You look up at him, and notice he is fishing something out of his satchel. A small, folded piece of paper is passed through the bars of the fence, and you gently pluck it from his hand. “Sent this. Special delivery.”

You gently unfold the paper, and see a row of several stick figures, several people and what looks to be a dog, standing in front of some trees under a sunny sky. Under each of the figures, you can see several names scribbled in an adult’s hand.

Pa, Ma, Jack, Cain, Uncle Arthur… and you.

“Been told to tell you,” he continues, reaching through the fence with the hand that had been keeping him balanced and pointed at the figures on the paper. “That’s you… with us…”

You laugh lightly, glancing from the paper to the eyes of the man in front of you. A handsome teal, complimented by his, admittedly dirty, blue shirt. How had you not noticed him before? “This is real sweet of him, thank you,” you breathe, slightly softer than you had intended. You turn again to look at the drawing, hoping he didn’t notice the blush that had suddenly stained your cheeks.

The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun rise above the horizon. “You could come with us, you know,” he said after a minute, pulling another cigarette from his satchel and lighting it. “The boah would shoa be happy to have you ‘round.”

You smile at the thought. Waking up in the fresh air, telling Jack stories, getting to know his family. It would be lovely. But at the end of the day, it was easier said than done. “That… that’s a nice dream,” you told him, smiling.

He huffed, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s true,” he tells you, leaning against the fence once more. “The life… well it ain’t pretty. Sure as hell not as pretty as livin’ in a mansion. But it’s free. You ain’t gotta answer to no one you don’t want.”

You scoffed and found yourself kicking at the grass beneath your feet. It would surely be better than what you had here. Hell, it would be easy enough to walk through the gates with the intention to never come back. And, what was even keeping you here? Your family? You hadn’t seen them in years. Giovanni? Anna? They would both leave if they could.

But, you knew it wasn’t possible. You’ve seen this kind of thing before. One of your fellow servants found a means of escape, only to be back within a week. If they weren’t found and killed onsight. Angelo Bronte had eyes in every corner. Flies on every wall. He would find you.

“I… I wish I could.”

You went to bed late that evening, your conversation with Arthur resounding in your head. You could come with us, you know. The boy would sure be happy to have you around. The thought had even permeated your dreams, enveloping you in a fantasy world. A beautiful campsite by a river, a group of people, happy, laughing, free. Jack and Arthur and John and Dutch, and even Giovanni and Anna. They were all there, and they were all happy.

But, of course, the threat lingered. What had started as a beautiful dream quickly turned sour as Angelo Bronte entered the scene, scaring away your friends, capturing you and dragging you back to San Denis, into a mansion that looked more like a prison with every step. You would never escape him. You could never be free.

You had woken early in the morning, covered in sweat and sheets kicked from the bed. Breathing heavily, you glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. It was early, but not early enough to warrant going back to sleep. Groaning, you stepped quietly from your bed and pulled on your dressing gown. Your morning ritual would begin earlier today.

The air was crisp, but your coffee was hot - the perfect combination for waking a person up in the morning. The birds sang in their early morning chorus as the slowly rising sun cast everything in a calm, light blue. It was earlier than you had been up in ages, and you were fully prepared to sit in the garden, alone, and bask in the peacefulness.

To your surprise, however, the increasingly-familiar smell of cigarette smoke and campfire reached you. You turned to the fence, the same place as the day prior, to be greeted by the rugged cowboy, leaning casually against the railing. Tired as you were, you couldn’t keep the smile from lighting up your face.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you say, making your way over to him, coffee cradled in both hands. You took a sip, thinking that you may need to start making two cups if this becomes a habit. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. How’s Jack?”

Arthur’s grin immediately made your stomach flip. “Mornin’, miss,” he responded, tipping his hat to you. He lazilly flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground before leaning against the fence again, his arm above his head, like he had done the day before. “Boah’s doin’ good. Still talkin’ ‘bout you.” His grin never left his face as he looked at you.

You cleared your throat and maintained eye contact even though you were sure you could feel the blush spreading across your cheeks. “Well, ain’t he a sweetheart?” you tease, only partially talking about Jack.

He chuckled and reached into his bag, mirroring his actions from the day prior. “I been asked to deliver this,” he said, pulling out a string of slightly crumpled red flowers from his bag. They were strung together, tied at the stems, into a long, vibrant necklace.

You gingerly took the necklace from him with a smile, examining it. Wild yarrow. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” you respond, pulling it over your head before striking a cheesy pose for the man in front of you. “How do I look?”

God, you could look at his smile all day. “Gorgeous,” he responds, only slightly teasing, and you are suddenly struck with a feeling of giddy embarrassment. It was rare that you got on with someone this well, this quickly. But with Arthur Morgan, despite his rough exterior, you felt strangely comfortable.

The two of you stood together, talking through the morning sunrise until you were very nearly late for work. When the sun was almost fully above the horizon, you found yourself giggling and dashing into the house, with one last glance to the cowboy at the fence, eyes shining.

And so it went.

For the next week, like clockwork, you would wake, go for your walk, and meet Arthur Morgan at the fence. Gifts, supposedly all from Jack, were exchanged - a nice rock, a beautiful notebook, a seashell, a fountain pen - and you sent your fair share of notes back, including candy for the boy, and a (stolen) flask of good whisky for your postman.

Soon enough, you found yourself gladly waking earlier in the morning - butterflies in your stomach as you made your way outside to greet him. Your mood was better, despite Jack’s farewell only a week ago, and even your colleagues had taken notice.

“What’s got you walking around here all smiles lately?” Anna had asked on the morning before the Mayor’s garden party, as you sat together, adding finishing touches to several large pies that were to go into the oven.

You scoffed, still unable to wipe the smile from your face, and looked at her over the stack of pans in front of you. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you responded. “Now don’t distract yourself with me, we need to get this all ready to take this afternoon.” Your chiding didn’t deter her, as she continued pestering you the rest of the day.

Her teasing had very little effect on your mood, however, despite the large amount of work ahead of you. And, so, the day passed quickly, in anticipation of the coming evening. It was well known throughout San Denis that Angelo Bronte had one of the best chef’s in town under his employ, so the household staff was asked to provide a portion of the catering. It was a massive, and time consuming project, but it was well worth the work.

You finally had the opportunity to get out of the house, even if it were for just an evening, which would be an incredible change of pace. Almost before you could even gather your bearings, you were slipping into your best uniform, and were on your way to the even larger home.

You had been to the Mayor’s home a handful of times, but it still left you in awe. If you had thought that Angelo Bronte lived in the lap of luxury, but this home was somehow even more opulent. Marble pillars, statues lining the hallways, mahogany floors, golden chandeliers, art on every wall. You had to make a conscious effort to not allow your jaw to drop as you walked through the hallways to the kitchen. There was no time to dawdle, guests would be arriving shortly.

With an unintentional grunt, you hoisted the box of chopped vegetables you were carrying onto a table, and got to work helping Giovanni finish up a large pot of étouffée. It took some time, but after some significant effort from yourself, Giovanni, and Anna, as well as plenty of help from the Mayor’s own servants, the food was served and guests were mingling in the garden.

You leaned carefully against a counter and wiped sweat from your brow. Cooking for upwards of 100 people was exhausting, not to mention that the kitchen was absolutely scalding. You could use a large glass of water and a breath of fresh air.

Nodding at your colleagues, you told them as much before stepping into the hallway and taking a deep breath of the cooler air. If you were lucky, no one would be on the upstairs balcony, and you could head out and watch the fireworks for a few minutes. As you made your way to the back staircase, hoping that the balcony would be empty, you spotted a flash of a black tuxedo and familiar light brown hair in front of you.

Arthur Morgan. Now what was he doing here?

With a smirk, you carefully followed him up the stairs, catching a further glimpse of him as he entered the first door on the second floor. You hadn’t been up here before, but with the way he was walking, you could be sure that he wasn’t sneaking off to the toilet.

Glancing around, you saw no one else in the hallway.

Good.

Slowly, carefully, you pushed open the door to what appeared to be an office. And there, in all his glory, was Arthur Morgan, rummaging through the Mayor’s desk. As you snuck in and quietly closed the door behind you, he slipped a small stack of papers into his tuxedo jacket.

You took a moment to look over him. Damn, he cleaned up well. A recent haircut, clean shaven, and a brand new tuxedo made him look like an entirely new man. Not that you had any problem with the bearded, dirt-covered version of him that had been meeting you all week.

“You ain’t supposed to be here,” you said quietly, startling him. He turned to you, wide-eyed, his hand instinctively flying to where his pistol was usually holstered. He was red in the face, adrenaline pumping, and you had to admit that it was a very good decision to not allow weapons at this party.

Upon seeing you, however, he noticeably relaxed. Face still red, he glanced quickly around the room before moving toward you, a predator stalking its prey. “Could say the same to you,” he whispered, voice low, as he backed you slowly toward the door.

That familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach rose again as he neared, but you held your chin high in defiance - and then you did something even you didn’t quite expect. You kissed him.

Lunged would be a more accurate description. You closed the distance between the two of you in a second, lips crashing with his. You had only known him for a week, but somehow it felt like you had been wanting to do this your entire life.

After a moment of shock, he returned the kiss, lips frantically moving with yours as he wrapped his hands around your body. He was warm and strong, and smelled of campfire and cologne and you wanted to get lost in him. You wanted to lose yourself with him. Reaching up, you ran your fingers through his hair until you reached the base of his neck, pulling him closer to you.

He moved with you, slowly, steps matching yours, until your back was flush against the door. For only a moment, he pulled away. You heard the light click of a key and he was on you again, hands fluttering over your hips as he began to work his lips down your jawline. You had to swallow the moan threatening to spill from your lips as you pulled him impossibly closer, fingers toying with the ends of his hair. Then you pulled.

He leaned back with a guttural groan, following your hands as you gently pulled at the hairs on the nape of his neck. His cheeks were flushed, hair mussed, and he looked absolutely gorgeous. You couldn’t help yourself as you pulled him back to you, wrapping your arms around his neck and crashing your lips to his.

The taste of him, the feel of him, it was overwhelming and you wished you could be surrounded by him like this for the rest of your life. Silently, lips still on yours, he turned the two of you so that your back was against the nearby bookshelf. You lifted a leg and wrapped it around his, grinding into him without breaking your kiss.

Before you knew what was happening, his hands moved from your hips to pull up the skirt of your dress and finger the waistband of your bloomers. A nip at the bottom of your lip brought out a groan from you as he slowly made his way into your underclothes, exploring until he found your core.

Gently, he toyed with your lower lips, ghosting his fingers along the outside teasingly. If you were in any other state of mind, you would have been embarrassed about the way your hips began moving - wantonly, desperately, trying to maneuver his exploratory fingers exactly where you wanted them.

But Arthur Morgan was apparently not feeling cooperative. He pulled away from your kiss and brought his hand out of your bloomers at the same time, leading you to throw your head back against the bookshelf with a desperate groan.

The twinkle in his eyes matched the mischievous smirk on his face as he looked down at you, your breathing heavy, cheeks flushed. The cocky bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying this. This torment.

With a sudden burst of courage that you didn’t know you had in you, you found yourself pushing him backward. Hands on his chest, you led him roughly to the mayor’s desk, and lunged. Lips crashed once again with his, the taste of whisky and tobacco overwhelming you once again. Your fingers toyed with his tuxedo jacket before slipping underneath and sliding it from his shoulders.

As good as he looked in this outfit, he was far too clothed for your taste.

Next came his vest, unbuttoned with help from him as you both lost your patience. You peeled his suspenders off until they hung loosely at his sides, and finally all that stood between you and his bare chest was his shirt. He yanked it roughly from his pants, the two of you unbuttoning it as quickly as your shaking fingers allowed, and flung it across the room before leaning in for another desperate kiss.

As his lips met yours once again, you felt him push you back toward the bookshelf as he untied your apron to pull it over your head. Next, his fingers unbuttoned the high collar of your dress, quickly followed quickly by his lips as he placed kisses and nips on your flushed skin. He trailed ever downward - to your collarbone, to your cleavage - drawing moans from your parted lips.

Desperately, you reached for his face and pulled him back up to you, caressing the smooth shaven skin as you kissed. Once satisfied, your hands wandered downward, toying with the hair splayed across the hot, hard panes of his chest. Slowly, teasingly, you followed the path of his hair with your fingers until you reached the top of his pants, and his breath hitched in your mouth.

Your kiss slowed and turned into a peck as you undid the button and pushed his pants down, revealing muscular thighs framing a growing bulge hidden under his underclothes. Pushing down the thin cotton finally revealed his swollen member, which you took gently into your hand as you pulled him in for another heated kiss.

He groaned into your mouth, growing impossibly harder with each stroke, until he pulled away to look you into the eye. His face was flushed, his hair in shambles, and you swore you had never seen anything so beautiful in your entire life. You nodded, and allowed him to hoist up your skirt and slide into you through the slit in your bloomers.

In unison, groans left both of your mouths. You were balanced precariously on a bookshelf, your leg wrapped around his waist as he sank into you, head thrown back in pleasure. Once he gathered his bearings, he slowly, torturously slowly, began to move.

He thrust in and out, in and out, his face buried into your shoulder. Each thrust was paired with a small grunt and a gasp from you. You reveled in the feeling, the warmth, the intensity.

His hands gripped your hips through the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer to him with each thrust. You wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him up to you. Your lips met, tongues entangled as tiny gasps swelled up from your throat. It was all you could do to keep in the loud moan that was threatening to spill from your lips.

With each thrust, the bookshelves shook, sending a few trinkets to the carpeted floor with a light thump. You should be more careful. The thought echoed in your mind for only a second before it was whisked away by another thrust that shook you to the core.

As he grew closer and closer to completion, his thrusts became faster, more frantic, and you found yourself clutching the edges of the shelf for balance.

Finally, he pulled one of his hands from your hip and wormed it between your bodies to find the place where he had teased you so well before. And then he pressed. And rubbed. And stroked. And finally, in a glaring flash of white before your eyes, you found yourself biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming his name. Your body shook, your breathing came in harsh gasps, until you could finally open your eyes.

Not a second later, Arthur took a few final thrusts and pulled out of you, stroking his member once, twice, and then spilling himself on the floor with a series of loud gasps. A shaky breath followed as he fell onto you, his head balancing on your chest to catch his breath.

Finally, there was silence, only broken occasionally by a heaving breath. The two of you huddled together against the bookshelves, clinging to each other until you could regain your balance.

You found yourself leaning hard against the shelf behind you, running your fingers through Arthur’s mussed hair. “Those last few gifts… the journal, the pen… those weren’t from Jack, were they?” you asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

A low chuckle came from Arthur, still bent forward with his head balanced on your chest. “I s’pose I’ve been caught again…”

The party ended with a spectacular fireworks show, which you and Arthur watched together, now fully clothed and hidden from sight on the empty balcony. Shortly after the last firework had lit up the night sky, he left you with a lingering kiss that you swore you felt on your lips for the rest of the evening.

To say your head was in the clouds would have been putting it lightly. You would have never expected such a rough, dirty man to be your knight in shining armor, but here you were.

Your good mood carried over through the party cleanup, into the night, and even on into the morning during your daily walk. Glancing at the gate where he usually stood, you were slightly disheartened to see his spot empty. Your smile faltered for just a moment, before you reasoned with yourself. He was probably just tired, or hungover, and just because he had showed up every day for the last week and a half did not mean he could keep up that habit forever.

So, you sat and waited for nearly a half an hour at your normal meeting spot, before heading back inside only slightly disheartened. He had a life outside of meeting you, you reminded yourself, it was unfair to assume he would be there every day when he had never promised this.

Despite your disappointment, your good mood persisted through the day. Through stained laundry, through dusting and mopping, through cleaning a massive pile of cooking dishes from the night before - you couldn’t have wiped the smile off of your face.

And then he didn’t show up again. And again. And again.

For over a week, you missed Arthur’s presence on your morning walks. You found yourself waiting at the fence each day, coffee and the morning paper in hand to pass the time, only to end up disappointed once again. At the very least, there seemed to be a lot of dramatic news to report that week - a trolley station robbery ending with a crashed trolly on main street, a wealthy man on a steamboat robbed for all he was worth - but that information only helped pass the time you spent waiting for him.

Outside of your morning walks, your mood slowly soured. Maybe Arthur had gotten what he wanted. Maybe the dirty, lecherous outlaw’s only goal was to bed you and be on his way. Maybe Jack had forgotten you completely, and with nothing new to deliver, so had Arthur.

You took to writing angrily in the journal he had gotten you, having no other reasonable outlet for your emotions. Originally, you had wanted to toss the damn thing into the fire, but - without someone to vent to, without someone who could understand the depths of your frustration - it seemed like such a waste. Instead, you chose to use the gift for its intended purpose, and wrote down all of your frustrations toward the man who had gifted it to you, before stuffing it underneath your pillow and falling asleep for the night.

There it lay, throughout the day and night until you finally did see Arthur Morgan again. A loud crash, followed by gunshots and yelling in Italian and English from the back gardens, met your ears as you cleaned up after dinner with Anna and Giovanni.

“We’re comin’ for you, Bronte! Send out every man you got!”

The three of you had no guns, and even if you had it sounded less like a gunfight and more like a massacre. Quickly, you locked the doors, hoping that it would be enough to deter the intruders. And then, huddled together out of sight with your friends, you waited.

The back door was kicked open with a gunshot and a loud bang. More gunshots, screams, and crashes echoed through the hallway and into the kitchen. You heard the yells get closer, before the kitchen door was shot and forcefully kicked open.

This was it, this would be your end.

Only, it wasn’t.

Standing in the doorframe was none other than Arthur Morgan, shotgun in hand, eyes frantic… until he caught sight of you.

“Comeon,” he said, rushing over to where the three of you were huddled together and pulling you up by the arm. “You three gotta get outta here,” he ordered, gruffly, hurriedly, as he opened one of the larger windows. “We only came from the back, so head to the front and go somewhere safe.”

Giovanni and Anna looked from each other to you, and then to the open window, hesitant. Another volley of gunfire reached your ears from inside the house. There was no time for debate. “Go ahead,” you told them. “We can trust him.”

That (plus another few rounds of gunfire in quick succession) was all it took. Giovanni nodded to you, grabbed Anna by the forearm, and they were out the window and running across the lawn to safety. You breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Arthur. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you wanted to ask, but there was no time.

As if sensing your hesitation, he took you by the shoulders and pulled you in for a hug. “Go,” he said, face buried into your hair. “Get to the Fontana, I’ll meet you there when this is over.” You could have sworn you felt a light kiss atop your head before he pressed a crumpled ten dollar bill into your palm and lightly pushed you in the direction of the open window. “Get outta here.”

You nodded, mouthing a quick “thank you” before climbing through the window. In the distance, you could see Anna and Giovanni, silhouetted against the night sky. They were running as fast as they could, to safety, and you felt a pang in your chest. They had been the closest thing you had had to a family for so long. The three of you had been forced together by fate, and had come out a team. But… where would you end up if you followed them?

Likely back in the service of another rich man. But, maybe it would be better. Maybe the freedom you found yourself longing for was to be found in the familiar, the known. Could you really abandon your friends, your way of life, for the promise of a man you had known for little more than a few weeks?

Quickly, you glanced in the opposite direction, toward the city. Toward the Fontana. Toward the promise of freedom. The clock was ticking, you needed to decide. Now.

Torn between what was and what could be, you took a deep breath and took the advice of a child who was far too wise for his age. You ran toward the Fontana. You ran as fast as you could to a new life.

The sound of gunfire and screams followed you to the gates, where it then became overwhelmed by the shouts and sirens of incoming police. Luckily, you were able to slip outside of the gate and get partially down the street before they stopped in front of the house.

Bowing your head, you quickly made your way down the cobblestone street and into the city, away from the violence. By the time you reached the Fontana Theater, the gunshots had all but faded into the hustle and bustle of the city center, and you became acutely aware of how much you didn’t belong. It had been years since you had been anywhere outside of Signore Bronte’s mansion other than the grocery and occasional trip to the tailors. It had been even longer since the last time you had been to a Magic Lantern Theater. And you knew, with your hair mussed and maid’s uniform, you must stick out like a sore thumb.

Luckily, if your memory served, the theater should be dark enough that no one would notice. You slowed your pace, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, and proceeded to the ticket counter, purchasing one ticket to the three upcoming shows. That should be more than enough time, you hoped.

You entered the dimly lit room and practically collapsed into one of the seats. Now that you had managed to escape, now that you were in relative safety, the adrenaline you had felt earlier had completely vanished. You were exhausted. You were confused. You were scared.

Now, you could only wait, and hope that Arthur would be back for you as promised.

In front of you, the film started with a flicker. The recorded voice of a man telling the story of several forest animals as a series of images were projected onto the screen. The room was silent, except for the recording, and you found yourself struggling to keep your eyes open.

What must have been a few hours later, you were shaken awake by an unfamiliar man. You were startled for only a minute before you realised that he was the same man who had sold you the tickets earlier. “That’s the last showing for the day, miss,” he was saying, quietly, pulling his hand away from your shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be on your way, now.”

You blinked and looked around the room, now flooded with light. It was empty except for the two of you. “What… what time is it?” you stammered, voice cracking lightly.

“‘Bout 11:30,” he responded, looking quickly to his pocket watch to confirm. You had been asleep for a solid 4 hours, and Arthur hadn’t yet arrived. “You should get on home.”

Home. Where was that?

You stood, nodding abashedly at the man. “Thank you,” you murmured before making your way out of the theater and into the dark streets.

It was quiet, the same kind of quiet you had grown so used to on your morning walks. However, instead of finding it calm and refreshing, you found yourself longing for the noisy streets. The hustle and bustle of San Denis that would overpower your thoughts, that would drown out your anxieties.

Instead, you were alone, left to mull over your current situation on the steps of the theater. The long, dark tendrils of doubt crept into your mind as you waited. Did you make the right choice? Did Arthur abandon you? Was all of this some horrible trick? Tears spilled silently from your eyes as you waited. Exhausted. Frustrated. Sad. The only thing to break you out of your thought spiral was the occasional drunk would wander by, heading home for the evening.

Eventually, the ground where you sat grew cold, and you found yourself falling asleep against the wall of the theater, huddled up like an abandoned animal. You could sleep here tonight, in case he did show up, and head … somewhere … in the morning. A hotel, maybe? A workhouse? You didn’t know where, but that was a thought for the morning.

It was only when the steady clip-clop clip-clop of horse hooves made their way down the dark street that you willed yourself to look up. Coming slowly into view through the darkness was a lone rider on a horse. He looked exhausted, frustrated, as he stopped his horse in front of the theater and dismounted, glancing around the area until he spotted you.

You stood on legs that were strangely both stiff and shaky and made your way over to him, where he pulled you into a tight hug.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, once again burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to leave you so long.” You nodded against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his shirt as tears of relief threatened to spill. “Let’s get you home.”

The ride went by in a blur. Not that you were moving fast, but rather because you were so exhausted that everything was a bit of a haze. You must have arrived at the large, dilapidated mansion early into the morning, before anyone was up to disturb you, because you could not remember the journey into Arthur’s bed for the life of you.

There was no crunch of the grass as you slid off the saddle, no creek of the stairs, no groan of the bed as the two of you lay down together. Nothing. All you could remember was that you were here. You were safe. You were home.

You awoke around midday, sunlight streaming through the broken windows of a small-rundown room overlooking the swamps of Lemoyne. It was sweltering hot, but you found yourself cuddling closer into the strong arms that were wrapped around you. The scent of the swamps mixed with whisky and tobacco, campfire and gunsmoke, as you nuzzled into his chest.

He was breathing deeply, soundly, as you lifted your head from his chest to look around. The room itself was old and dilapidated, it would barely serve as a shelter during any storms that may strike. In the far corner stood an old shelf, filled with photos and trinkets. Next to it, a small table with a map, and across from that, a larger table, stacked to the brim with weapons and ammunition.

Arthur’s room.

You stood, intending to make your way over to examine the trinkets across the room, but were instead gently pulled back to bed by the man behind you. “Mornin’,” he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes as he held you close.

You acquiesced, leaning back into him and basking in his presence. “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan,” you whispered back to him, gazing over his face. His eyes were still closed, but he couldn’t keep a small smile from forming as you spoke. Gently, you brushed hair away from his forehead and planted a light kiss to the revealed skin. “Thank you.”

He chuckled, finally opening his eyes to look at you. You could have melted in the soft, loving look that came your way. “Nothin’ to thank me for,” he said, reaching up to run his thumb along your cheek in admiration. “Just needed to get you out alive, is all.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I feel like that deserves thanks.”

A scoff came from the man beside you. “Nah, it was all selfish, really,” he explained, his gaze travelling over every inch of your face as if he were committing it to memory. “I just wanted to keep you ‘round.” With that, he planted a quick kiss on your lips and sat up, turning to his satchel that had been tossed to the floor by the bed. “It weren’t pretty last night… ‘n’ I’m glad I got to you before it got worse.”

“What happened?” you asked, watching as he pulled the satchel to him and began to rifle through it.

“Bronte… well he done his best to screw us over,” he explained. “Set some traps for us… ‘n’ Dutch made sure he paid for it.” You figured you knew what he meant, but let him continue anyway. “Bastard’s dead - some poor alligator’s breakfast.”

To your surprise, you felt incredibly conflicted. The man had essentially kept you hostage for the last few years, but he had at least taken care of you. He had by no means been a good person, but… you had grown some sort of strange affinity for him over the years. And yet, you didn’t find yourself shedding a tear for him. If anything, it was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, like you could finally breathe freely after so long.

You didn’t know what to say.

“I did manage to get hold of these, though,” he said, pulling several items from his satchel. You gasped when you saw them, and felt the tears that wouldn’t fall for Bronte begin to well up. In Arthur’s hands were a child’s drawing, a flower crown, a very special rock, a beautiful journal, and a fountain pen.

Now, the tears did fall as you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. “Thank you, Arthur,” you said, burying your face into his neck. “Thank you so incredibly much.”

With a small chuckle, he set the momentos down on his lap, and wrapped his arms around you as well. “‘Course.”

The two of you stayed like that, reveling in each other’s embrace, for a few perfect, blissful minutes. So this is what it felt like to be wanted. This is what it felt like to have someone really, truly care about you. This is the feeling you had been waiting for for so long.

It wasn’t a minute later before there was a tentative knock on your door, and Arthur pulled himself away from the hug. “I think someone might be excited to see you,” he said, nodding toward the door.

You looked over, calling for the visitor to come in. As the door swung open, you were greeted with the sound of your name excitedly being called, and the sight of a child, red with excitement, standing in the doorway. Jack. “You’re here! You’re really here!” he exclaimed, darting over to you and jumping into your arms. He was followed by a smiling, dark-haired woman, and a man who you recognised as John. “I knew it! I knew you would come live with us!”

“Of course, Jack,” you childed, squeezing him tight. “I could never leave you.”

He squeezed you back, before pulling away and grabbing your forearm to lead you out of the room. “Come on!” he said, leading you forward. “You have to meet the rest of our family!”

#rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #f!reader #rdrbigbang2021 #rdrbigbang

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megalony · 3 years

Text

What belongs to me

This is a new Murderer! Ben Hardy imagine that someone requested a while ago and I’m sorry lovely I lost the request but I’m sure I’ve written what you wanted. It’s going to have a follow up part, I hope you all enjoy it, feedback is always appreciated.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @ambi-and-sunflowers @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @hellsdragon @im-an-adult-ish @crazylittlethingg @allauraleigh @onceuponadetectivedemigod @ceres27

Murderer! Ben Masterlist

Summary: (Y/n) tried her best to leave Ben behind her and move on with her life away from him, but deep down she knew he would never let her go. Especially not when she had something that belongs to him.

Enjoy

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He'd found her.

She had been stupid enough to think that she was winning this game, that she had finally gotten the better of him. But Ben never lost and this was the proof of that.

Everything that Ben did was like a game to him. Going to a family event, he had to get the last word on a matter that he cared about, he had to be there first and could not be the last one to turn up. Going to work, he was the boss and if someone didn't do as he asked of them then he would punish them and it was a game to him. The longer someone evaded him, the more fun it became.

But this was a step too far for (Y/n). He was turning their breakup into a game, he had made it is mission to find her and now his men had finally found her. Ben was the kind of person who liked to keep tabs on people and they both knew that sooner or later, he was going to force (Y/n) to come back to him. She had taken the brave step of leaving him but it wasn't enough because Ben wasn't going to let her leave him just like that.

Ben did whatever he could to get what he wanted, he cheated, hurt and often murdered to get what he wanted and what he wanted right now, was (Y/n) back. He didn't care what he had to do even if he knew the more he tried, the more he was pushing her away.

Having his men follow her was something (Y/n) had gotten used to in their relationship but it was something she now feared since they had broken up.

(Y/n) feared that one day she would look over her shoulder and find one of Ben's men following her, keeping tabs on her and getting ready to pounce and bring her back to the Devil himself. So far she had done well in eluding him, she had gotten away and managed to stop herself from going back to him because she knew getting away was the right thing for her.

But now he had found her.

He had managed to get his men to find her and they weren't going to stop now they had finally caught a glimpse of her. Before, it didn't used to bother (Y/n) because Ben's men were following her to ensure her safety and because it was a dangerous world when involved with Ben. But now they were following her because Ben was possessive and he wanted to keep his grip on her.

The man who had found her had been hard to spot because it was the one person (Y/n) wouldn't suspect to see following her.

The one man who was closest to Ben. He hardly ever left Ben's side, he was like a loyal pet or a puppet whose strings had to be pulled for him to go or do anything. Seeing Joe here right now without his master was something (Y/n) hadn't expected.

But when his kind eyes latched onto hers, there was a look of sorrow in them that she couldn't take.

Three months (Y/n) had been out of his grasp, she had been away from him and had tried to carry on with the life she had before Ben but (Y/n) was finding that it was near impossible to do that. The life she had before him was boring. It was a life that was dull, calculated and predictable but when Ben walked into her life he changed it in so many ways it was hard to see straight.

(Y/n) knew getting away from him would be hard, but now she was realising that it was impossible.

She couldn't have left the country, this was her home and she didn't want to leave her friends and family behind. Getting a place of her own had taken some time so when she left Ben the only places she could immediately go to were either her sister's house or her best friend. Both of whom Ben knew and he knew where they lived.

But (Y/n) was sure that Ben didn't know where she lived now that she had gotten her own place. She had done it discretely and with the help of her sister, the apartment wasn't even in her name so Ben couldn't track her that way. She had gotten a new phone, was looking for a car of her own and for the first month she barely left her sister's house and when she did go out, she knew she hadn't been followed. (Y/n) went as far as to leave the house through the alley at the back of her sister's garden because she knew no one could be watching her if she left that way. Nor did she go to any of the usual places she normally did when she was with Ben and she had never once seen him or his henchmen following her.

He had found out.

Ben wouldn't send his right hand man to follow her unless he knew. He had sent flowers, letters, angry texts, loving texts and even threats to her sister's house telling (Y/n) in no uncertain terms that sooner or later he would get her back. Ben had never attempted to see her in the last three months and (Y/n) knew he was biding his time because when he lost his patience he was going to drag her back by her hair if he had to. He didn't let go of what was his and his possessive nature always got the better of him, it was his downfall and the reason (Y/n) left.

Now Ben's possessive side was taking over again because he had clearly sent his men out looking for her and now one of them had found her. He was always keeping and eye on her movements, who she saw and where she went when they were together and he clearly wanted to be back in those old habits. He was getting ready to pounce like a predator.

He was going to see her himself soon and there was only one explanation for that. He had found out what she was so desperately trying to keep secret from him.

"(Y/n), are you still with us?" A chuckle followed Serena's words as her head leaned in closer to her younger sister to try and get her back into the conversation at hand. It looked as if (Y/n) had become trapped in her head, lost in thoughts that were consuming her to the core.

"Yes- I, um... I'm sorry, I have to go."

"Go? We haven't even eaten yet, where do you have to rush off to?" There was a look of confusion in her mother's eyes but there was also sorrow and (Y/n) knew exactly where those emotions were coming from.

When (Y/n) had been with Ben she rushed off a lot to his beck and call, she didn't see her family as much because she wanted to be so wrapped up in Ben and consumed by him. She was always on edge waiting for him to call or text and they never got to do things like this, to just sit down and have lunch. When (Y/n) initially left Ben she wouldn't leave the house for the first month. Now they all finally had a chance to sit down together and have a meal and be like it was in the old times. But now she still had to speed off even when this was the first time they had sat down where (Y/n) wasn't panicking that Ben was going to barge through the doors and take her away.

"I can't do this."

"Dear, you'll be fine he won't come and get you. Just sit and have something to eat-"

"I'm not hungry... I'm sorry, I- I'll call you soon."

(Y/n) didn't have the energy to argue and she didn't have the time to hang around and explain or come up with a better excuse than this. She couldn't sit through dinner being smothered by her mother and sister who hadn't stopped since the moment she told them she had found the courage to leave Ben. They wanted to wrap her in cotton wool because they thought she was about to fall to pieces.

As much as she loved her family and how they were helping her, (Y/n) couldn't be babied any more than this and she couldn't have Ben's henchmen watching her and her family have dinner. If he wanted to follow her then he could do so but he had to know she wasn't going to go down without a fight.

She would rather have her family think that she was too afraid to be out in the open than to admit that one of Ben's men had found her.

(Y/n) slung her bag on her shoulder and headed out of the crowded cafe, feeling Joe's eyes burning into her as she passed and she knew he would wait an extra second before following her as not to make it look too suspicious.

(Y/n) didn't like this, she could never usually feel their presence when they were following her unless they were walking right beside her. All of Ben's men knew how to be ghosts, they knew how to follow her from a distance and be undetectable and (Y/n) preferred it like that. Ben always told her to forget they were even there and it was always so easy to do that. But right now, she could feel Joe quickening his pace to keep up with her, wondering where she was going and what she was going to do since he knew she had spotted him.

She didn't know what to do.

(Y/n) couldn't have Joe following her for the rest of the day, week month or even the rest of her life. She couldn't spend her time waiting for one or more of Ben's men to follow her as she bided her time until Ben finally appeared in the flesh.

Nor could (Y/n) carry on with her day when he was following her.

It had been far too good to be true to believe that she wasn't going to be followed or watched anymore after having three months of being free and trying to get her life back together. Ben would do anything to get her back and now he had found her today, he wasn't going to let her slip through his net again.

Finding a small abandoned street just off the main road, (Y/n) turned down it and leaned her back up against the brick wall on her right. Her arms folded over her chest and her brows rose as she watched Joe round the corner. He hung his head in momentary shame at the realisation that (Y/n) was waiting for him and she didn't look best pleased.

"Long time no see, eh, love?" The compassion in Joe's lopsided smile didn't quite reach his eyes that still held a sense of sorrow that frightened (Y/n). Joe knew more than she did, he knew why he was here following her today and he knew what Ben was up to and the sorrow in his eyes was clearly for her. That didn't give (Y/n) much confidence in what Ben was planning to do.

"What are you doing here, Joe? He let me be for three months before any of you found me, what's going on?"

There was no other way for (Y/n) to talk to Joe other than to dive right into the problem at hand. She had to know why he was here and what was happening, as much as Joe was an old friend to (Y/n), he still worked for Ben and therefore idle chit-chat wasn't going to work today.

"I'm under orders, (Y/n)... did you honestly think he would let you go without a fight? You may not think it but he loves you-"

"Oh I know he does, but I can't handle his ways of love anymore Joe. I can't take being followed and smothered and possessed like I'm his most favourite toy. Can you imagine how compressing and controlled it feels to be the thing Ben loves the most? It's not an honour, it's a sentence."

Ben's ideas of love were not normal.

At first, he made (Y/n) feel special. He made her feel different and prized and loved and the most important thing in the world to him and those views didn't change. She was all of those things to Ben and more, but after time, (Y/n) could see through the cracks. She could see that being Ben's most cherished and loved person in his life made her one of his possessions and if someone touched or threatened his possessions, he became nasty. Ben had to have complete control over everyone and everything that he owned and (Y/n) was no exception to that way of life when it came to Ben.

He had to know where she was, what she was doing, who she was going out with. He had to keep tabs on her and make sure she was okay and she had to be controlled by him. (Y/n)'s life was morphed into Ben's life and plans, she was under his influence and when that happened, no one could escape it.

Being loved by Ben was a prison sentence because there was no escaping his controlling nature, no matter how honourable it felt to be the thing Ben loves most.

"And can you imagine what he will do if he doesn't get back the thing he loves most? I know he made you feel like you were a toy that he owned, I know being guarded by us and controlled in what you can and can't do is not the way to live or be loved. But he changed when he was with you and he would do anything to get you to come back."

"But that should be my choice, not his. He can't choose when or if I come back Joe. I'm done with him, you have to tell him to stop this. I don't want you all following me, I don't need him to keep tabs if he wants me back he needs to let me go."

(Y/n)'s arms tightened over her chest as she felt like cowering back in fear even though she didn't feel afraid of Joe.

The only way Ben would gain her respect in wanting her back is if he let go of the control around (Y/n). He had to stop keeping tabs on her and trying to pull her back to him. If she could be herself and stop being afraid of Ben trying to get her back, she could live her life without him and then go back to Ben on her own terms if she wanted to. Dragging her back by the scruff of her hair was not going to make her want to stay.

"You know as well as I do that Ben does things his own way... he wants to see you." Joe shrugged his shoulders but the sorrow seemed to grow deeper in his dark hazel eyes.

"Well I don't want to see him."

The response was plain and simple but it wasn't coming straight from the heart because (Y/n)'s heart was fighting with her mind. Part of her was desperate to see him again, to see how he was coping and if he really had changed like she was praying he had. But the other half of her, the knowledgeable side knew that she couldn't see him again in fear of getting wrapped up in his web of control. Once she saw him, she was never going to get away and another chance of escaping Ben and his control was not going to come around very soon.

Especially not if Ben had found out what (Y/n) was dreading he had.

"I'm sorry to say that I don't think you'll have a choice, but... did you really think you had left him behind these last few months? A new flat in Serena's name and a new phone isn't going to keep you safe when you're keeping something valuable from him. I'll see you soon, (Y/n)."

"What? Joe, Joe! What do you mean?"

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

No, no no!

The moment (Y/n) turned on the lights in her apartment, violent shivers ran throughout her body and her chest tightened like someone was squeezing her lungs to try and make them pop.

Her hand stayed gripping the door handle with ferocity but her pupils darted all around the apartment like she was searching for a threat.

All along the floor of her flat from the front door right through the living room and she guessed round to the kitchen, were rose petals. Various sized blood red petals scattered the floor turning the grey vinyl into a river of blood that started to move from the small breeze the door created when it opened.

Ben truly had found her.

It wasn't just his men following her anymore, it was him knowing exactly where she was staying and trying to scare her back into his arms. Why couldn't he just listen to (Y/n)? All she wanted was for him to give her the space she needed. If Ben could show her that he would stop controlling her and trying to make her give in to him then she could give him another chance.

(Y/n) didn't know how to tell her heart to stop loving him but her mind was finding it easier and easier to despise him when he started being possessive and controlling like this. No matter how deeply she loved Ben, his dark side was what made her back away to try and save herself. But he never let her go. She was his. (Y/n) belonged to him because he loved her so deeply and passionately that he could let nothing take her away from him, not even his bad side. He pushed her away but pulled her straight back like he was toying with her because he wanted and had to do things his own way.

Trying to control her breaths so they weren't too loud, (Y/n) slowly tried to open the door again without making a sound but the moment she tried to open it, a voice cut through the silence.

"Where are you going baby, you just got here."

Such a lightheaded feeling came over (Y/n) she thought she was going to faint the moment she heard that voice. It was a low tone with a scratchy edge from trying too hard to be sickly sweet.

"Why are you here?"

(Y/n) tried to make her voice stern and hard but her voice cracked and she sounded frail instead. She could never manage to stand up to her lover, Ben always managed to overpower her in any kind of situation and he always made sure she knew it. The only time she ever got one over on him was when she managed to leave without him knowing what she was planning. He hadn't found her for three months and (Y/n) had been dumb enough to believe she may just have gotten out of his vice grip.

But here he was, showing her just how wrong she had been in thinking she had succeeded against him.

"Because you left. So I'm here to bring you back with me where you belong... and I wanted to see if it was true."

Ben slowly walked around the counter of the kitchen so he was standing in the middle of the apartment, basking in the light so (Y/n) could finally get a glimpse of him after three months of trying to forget he ever existed.

Sometimes, (Y/n) could picture him so perfectly it was as if he was stood in front of her like he was now. And sometimes, in the dead of night, (Y/n) couldn't see him properly when her mind started wandering to him. His eyes were never emerald green when she wanted to imagine them, she couldn't see his hair that fell in curls around his face. Nor could she imagine how much taller than her he was when they were standing together.

She thought it was better when she forgot, it was easier to try and push him out of her mind.

But now he was here, stalking towards her like a predator about to come and take it's prey.

(Y/n)'s hand was still prized around the door handle and when Ben was less than a metre away from her, he slowly reached out until his cold hand was resting tightly on top of her own. It was as if (Y/n) had become paralysed, her body back under his control as always. She let him guide her hand away from the door and allowed his body to get even closer to hers as he locked the door to ensure they wouldn't be disturbed and she wouldn't be leaving him again.

"See if what was true?" (Y/n) found herself whispering her question before she swallowed so loudly she was sure he heard and his lips curled into a sinister smile.

(Y/n) needed Ben to move away, she needed to unlock the door and either run out or shove him out the door since she lived here not him. But her heart was pounding so loudly against her chest she thought it was trying to reach Ben. She was yearning to be wrapped up in his arms again, but she knew that the moment she let that happen she would be walking back into his trap and she would never leave or have the courage to leave again.

"You've taken something that belongs to me, and you know no one gets away with that, not even you."

"Ben I don't know what-"

(Y/n) cut herself off with a shriek when Ben's hands suddenly clamped down on her hips so tightly she could feel his short nails piercing through into her skin. He was forceful in a way she knew meant he was angry with her even if he wasn't showing it. Using not even half of his weight, he pushed her until her back hit the door so harshly her hips started to ache and her spine cracked into place causing her to whimper.

Her body was pinned between the door and Ben's hard frame and her frightened eyes were pierced with his harsh green ones that were burning through right to her soul.

He was claiming her. Backing her up into the wall so she knew that he wasn't letting her go and he was hurting her because she had hurt him by leaving.

Tears started to fall from (Y/n)'s eyes when Ben crudely yanked her coat apart so forcefully a button popped off and went flying towards the kitchen. (Y/n) saw Ben's eyes lighting up as he made quick work of discarding her coat on the floor before his hands quickly moved to her jumper. He wasted no time in pulling it up and ripping it off her head and arms, revealing her rounded stomach and cleveage to his prying eyes.

"I fucking knew it." The words were whispered quietly under his breath but his tone frightened (Y/n) almost as much as the fact that he knew what she had been trying to hide.

She had been foolish.

Deep down, (Y/n) knew that there was no way she could hide her pregnancy from him forever. At some point he was going to see her out in the street with a prominent bump or a stroller or a child clinging to her hand. It was only a matter of time before one of his men spotted her and related the information back to Ben. But he had his suspicions just before (Y/n) had left him and she knew it.

But she thought that if she got away before he found out then she could raise this child without him.

What kind of life was this baby going to have when their father was a cold hearted killer?

Ben wasn't the fatherly type even though he had enough possessive love in his heart to love and look after a child. (Y/n) knew he wanted children but truthfully he wasn't the kind of person who should have children and she knew it. All (Y/n) wanted to do was do what was best for her baby and she knew that the best thing was to try and get away and do this on her own.

Doing it on her own would no longer be possible because Ben knew.

He would either make sure he was in their child's life or worse still, never let (Y/n) leave him and make them his version of a perfect family.

"Tell me, what made you think you could run off with something that belongs to me and get away with it?"

"What makes you think you own me or this baby?"

"It's my child-"

"No, it's my baby and if I want to leave and bring it up on my own then I have every right."

(Y/n) was the mother and she was carrying this baby, it was her decision if she wanted to leave Ben and do this alone and she had every right whereas Ben didn't. She didn't want a murderer bringing up her baby with her but she knew that now Ben had found out, he was never going to let her disappear with his child. This was his baby too and he was not the kind of man to let this sort of thing go, he wasn't going to give in and never see his child or not have an input in their life and upbringing.

Such a wicked, cackling laugh left Ben's lips and made (Y/n) shiver and cry harder. He never meant to make her feel down or worthless but sometimes he just couldn't help it. Ben pressed himself further against (Y/n) until his abdomen was touching her protruding stomach and his chest was pinned against hers. His hands moved back to gripping her lips as he looked down at her with a horrid grin.

"You're very naïve if you think you have any right in taking away what's mine. This is my baby, sweetheart, and I'm not letting either of you go again."

(Y/n) shivered when Ben's lips feverishly moulded over her own making the past three months diminish into nothing like they had never existed. Time apart seemed to have done nothing for the way (Y/n)'s heart truly felt about the monster standing in front of her because the moment his lips touched hers she could feel her heart speeding up and her mind screaming because she wanted him back.

But he wasn't going to let her go again.

His hands moved from her hips to her stomach, roaming over the expanding flesh of her stomach before he suddenly seemed to become impatient. His hips forced into her own that were already feeling bruised from how he was man-handling her. She could feel him pressing into her and his abdomen pushing harder on her stomach that was already hurting from the baby she was carrying.

His roaming hands shifted once again until he had both of (Y/n)'s wrists clenched tightly in his fist that he pinned up against the top of the door.

Usually when Ben was being forceful like this it made (Y/n) shiver and relish in the adrenaline he sparked in her system, but this was different. Ben wasn't being forceful and possessive in a loving, sexual manner. He was being possessive in a sense that told her she was not escaping him again. He was holding her as his captive, his prisoner and he was making sure she knew that he owned her, every part of her and he was not allowing her to leave him again no matter how hard she tried.

Another small whimper left (Y/n)'s lips that felt bruised with the way Ben was biting them like he wanted to devour them before his lips travelled south. They went from licking and nibbling her neck to sinking his teeth into her skin and pulling so hard that (Y/n) started to cry again. She could feel his tongue lightly going over the bruises he was creating as he kept kissing further down her neck and collar bone until he reached her cleavage.

Her chest started to quake and push further back against the door in a feeble attempt to pull away from Ben but it made no difference. He gripped her wrists tighter, rutted his hips into her aching ones and curled his free hand around her neck to show her she was weak and powerless when up against him.

(Y/n) was no stranger to Ben's punishments but when he punished her it was never in a physical way except for the one time he did choke her. But now he wasn't choking her, he was holding her neck tightly but allowing her to breathe. He was showing her that he was in control, he was letting her breathe simply because he wanted to and because he held that power and he could take her oxygen away at any given moment.

His nails dug into her throat that let out a few choked cries when he bit down on her breasts, already smirking against her skin at the marks he was leaving behind to show her who she belonged to.

A gasp of air left (Y/n)'s lips when Ben's hand tightened enough to cut off her oxygen for a few seconds before his hand moved again and scratched his nails down the side of her skin. He left bright red lines down her side and down her stomach but he smoothed the pad of his thumb against her stomach like he was showing her he wouldn't hurt her stomach in fear of hurting the baby.

All (Y/n) could do was cry when Ben's lips smothered her own again and his hand scratched her side and forcefully moved under the elastic of her leggings and underwear. Her lower abdomen shrunk inwards from the sudden touch to her delicate skin and her body shook when he scratched her again before be pulled her underwear down enough to fit his hand between her legs.

There wasn't even a chance for (Y/n) to tense her thighs and press her legs together because Ben's knee found its way between her legs and his whole body forced against hers so tightly (Y/n) could feel every vein and artery pulsing in her body. She wanted to move, to pull away and push Ben as far back as she could manage but all (Y/n) could do was cry and shift and jump against his touch that was switching constantly between gentle and very rough.

"Do you really want to leave me, baby? Cause I don't think you do, and you know I will always protect you both."

(Y/n) wanted to leave.

She knew it was safer to be away from Ben than it was to be with him when he was this possessive, destructive and unhinged. But at the same time, her heart was still head over heels in love with him and he always loved her even if that love was in a different, twisted kind of way. Ben was never going to let (Y/n) disappear or leave him when she was pregnant with his child. He would never allow that.

He would never let her go now.

#ben hardy #ben x reader #dad! ben #ben hardy imagine #murderer! ben #imagine

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andypantsx3 · 4 years

Text

if i could keep cool | 1

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 20,322 words / 6 chapters

summary: A villain attacks Shouto Todoroki’s apartment and kidnaps what he apparently believes to be Todoroki’s secret lover. The bad news—for both you and the villain in question—is that you’re just there to clean the place. That’s how it starts.

tags: romance, reader-insert, accidental sugar daddy shouto, misunderstandings

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut

You’d been alone inside Shouto Todoroki’s apartment when the villain attacked.

In your defense, you were supposed to be there. Twice a week, for three hours apiece, you turned up to clean the place, dusting, remaking his bed, and scrubbing down the modern kitchen surfaces that you were fairly certain were going unused in the first place.

You weren’t actually supposed to know who owned the high rise, but the personal effects he kept around hardly made any secret of it--a few simply framed photographs of him with his siblings and his friends at school dotted the shelves in the living room, crates of fan mail were often delivered to his door during your shifts, and you’d seen his hero costume dumped in a hamper on more than one occasion.

You’d been excited to find this out at first, as you were just as much a hero fan as the next girl--particularly heroes who were as handsome and infinitely memeable as Todoroki--but you’d tamped down on your enthusiasm in order to keep things professional. It would kind of suck to be a celebrity and find out that some rando fan let themselves into your apartment on the regular and could help themselves to your stuff if they really wanted to.

You had almost considered asking your manager for reassignment when you’d first figured out just whose apartment you were cleaning, in order to keep things purely professional, but Todoroki’s schedule worked well with your own class schedule, and the money didn’t hurt either. The tips either he or his manager left for you were pretty hefty, and it was nice to treat yourself to groceries that weren’t ramen. He was keeping you in fresh vegetables and a Netflix subscription, so in the end you didn’t ask for reassignment--you were a college student, not a saint.

In retrospect, though, maybe you should have. Because one afternoon in late September, the large wall of windows that looked out into the city shattered with violent force, and a huge figure landed in the living room, glass crunching underneath their heavy boots.

You’d just barely managed to catch sight of a wicked looking scar twisting half of the villain’s face before you’d thrown yourself behind the kitchen island you’d been wiping down, landing heavily on your shoulder. That hadn’t saved you, though. You’d been hauled out across the scattered glass, the shards scraping through your clothes to tear at your back and elbows, and looked up into the face of the furious-looking man.

You hadn’t had time to scream, or beg for your life, or whatever other insanely embarrassing thing you might have done, before a fist connected with the base of your skull, and you were falling into darkness, the man’s features and the clean lines of the apartment around you slipping into black.

Now, you awoke in the dark, a musty scent like dust and slow decay pressing into your nose like a heavy rag. Your eyes flickered open, but the world seemed just as dark as behind your eyelids. In the dim, you could just barely make out cement floors studded with dirt and debris, and gaping cutouts in the wall across from you, pitch black with shadow. They were rectangular in shape, and huge--truck ports, maybe? Were you in a warehouse?

You made to move, but something tugged at your wrists, and you realized with a growing sense of horror that your arms were bound behind your back with rough rope, looped through slats in the chair you’d awoken in. Your head whipped up, and the back of your neck screamed in protest, sore from what had likely been hours of you lolling unconscious.

The thin, wavering sound of something like a radio static filtered from somewhere over your shoulder, and you could just make out low tones of a radio broadcaster: “Pro hero Shouto Todoroki’s apartment was broken into early this afternoon...the perpetrator of the crime is still at large…”

That’s right--Todoroki’s apartment. Your heartbeat instantly kicked into high gear. Where were you? Why were you here? Who was that man in Todoroki’s apartment? Had he taken you here? But why?

A boot crunched in the dirt behind you and you stiffened.

“Awake now?” a voice spat, laced with pure malice. The tone sent shivers down your spine.

The pair of boots crunched towards you, rounding the edge of your chair until you could look up into the face of the villain from before, the man with the horrible scar. It twisted and warped the skin over half of his face, the flesh melted into itself like he’d been held down against a hot stove. An equally horrible grin cut into the harsh line of his mouth.

“Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here?” you demanded. Your voice came out high and quavery, and you could have cringed at how absolutely terrified you sounded.

He raised an eyebrow like you’d just asked the dumbest series of questions he’d ever heard.

“Oh, I think you know why you’re here,” he sneered. His eyes were dark, almost black in the gloom of the warehouse.

A twisting wave of frustration washed over you. No you didn’t know why you were here. You’d been wiping down a fucking counter one minute and the next you’d woken up in some creepy warehouse with no idea of where in the world you might be.

“I don’t,” you said, frustrated. “Please, I don’t have any money. Whatever you want, I can’t get it to you.”

He stared down at you impassively, the radio static crackling in the background. “I don’t want money, you fucking brat. I want revenge.”

You stared at him. Revenge? You’d never even met this guy before, what the hell could you have possibly done to him that he would need revenge on you? The extent of your crimes against anyone, as far as you knew, only included arguing with people on twitter and once--drunk at a bar--peeing in the men’s room before you realized it wasn’t the ladies’ toilet. Gender was a social construct, anyway. It wasn’t that bad.

Your blank look seemed to irritate him, and he placed a booted foot on yours, deliberately grinding his heel down on your toes until you felt your bones creak. You bit down on a yelp.

“Don’t play stupid, you little shit. I know he’ll come for you.”

What? Who would come for you?

The radio signal seemed to catch again, and the newscaster’s stately voice reported from over your shoulder. “--Hero Commission received a message from the villain that they are holding Todoroki’s secret lover hostage. We’ve received comment from a PR representative at the Todoroki agency--”

Your stomach dropped in horror as you considered the smug expression that twisted the villain’s face. Oh no.

No.

No way.

Did he think you….?

Dread coiled into a hard pit in your gut. Oh, you were so absolutely fucked. Shouto Todoroki had never so much as heard of you, nevermind invited you into his bed. As far as you could tell, he had no current lover, as his apartment had only ever evidenced the single occupant.

He’d been linked in the media to a couple models and an actress, but it seemed unclear if that was any more than speculation. In the year you’d worked at the cleaning service, there’d never been anything like an extra toothbrush or an abandoned pair of underwear to give away another person’s presence, though you had sometimes seen evidence of his friends; things like a forgotten All Might sweatshirt that clearly belonged to notorious fan boy and current number one hero Deku, or a neatly prepared container of soup you’d seen in the fridge once with a note that read eat this you fucking fuck and if you get me sick I’ll kill you that you strongly suspected came from the foul-mouthed hero Ground Zero.

So unless those were to be taken as signs of a blossoming romance, there was nothing that strongly hinted at the presence of a lover.

You were frankly flabbergasted that this villain had assumed, just because you’d been alone in his apartment at the time, that you of all people could have been that to him.

And you were even more concerned now, as there was absolutely no way Shouto Todoroki was going to come haring in to save someone who did not exist.

What was the villain going to do when he realized that no one was coming for you? Or worse, when he realized you were no one to anyone, and your presence would hardly be missed? Was it better to try and clear up the misunderstanding now? What would he do when the dots connected?

The villain smirked, mistaking your horror. “That’s right, brat. He was supposed to be there, but you'll do just as well. He’ll come for you, and when he does, I’m going to do to him exactly what he did to me.” He gestured to the scarred side of his face and you winced.

So it hadn’t been a hot stove.

“I think you have it wrong,” you said a little desperately. “I’m not--I don’t even know Todoroki. I’m a cleaning lady.”

He rolled his eyes. “Nice try. I’ll just let you walk free then, shall I?”

Your fingers dug into the rope behind your back. “Um, ideally, yes.”

He bit out a harsh laugh, that horrible smile cutting into his features again, and knelt down in front of you. He was close, too close, and you could smell something sour on his breath.

“I’ve just had a better idea,” he said, leaning into you. “What if I do to his precious lover what he did to me? Your face can be the last thing I let him see before I kill him.”

Your stomach turned and you forced yourself as far back in your chair as you could get. Oh fuck. “No, please, you have to listen!” Your voice was growing higher as you spoke. “I don’t know him. I’m his fucking cleaning service. You can call them and ask--just ask!”

The villain didn’t listen, digging around in the inner pocket of his jacket for something. “No skin off my nose if you are or aren’t. But I think we both know you aren’t.”

You could feel your heart climb into your throat as he pulled out a lighter and a small, metal can that smelled sharply of gasoline. Lighter fluid? You started struggling wildly in your bonds, feet straining against the floor to push your chair back from him.

He let out another laugh, uncapping the fluid. The acrid smell sharpened, burning in your nose. The radio let out another burst of static in the background, a high whine that set your teeth even more on edge.

“I’ll let you pick the side, brat,” the villain said, smiling.

“I pick neither,” you managed around the lump in your throat. Your eyes were locked on the can of lighter fluid, like you could will it away from you with the sheer force of your panic alone.

The villain scowled. “Be difficult then,” he said, and moved to pour it over you anyway. You felt the first splash of fluid on your cheek and closed your eyes. That acrid smell got stronger, and the villain let out an excited breath.

Then the wall blew out.

A wall of freezing air rushed over you and the can of fluid dropped from the villain’s grasp, spilling sloppily down your clothes, before clattering to the floor. The villain swore and whirled, grabbing a fistful of your hair and wrenching your head back. You peeked open an eye.

A huge slab of ice had blown open the side of the building, and the silhouette of a man was outlined against the evening sky. It was hard to make out his features in the dim light, but that mop of red and white hair was so distinctive, you would know it anywhere.

A shivery frisson of relief went down your spine at the sight of a familiar figure, but confusion mounted in the back of your brain.

What the hell was Shouto Todoroki doing here?

There was a flinty noise and then a small flame flickered in the corner of your eye. You stiffened--the lighter was still in the villain’s hand, and you were entirely covered in lighter fluid.

“So nice to see you again, Todoroki. Any last words to your little girlfriend?” the villain spat. His gaze was fixed unblinkingly on Todoroki.

You strained against your bonds and his tight grip on your hair. “I’m not his girlfriend! Todoroki, tell him.”

You could barely see his features but you thought you caught Todoroki’s eyes darting over you curiously, like he was trying to figure out who in the world you were and why anyone would mistake you for a love interest of his. Your eyes met briefly. Then the fingers on his right hand pressed forward just the slightest bit, and a huge cascade of ice like an avalanche was rushing you. You closed your eyes, ready to be impaled.

There was a grunt and the villain’s hand was ripped out of your hair, taking a fistful with it. A sudden, suffocating silence pressed down on you, and an icy burn stung at your lungs when you inhaled.

You blinked your eyes open, only to come face to face with a wall of ice mere inches from your nose. Cold pressed in on you everywhere, biting at you through your clothes--it seemed Todoroki had formed some kind of protective shell over you as he forced the villain off of you. You exhaled and sank back in the chair with shaky relief.

More crackling echoed from outside your cocoon, muffled through the thick slabs of ice, and a bright jet of orange light lit up the crystals around you. You tracked the sound and the movements nervously. There was a moment when a body slammed into the ice behind you, cracking it a little, and you tensed, but then whichever of them it was rolled off and was gone within moments.

Over the course of a few minutes, the sounds of their battle and the flickers of light started to fade off into the distance, and you wondered if Todoroki was trying to lead the villain away, or if the villain was leading him somewhere he had planned for. Your fingers found the bindings at your wrists again, and you scrabbled desperately at them with your nails.

If the villain came back for you, you needed to be disconnected from this chair and out of the ice prison ASAP.

You had just managed to work your chair backwards and get a good angle against the rough ice, starting to work up a friction between your bonds and the ice when muted footsteps approached and a hole began to melt in the side of the ice wall. Your eyes snapped to attention and you leaned as far away as you could get.

It was Todoroki who stepped through, however, lifting an arm to melt away more of the ice over you. He looked a little mussed from combat but otherwise unharmed, and in good shape to get you out of here. You breathed a heavy sigh of relief, muttering, “Oh, thank god.”

He fixed you with a weird look, leaning over you when he’d melted enough of the ice to get to your bonds. A hot hand at your wrists burned ropes off of you easily enough, Todoroki careful not to singe you with his flames.

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two of you as you pulled your arms back to yourself, shaking them out.

“Uh, thank you,” you said, watching nervously as those distinctive two-toned eyes flicked over you.

He helped pull you to your feet, and gestured you towards the hole he had blown in the side of the warehouse.

“This way--there’s an ambulance to check you over,” he said evenly. His voice was low and smooth, even deeper in person than you’d heard it on TV. His whole presence seemed a lot sharper, larger even, than was communicated via the media.

You followed his broad back out into the evening air, noting that you were on a somewhat crowded street, likely somewhere still within city limits. Several rows of similar warehouses lined the streets, and an ambulance and several police vehicles had pulled up onto the sidewalk closest to you.

An EMT ran over to you, helping you over to the ambulance and immediately setting to the task of checking you over. She asked you a series of questions including your name, what year it was, the prime minister’s name, and a slew of probing queries about your injuries. She concluded a concussion seemed unlikely, but produced an ice packet for your head where the villain had struck you, and cleaned your wrists where the rope had cut into them, smoothing on aloe and wrapping them up in gauzy bandages.

While she worked, you watched Todoroki as he spoke in quiet tones off to the side with a group of policemen. Eventually, however, the conversation seemed to die out, and he came padding back over to stand in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest. You tried not to focus on the swell of his biceps through the fabric of his hero costume.

“What you did was very stupid,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

That tore your attention away from his arms, and you paused, staring up at him in confusion. Did all civilians get a lecture like this fresh off of being kidnapped?

“Excuse me?” was all that escaped you.

That grey and blue gaze raked over you. “You’re lucky I was able to rescue you. You risked your own life and invaded my privacy while you were at it.”

A mixture of confusion, exhaustion, and anger welled up inside of you. You had just been fucking kidnapped and he was lecturing you like a toddler who’d gotten into a box of crayons while her parents’ backs were turned.

“You think I fucking wanted to be kidnapped?” you demanded, sliding off of the back of the ambulance to take an angry step towards him. “You think I wanted any of this to happen?”

He held his ground, hardly threatened by someone who barely brushed his chin and had needed his rescuing only minutes before. You gritted your teeth.

“You are not welcome in my apartment,” he said firmly, something like suppressed anger flickering in his own gaze.

Your temper flared even hotter than his flames. You clenched your fist, the words bubbling up before you could even think to stop them. “Great. Clean it yourself then, you huge fucking asshole, if you don’t want someone else there.”

His eyes widened the slightest bit, but you weren’t done.

“I get kidnapped because some crazy douche wanted to settle a score with you, and you dare yell at me for doing my job? Because what, it’s shameful for you to be accused of having a secret lover and now you have to do PR? Grow the fuck up. That’s your fucking job.”

You turned on your heel, setting a beeline for the police officers where they had turned to watch you, mouths gaping.

“Do I have to give a statement right now or can I come into the station in the morning?” you demanded of the nearest officer.

“We recommend you give your statement as soon as possible, but you can delay until tomorrow if you’re, uh, in emotional distress,” the officer said, staring at you.

“Oh I am,” you intoned loudly. “But not as much emotional distress, apparently, as someone who's been mildly inconvenienced by a media narrative. You'd better check on him, he's the real fucking victim here. And I’ll see you in the morning instead.”

You stalked off towards the street, hardly caring where you were headed or how you would get home from here. You would figure it out and find your way, and it was better than standing around and being berated by some asshole hero who thought himself so wildly inconvenienced by saving you.

“And Todoroki, you can go fuck yourself,” you threw over your shoulder as you disappeared into the dusky maze of city streets.

And he could.

You hoped that was the last you’d ever see or hear of Shouto Todoroki.

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crestbound · 3 years

Text

in another life, i was free.

In one lifetime, they’re gathered around a fire—him, Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid. It must be summer in Fraldarius; Sylvain can hear the crash of ocean waves off the towering cliffside far away. They’re not old enough to be here completely unsupervised, but neither are they too young to know how to sneak away. The Fraldarius maids must be turning the castle upside-down.

The fire crackles. Sylvain remembers that look on Felix’s face; it’s the look he gets when he boasts about something Glenn had done, to be inevitably followed by his own plans to follow in his brother’s footsteps.

(He misses that look. He misses when Felix’s eyes used to shine with a world of things to look forward to.)

“I wish I had a sibling too,” Dimitri admits. “Someone strong, like Glenn... or smart, like Miklan!”

No, Sylvain thinks wryly, you really don’t.

But the one huddled by the fire, handing Ingrid a skewer of meat, doesn’t agree. This one looks happier. This one is braver.

“I can be your brother, Dima,” he says, which is everything wrong and everything he’s ever tried to be. “I can be everyone’s big brother!”

“Oh?” comes a familiar voice, carrying over the sound of footsteps on sand, of waves yet to announce a storm. Sylvain feels his heart jump once and catch in his throat when Miklan walks into view. It’s almost a knee-jerk reaction, to run in between them.

“Miklan—” he begins, but even his breath tangles in his lungs when Miklan simply walks right through him. (Run. Why are you here? I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—)

“Forget about being a brother,” Miklan says, lacking so much vitriol that Sylvain has to turn, light-headed and nauseous, to stare at him again. “You’re going to be grounded, first. All of you are. The whole castle’s in a panic; Glenn’s about to round up the entire Fraldarius army just to look for you brats.”

“But we wrote a letter!” the young Sylvain protests.

Miklan rolls his eyes. (Wrong shade of brown. His hair’s so much shorter, here. He’s missing the scar on his jaw.) “You wrote ‘off to play.’ That’s not a letter, Syl.”

Syl.

His heartbeats grow louder and louder in his ears, crashing against an incessant ringing, the howling gusts of his breaths. Miklan’s never called him that. Miklan’s never been this nice, either. Miklan is...

(If it weren’t for you...!)

...Miklan is...

Shall we try again?

In another lifetime, the Margrave is ill. They say he caught a sweating sickness from the north, where the Srengi have been tearing down the border walls and pillaging the villages just beyond. He’s expected to die within the moon.

Sylvain is six years old when the margravine tells him.

“Oh,” he says, and looks down at his feet. His mother taps her finger on the table once, too proper to clear her throat. Sylvain straightens up to look at her until she smiles. “When is Miklan coming home?”

“Perhaps in a week or two,” she replies. “But I trust he will be present for the exchange of seals.”

They’re to destroy the margrave’s official wax seal stamp, made of gold and treated blackwood, and create a new one—this time, with Sylvain’s initials instead of his father’s. It’ll be used to seal the letter to the king, announcing the death of the margrave and a schedule for his heir’s arrival at the capital. In Fhirdiad, he’ll kneel before the throne and swear his pledges again.

Sylvain frowns, and resists every urge to shift uneasily in his seat. “...He has to be. Isn’t it going to be his ceremony?” After all, Miklan is the margrave’s firstborn. He’s charismatic, and he’s smart, and he’s terrifyingly brutal with a lance. There isn’t a single soldier in the Gautier cavalry that doesn’t admire him.

But the margravine isn’t part of the cavalry. Though she hasn’t said a word of it herself, everyone in the castle knows that their lady, a paragon of every feminine virtue belonging to the nobility, laments every day for her one failure in life: Miklan Anschutz Gautier, born to her without a Crest.

Imagine that.

“Oh, Sylvain,” she tuts. Her hands are soft when she reaches out to touch him, brushing the hair out of his face and tucking unruly locks behind his ear. “Don’t be silly; of course it will be you. You’re our son.”

But not Miklan. Not Miklan, whose eyes are a closer shade of hazel to the margravine’s than Sylvain’s are; not Miklan, whose laughter echoes the same way the margrave’s does, heavy and confident. Not Miklan, born with a blessing from each of the Four Saints, from Macuil’s keen eye for strategy to Indech’s indomitable strength.

But not Miklan, Crestless and worthless, of the right flesh but not the right blood.

The margravine pulls back. She looks satisfied with her work. “Now,” she says, “Let’s enjoy some tea, shall we?” It’s one of her favorites, a cinnamon blend with a touch of honey. In this life, Sylvain likes it, too.

His brother ends up returning home in five days. Just an hour after sunset, Sylvain—older, taller, the one that survived—watches Miklan kill him.

Neither of them flinches when a sickening crack sounds from the bottom of the well.

In this lifetime, that’s the end.

—we try again?

The next life starts with blood.

He’s angry. Not him, but him—the Sylvain of this life, thrown away and forgotten. There’s a jagged scar that runs from his left temple down to his right cheek, a sick mirror image of Miklan’s worst injury.

And it strikes him, then, that this is the life where it finally happens; this is the life where everything’s turned around. Flames devour a small village just on the border between Gautier and Fraldarius. They don’t have much to plunder, but it isn’t about what can be stolen; it’s about the message that’ll be sent.

Even here, Fraldarius and Gautier enjoy a good relationship. Even here, Sylvain is smart enough to know the best way to hurt his father is through shame.

Your son did this, they’ll tell him. Control him.

And what can he do but try? Even disinherited and stripped of everything he has, Sylvain is still a Gautier. He’s the margrave’s responsibility, especially when he begins causing trouble for the duke.

But of course his father would never come himself. Sylvain can burn a hundred villages, kill a thousand civilians, steal a million bars of gold, and still, still, he’d send his prized son, his Crested son, his only son, to clean up the mess. That’s what he’s good for, after all. That’s what he’s worth. Riches and loves, hearth and home, all because the right blood sings in his veins.

“Miklan,” he rasps, smoke thick in his lungs. “Of course he’d send you.”

“That’s enough now, Sylvain,” Miklan replies, brandishing the Lance of Ruin. It titters and glows in his hands.

Sylvain—the real or the fake, the one that doesn’t belong, the one that should, that wishes, that doesn’t want to be—releases a quiet breath. Then another. A sound, then two, then three.

Then, he laughs.

Miklan kills him here, too.

—try again?

There’s a war in this life.

Behind him, on top of the hill, Dimitri refuses to die. He is a torrent of anger that threatens to tear open the heavens to drag down the Goddess by her neck. Several feet in front of him, Ingrid is already dead. She’s half-crushed by her pegasus, bent and twisted in all sorts of ways.

Between her and Sylvain—the one fighting, the one losing—is Felix. The Sylvain that doesn’t belong knows with a sinking feeling in his gut that the blood on his cheek is Ingrid’s.

Sylvain lifts the Lance of Ruin. It’s tittering more than he’s ever seen in his life, stained through with blood and ichor.

“Hey, Felix?” His voice sounds tired. “Remember when we were kids and we made a promise about dying together?”

Felix doesn’t flinch. He’s always been like that—stubborn and unyielding, willing to commit himself to his decisions to the bloody, sad end. “I remember.”

Sylvain smiles, and it’s a pathetic thing, cracking at the edges. “Well,” he says, “seems we’re about to kill each other.”

There’s one moment where their heartbeats crash against each other, in sync. The next beat, they’re skewed again. One sounds like wardrums; the other, a funeral dirge. It isn’t hard to guess which is whose.

“Sorry, Sylvain.” There’s a flash of a blade. Sylvain—both—wonders if the blood that’s still on it is Ingrid’s.

“Fe—”

“You’ll die first.”

(I know.)

—again?

That’s enough.

#UnlockedWesternFaerghus2021 #drabble #also quote spoiler for cf felix vs am sylvain #u can tell i started off with Ideas that i wanted and then got lazy after like a sentence in shdoigshd

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donutloverxo · 3 years

Text

Call it what you want (4/7)

Cowritten with lizzygal

Summary - Picking up three months after you and Steve met on your fateful date, courtesy of a SugarDaddy website, things are progressing. Life continues to move along.

Steve is continuing to adjust to life as a private citizen, doing his work and building a life with you.

You're adjusting to life with Steve, searching for that safe place for the special kids under your care and moving on post-Blip with Steve at your side.

New challenges arise as the two of you discover the depths of your shared passion, what you'll do for the other and exactly how well you and your Daddy are matched for one another.

Warnings - 18+ only, explicit sexual content, sugar daddy/baby relationship, spanking, power imbalance, age gap **Content Warning** for violence and fighting.

Pairing - Steve Rogers x reader

Wildest dreams masterlist

Read on AO3

A sneak peak...

It was wrong.

It was so so wrong.

Steve knew it was wrong in so many ways and yet, he couldn’t help himself. He was like one of those men possessed he’d heard about on the TV. Clearly, he’d lost all ability to reason and think straight and function, like a rational human being and why?

Why?

All you had on was a pair of your baggy holey jeans. A t-shirt that had a tiger on it. Far from lingerie, or that really short dress that he deemed entirely inappropriate. Although that wasn’t entirely true. You had on something else.

Laundry basket practically overflowing. When you’d dropped it with a sound noise on the floor, laundry slid off the side. It was a quarter past one so short of waking the sleeping baby in her playpen, Steve figured no one upstairs would have heard it or your swearing that followed.

Spread out on the marble topped kitchen island was a map of the greater upstate New York area. Between him and Banner, the pair had been able to find nearly one hundred property owners, surnames starting with a X, throughout rural areas with over five acres of property and dating back fifty years.

Before any trips were made upstate to go looking for this school, run by the elusive Professor X, that number was going to need to come down significantly. Which had been what the two of you and occasionally Yelena, had been up to over the past few days and nights.

Although on this night, it seemed, you had a far higher calling.

Laundry.

In the brighter colors of your kitchen. Bright pink and copper splashed walls with white marble counters and cabinets, twinkle lights all over, Steve’s attention lifted from the marked-up map and his laptop, where he focused solely on you.

You.

As you reached up to grab the plastic container of detergent pods, muttering about conditions of sanitation up in the bedroom that Kurt and Bruce shared, making your shirt lift up and your loose jeans ride down, to expose a distinct elastic band on your waist.

Hugo Boss.

Naturally, this caught Steve’s keen eye.

You were wearing his underwear.

How long had you been wearing his underwear? How often did this happen? Did you enjoy wearing his underwear? How had this not come to his attention sooner?

The next thing Steve knew, he had you shoved up against the washing machine, jeans and his underwear shoved down your hips. What followed was all flesh and tongue and fingers, panting and pleading and now, now, he had you over the kitchen counter. Feet dangling off the floor. Baggy boyfriend jeans and his briefs down around your ankles. Pistoning in and out of you from behind. Your ass lifted to a absolute perfect height for him, allowing him to slide into your wet welcoming pussy, again and again.

A trail of your combined cum ran down the insides of both your thighs.

Wet smacking noises came between the two of you each time he sank in, bottomed out against your cervix, then pulled out, again and again. Fingers stroked your slimy clit knowingly, as they had for your past two orgasms.

Your face was smashed against the counter. Eyes already so far in the back of your head you wouldn’t be shocked if they got stuck there, because Steve was going to make you come again. Around him, your body tightened, clenched, repeatedly kissed his cock as it sank in and out of you relentlessly, almost furiously.

All you could do was take it.

All you could do was cling to the Finding Nemo Cookie jar, arch your back, dig your nails into the colorful ceramic and take it. Take his cock. Take the kisses he pressed against the curve of your exposed neck, since your t-shirt was still in place. For now.

All you could do was take everything he gave you, every last drop that he released into your body and that you could feel dripping down the inside of your thighs.

Steve came so much. In copious amounts. Cum rolled down your thighs. Cum dropped down onto the floor. It squished and squelched noisily. Even his balls slapped against your slippery body. As if reminding you of all he still had to give.

“Gonna marry you one day,” he breathed against your neck, hips powering into you. Fingers swirling around the gooey mess of your pussy.

Against the counter you breathed.

Your breath fogging up the marble. “Yes Daddy…”

Pump. Pump. Pump.

“Gonna put a ring on your finger. Let everyone know you belong to me.””

A cry, a whine.

More fog on the white marble.

Squish. Squish. Squish.

Your nails dug into the cookie jar and gained no traction.

Fuck did his cock feel so good. So thick. So wonderful sawing over your G-Spot in this position like you were a fucking log his dick was trying to saw in half.

“Gonna be mine. Mine forever.”

Steve’s tongue ran up your sweaty spine but you were too fucked out to care. By that point, he’d given you two back to back orgasms, you were working on a third and his fingers were applying that exact perfect amount of pressure on your clit

His penis was so damn big you swore it hit the back of your throat at times.

Pump. Squish.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

“Gonna give you my name. You want Daddy’s name? You want everyone to know you belong to Daddy? Want everyone to know only Daddy fucks this pussy? Only I get to come in it. No one else. No one else gets to flood this cunt like me. Only Daddy’s fiancée gets all of Daddy’s cum.”

Holy Christ on a stick and the saints above, you were almost coming, Steve was slamming into you just right, hitting you in that exact spot…exactly like you needed, strumming your clit in exactly that right way…saying the most absolute filthy honest to god true things you ever heard in your life.

“Answer me princess.” Hips snapped into the backs of your thighs, hard enough to pin your thighs to the cabinets. Making you know for a fact the handle would be imprinted on your hip and you didn’t care. “Do you want Daddy’s name?”

Oh hell yes you wanted Daddy’s name.

You wanted to write out his name after yours, you wanted him to brand you with it like you were property and officially belong to him in every way under the sun. And that was what made you keen, made you start to float on his dick. All while getting pummeled into the counter and feeling like the luckiest girl in the whole world.

“Want Daddy to wear a ring,” you whispered, hugging the cookie jar full of Oreos that you’d be getting into. If you came again, if Steve ever came. Or if the two of you did come again, if you’d ever get tired of saying these filthy things to one another, egging on another, making one another feel so goddamn amazing. “Want Daddy all to myself.” And clearly, you were no better than Steve.

Squish. Squish. Squish.

Cum seeped out of you. It made the insides of your thighs wet. You could feel it drip and dribble down. Steve’s mouth was pressed against your cheek, tasting your skin, nipping at your jaw. His tongue wet. Fingers skillfully plucking away at your clit, as if you weren’t melting down up on the counter beneath him.

“Sweetie you have Daddy,” he assured you. Licked you. Pounded into you like a man possessed on this one thing only. Hitting your inside wall right. Making your legs shake each time. “Daddy belongs to you. Only you.”

Steve’s hand snaked up your shirt, up beneath your bra to clasp your breast tightly.

Against the counter you cried out. Surprised at the sudden touch. Turned on. So turned on. His hand gripped your tit tight and rubbed your nipple hard enough to send hot white fire to your core.

“Fuck Daddy…” you breathed out.

“Tell Daddy. Daddy already belongs to you. Daddy’s only yours. Why would you say you want Daddy all to yourself? Tell Daddy and he’ll fuck you so good, he’ll stick his tongue up in your pussy and lick you clean how you like.”

Oh god.

Oh dear god.

How could he say that? How?

“Stick your tongue in my pussy Daddy. Daddy’s tongue belongs there.” Daddy’s tongue belonged in your pussy all the time. No one could ever put their tongue on you quite like Steve.

And then came a cracking of glass.

A sharp tinkling of glass. A breaking really.

A what in the ever-lasting fuck was that sort of sound?

It had Steve pausing behind you. It had you opening your eyes. It even had Sparky waking up in her cloth playpen by the kitchen doorway. It pierced the absolute bliss of your moment together like a knife in a cake.

What came next was ice cold sobering.

It most successfully killed the mood faster than a Sparky fire, or that time Anna-Marie walked in on Steve going down on you with much enthusiasm.

More glass breaking. Followed by a deadbolt being turned, out in the front entrance area, out around the corner.

It was a familiar sound and had Steve most expediently pulling out of you, yanking up his own jeans and buttoning them. Not that you weren’t a few steps behind him. Your own briefs you’d borrowed when you realized that you were all out of clean undies, or Yelena was out and had raided your dresser for clean panties, that very morning.

Out in the front room, you heard the front door slam open. Hitting the wall out there soundly.

Up next went your jeans and you’d only just managed to secure them into place, because time was something of an issue.

Someone was in the house.

Someone was coming in your house!

All slap and tickle time had come to a stop and right as you were about to have your third orga…and you literally ran into the back of Steve. Steve who had suddenly stopped, at the sight of the beast in your living room. Because that was what was in your living room. A beast. Some type of human animal creature and out from your mouth came in shocked surprise. “What the fuck is that!”

Not who, as you did not give a shit who. The whom was not important. It was the what, because whatever it was, was not entirely human.

Yeah, sure, it was walking around all bipedal on two legs and wore men’s clothing.

However, you noted it had long claw nails on the ends of human hands. Long blonde hair and sniffed at the air, turning, until it set eyes on the two of you. Dark eyes that were most definitely not human. And yeah, sure, this dudes face could have been humanish.

His peopley nose scrunched up as he sniffed, taking both you and Steve in.

Steve actually had the audacity to hold his hand back, as if to prevent you from running forward to fight this cat. Like you were about to go defend Steve from this WWE sized manbeast that when he curled up a lip, you got a good look at teeth that belonged on a tiger.

The audacity!

He was huge. He was absolutely huge and you had no goddamn idea what to do now. What were you supposed to do? Call 911? To tell them that bigfoots cousin catman was in your brownstone? Demand they send animal control immediately?

“Get back.” Steve ordered you firmly. Soundly. It was very much a command and you very much weren’t about to argue with a man who fought the mad titan.

Steve too felt a certain sort of way at the sight of this person in his home. This obviously enhanced man in his home, where you and all the kids were sleeping soundly upstairs. God was he big. Easily five or six inches taller than Steve, at least fifty more pounds of muscle. Whoever this was moved with ease.

As it looked around, it’s gaze lingering over you and then Sparky, Steve felt his own chest kick up, he could feel his body prepare to fight.

Yeah, he was going to have to fight. He knew that for sure before the enhanced person approached, eyes on Sparky in her little playpen.

“Get Sparky. Get behind the kitchen island.”

Something upstairs crashed, broke, shattered really.

Someone was upstairs too, you realized, around the time you grabbed the curious baby.

Wearing her purple onesie. Dark curls nearly long enough to pull up. Her big brown eyes watched with gleeful wonder, as the big hairy man lot out a godawful roar, then ran into the kitchen where the three of you were.

Continue reading on ao3

#steve rogers x reader #chris evans x reader #steve x reader #captain america x reader #marvel x reader #steve rogers x you #avengers x reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x you #wildest dreams series

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honestlyfrance · 3 years

Text

find me in san francisco

ship: sam/bucky

warning: violence, cursing, apocalypse

summary:

Bucky looked over to Sam for a moment before speaking, "Las Vegas may have currency but it doesn't have you."

Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes stumble upon each other once more at the aftermath of war.

—■—■—

Run. That’s what you do best anyway, isn’t it?

The view of a beachside stretches, the sand a murky grey with glasses and scraps of metal lining the boardwalk as if washed up against the rough and harsh soil, leaning against the ugly and crumbling brick wall where the actual boardwalk started up above at a level, and at a low tide the pitch-black ocean water lapped against the side at an increasingly frightening pace, as if it was always unsteady, always unnatural. Here on this sand, he ran, clad in a black ensemble, a matching WWII remnant design gas mask on his face, tubes attached to an oxygen tank he had in a backpack. He almost left no boot prints on the shore due to the dense debris that littered there. It was frightening what the last decade had given the earth — so terrible.

The man was running as fast as he could, biting down his tongue as he breathed at an interval of every three minutes – he had managed to breathe every five or six minutes when he was idle, and he has yet to learn to save his breath as he runs. He reaches the staircase that led to the boardwalk, hopping up the marble steps that cracked at every step he made, turning and twisting until he made his way out of the abandoned boardwalk, and was it just him when the stores and barest frames of buildings moaned in agony as the only life that passed through its once lively soul had left as soon as it arrived, or was it just the hunger that nipped at his guts?

He ended up by the road, and it was abandoned by cars and people, buildings just as decayed and bare as the ones in the boardwalk. He looked around for a moment, frantically—he has perfected the art of saving his breath, he’s been breathing for an interval of four minutes now, based on his watch. He took a right and ran as fast as his legs could go, which was a fast jog that could carry him for three hours at most without wasting his breath.

As the road ended up uphill, with him leaning forward against the heavy pull of gravity from below, there was a view of a clinic before the T-intersection. Our man didn’t falter in step and breath as he reached the clinic, breaking the glass door in one swing with his right elbow. The glass door cracked and shattered in a million diamonds, bouncing on the floor and sticking to his sleeves. He patted them off and entered through the door, invading the empty veterinarian’s clinic.

He went into a room, where the surgeries occur and found some more oxygen gas tanks. Out of all twenty of them only six had not been wasted. He took them all. His tank was still full, but he took them. No more for the strays who would try to salvage for oxygen, the only thing left for them is the decaying flesh and bones of animals in cages in the next room. He took them, placed them in his retractable wagon, and pulled north.

He hears the faintest sound, but he hasn't faltered. He walked slowly now, his breathing smooth as water as his ears tried to pick up the source of the sound. It rolled on the ground. Heavy. Faraway. It didn't change pace.

Our man, who used to go by Sam Wilson, had continued on his way, squaring his shoulders as his jaw clenched beneath the mask, and for once, he had let his guard down. He trusted his heart over his gut — he let his eyes wander towards the ground because it felt right to do so. God, when was the last time Sam had relaxed? Swinging his arms as he hummed a tune— When was the last time he could touch the sky and feel free?

It was a car. Some Mercedes. A dark shade of green. It had a pop of silver on the hood, what used to be a logo now scratched off, but there was definitely a wing in there.

The passenger window rolled down when the car had matched Sam's pace. Sam didn't want to look, didn't want to disappoint himself and get shot again. He didn't want to let his hopes wander towards the heavens just so it can fall so fast like what happened to Lucifer. He didn't want to die, to have that sliver of mercy turn into a knife.

The man in the car was covered top to bottom in a black ensemble, what they used to call the Winter Soldier armor due to the uniqueness and durability. Sam didn't want his hopes to get too high, so he assumed that the stranger wanted to steal his wagon of oxygen tanks. The atmosphere is thinning so fast, it's incomprehensible; everybody would do anything to live.

Sam whiplashed, pulled out his knife from his thigh holster, twirling it in his fingers before pulling his elbow back — it all happened too fast, next thing Sam knew, the stranger had leaned back into the driver's seat as soon as the knife had lodged itself into the driver seat window, barely an inch away from the man.

The man laughed for a moment as if it was the most adorable thing he had witnessed. His breath hitched and his arms were crossed over his chest as if he actually believed that was where Sam was aiming for.

"Nice car." Sam spoke, his words deeply muffled by his mask, it almost sounded like another language, "I'm taking it."

The man had no time to react because, by the time he had regained his stature, Sam had reached in and unlocked the passenger door, swinging it open. Holding onto the side and door of the car, Sam lifted himself and swung both his feet towards the man's chest, successfully knocking the air out of him.

As the man had choked, Sam swung himself inside and closed the door shut, leaving his wagon outside. He sat on the passenger's seat, looking over at the wheezing man. Grabbing the man's right arm and locking it under his arm, Sam elbowed the man to the chest, throat, and nose, feeling the satisfying ringing pain shooting through his skin. Sam had worn elbow pads, decorated it with silver spikes even — poor man.

Sam had twisted the man's right arm — the man grunted like a trapped animal — and forced him to duck, and with a spare hand, he grabbed the man by the collar, slamming his face into the wheel, earning several short honks, not loud and long enough for anyone in the radius to hear.

The man heaved as Sam pulled him back, even caressing the back of the man's neck, letting the stranger have a few breaths of air for a moment. What a saint Sam was. Sam abruptly squeezed the man's neck, earning a satisfying whine. As Sam was reaching over for the knife lodged in the window, the man had uppercut him in the stomach, earning an alarming wheeze from our man. With a final tug from Sam and a punch by the man, they found themselves overcome with adrenaline.

Sam pulled the knife out of the window with a grunt, pushing the knife through the man's thigh with a terrifying shringggg, eliciting a muffled scream from him.

Sam pushed the man away from him and slid against the passenger door, heaving heavily, already afraid of how much oxygen he lost in the fight. His head felt light, and there's a ringing pain in his abdomen, one that urged him to caress it with a gentleness which his gloves contrasted.

The driver's seat door suddenly swung open and an arm had stuck in and dragged the stranger out of the car, rolling on the ground with a gurgled grunt. The stranger tried standing up despite his injured leg but the man had pulled the knife out of his shin, eliciting a garbled line of a shriek as he collapsed on the asphalt road.

Sam rolled his eyes as he opened up his own door, pulling in the oxygen tanks one by one as the new man continued to clean up the scene, wiping the knife and pocketed it in his holster. Sam had retracted back his wagon and pocketed it as he closed the door, the new man taking the last man's seat in the car, his eyes blanketed by his dark goggles.

The new driver shifted gear and removed the handbrake, stepping on the gas quite slowly to avoid the roar of the engine or the screeching of tires. This man spoke, his words muffled deeply, signing as he said, "Run over?"

Sam waved a hand, shaking his head, and there's a glint in his eyes as he glanced over to the man wearing a black ensemble just like his, but there's a filter mask instead, more sleek and functional, something the Winter Soldier armor couldn't have, the actual original one that belonged to Bucky Barnes.

Bucky's eyes had joy in them as he looked over to Sam. The car moved for a few feet away from the grunting stranger, then Bucky shifted the gear to reverse, looking over at the rearview mirror until he deeply injured the man's legs. Bucky took his time in shifting back to drive, the car jumping a bit as they continued on with stealing the car.

"I didn't think you'd come," Sam signed with one hand, leaning his head against the closed window, his chest rising and falling heavily. "You were on the way to Las Vegas."

Bucky looked over to Sam for a moment before speaking, "Las Vegas may have currency but it doesn't have you."

Sam had to take a moment before figuring out what the man was saying, and when he did, he smiled under his mask, closing his eyes as it reached them. Groaning, Sam shook his head at that, Bucky laughing at the side as he maneuvered the car through the throes of wrecked cars and metal of the San Francisco streets.

The wreckage of the road, of course, only stretched the more the car rolled down the disaster of a scene. The afternoon sky was dull and settling as the winds whistled a low tune, but even then it was merely a delusion, merely a fictitious ensemble, something more of a mirage, a ploy to the senses. Decorating the asphalt road were small fires that were either already burning or had suddenly combusted out of nowhere, and other than this, the afternoon harsh sun rays were bouncing off of the reflective surfaces of dismantled cars, almost disfiguring the two men’s sight from the windshield.

It's almost like an ode to the old world, a painting dedicated to the world before downfall played into fate, something of a music piece played for the masses disguised as the Trojan horse. Our two men had sat in silence as this scenery passed by them, but all they felt was tension and war in their veins, their gazes as strong as liquor and they despised that — despised how much they could've gotten if nothing ever happened in the first place.

Bucky reached over to Sam quiet hesitantly, grabbing his attention with a slight tap. Sam's eyes glanced at Bucky's hand, watching the way Bucky signed, slowly, as if wanting Sam to take it all in, I'm sorry.

Sam spoke, but his words were chopped and deeply muffled, barely comprehensible, but Bucky knew what he was trying to say with the way Sam's eyebrows hardened, the quick tick of his jaw, and the softness in his ocher eyes. Sam's nervous, forgiving, I was okay without you.

Bucky's eyebrows relaxed, and he wanted so badly to remove his goggles but he knew he shouldn't, so he nodded, cleared his throat, and said: "You were always okay without me."

Sam nodded. They both knew. Sam was always fine on his own, but he felt that need for a companion and he adored Bucky's like Apollo's Icarus — like a scar down one's spine, one made out of love, ambition, and yearning.

"I wanted to be human. I wanted someone," Sam spoke, only signing it when he had gathered himself. He had set his head against the window, his breath shuddering as he added one last bit, "I wanted it to be you."

There's heat rising in Bucky's chest and all he could think of was how much Sam was attracted to it, but he's afraid he'd burn the angel because people like Bucky only ever did was hurt the most beautiful things in the world, but damnit, Sam wasn't beautiful.

People like Sam were ugly to the bone because they don't truly believe in peace and beauty. They've fought tooth and nail to accept fate with stardust in their eyes and that journey alone was frightening, murderous intent for all.

It's scary to think someone like Sam wasn't able to love because he was just so full of it.

"I want to love you," Bucky speaks, and they were soon going down a steep road. He moves methodically to drive them quietly. "I want to be with you too."

Sam signs, furiously, his eyebrows knitted together as his eyes had a sadness in them Bucky couldn't pinpoint. "Then why did you leave?"

Bucky's hand flew to the clasps of his goggles, but then he stopped, realized what he was doing, and slowly set his hand back down on the steering wheel. Sam was watching the man with wide eyes, silent and nervous as if they were going to suddenly combust at any moment, and maybe they were with the way flames lick their skin as if hungry peasants — maybe they were those hungry peasants.

"To survive. Didn't realize that's an empty wish if I didn't find companionship — you, when I was already so far away." Bucky replied, and his voice was clear, a little murky, but Sam heard it all, even the man's heartbeat laced around the words. "I didn't want to live greedily, I wanted to live loved and to love."

Sam turned back to face the road, his arms crossed over his chest as his eyes caught sight of the hood of the car. There were a million thoughts that ran through his head at the speed of light, but he wasn't baffled when these thoughts turned to plans, survival plans, plans with Bucky Barnes. His lip squirmed under the mask and it hurts to even smirk, but Sam's heart is so full of emotions he never thought he could feel again and it's euphoric.

Sunlight dances on grass and Sam could feel himself breathe freely again as if he was alive before the war. He could feel Bucky's flesh hand in his and there are the softness and toughness of skin he craved after the war. There were too many feelings in Sam's chest that made him weep, but he stayed stoic, stared out the windshield, his jaw hurting as he tried his best to stop his smile.

They were on flat ground and Sam made a sound Bucky thinks was laughter. Bucky's chest fluttered just like the first time he heard that laugh — before the war.

Sam's gloved fingers find their way grazing Bucky's jaw, only a fleeting feeling none of them could feel, but there's warmth in their chests as Sam cupped another hand around the man's cheek, their hearts singing in octaves as Apollo fell instead of Icarus; all backward love, they'll make it worth it.

Sam leaned into Bucky's face and their masks made a clicking sound when they met. This was the closest they could get to kissing, but it's not truly a love story if lips had to prove it. Don't you hear the world still just for them?

Sam stared at the goggles, thinking he could see Bucky's eyes flutter close, fighting to keep them open. Sighing, Sam closed his eyes to take at the moment, the new normal they can have.

Letting go, Sam leaned back into his seat, saying, signing, "We just stole S.H.I.E.L.D. property."

There's a trace of a grin on Bucky's words when he said, "What bastards. You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Sam turned to Bucky, and they share a sound similar to a laugh.

"As always."

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #winterfalcon #sam wilson sundays #france: writing #france: works

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