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e1dritchjackal0pe · 5 months

Text

ᴘᴏɪꜱᴏɴ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʟɪᴘꜱ

Summary: You didn't expect that chasing after a bounty in the middle of the desert would lead to perhaps the most insulting and upsetting predicament of your entire career. But after being lead across barren land and scathing heat, you know that you're running out of time to escape.

All you can do is hope that you can beat the clock before your luck runs out.

Warnings: 18+ MDI! Canon typical violence; violence against reader (not by Cooper), depictions of gore and death. AFAB Reader, some fem pronouns used, PiV sex, unprotected sex, boot riding, oral sex (M!Receiving), deepthroating. Mild overstimulation, multiple orgasms.

Notes: 23.1k words. I lied and told myself that this was going to be a short story . . . two weeks later. . . Ended a little bittersweet, which was entirely unintentional, but oh well. Not proofread. A little bit of sweet Cooper but not too much.

The sun is a crippling thing, beating down on you with a stifling heat that nearly feels like a physical presence driving down and tugging on your limbs and the crown of your skull. Intent on wringing your strength and every drop of moisture from your body in its torrid grip. It's debilitating and the only thing that you could ever possibly compare it to is standing next the roaring flames of a bonfire, or maybe, from what you've heard, like opening an oven door and being blasted by the rush of the preheated air. But it's the weight of your tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth that really seems to wave your circumstances in your face. It feels like sandpaper; brittle and harsh, like one attempt at swallowing could cause the walls of your throat to grind and split along each other.

You remember specifically when your last drink of water was. A few casual sips taken from your canteen only a few hours earlier, close to thirteen now to be exact. You've been counting. Torturing yourself with each passing second and every weakened, slipping step. It goes by slow in your mind, dripping by like molasses, and the scorched, barren ground cracking beneath your feet and giving way to loose, lifeless sand just makes it all that much slower. But truthfully, it's the sound of their laughter that's really getting to you. The group of them chortling like a pack a wild dog's; coyotes giggling and gloating over a kill. You aren't sure what they're all joking about. Probably something twisted that would make your stomach turn if you paid it close enough attention, but you've been making an effort to focus your concentration on absolutely anything else. The crunch of the rock underneath your boots; the lonely, empty whistle of the low wind brushing across the ground; your own panting breaths. Even the gentle clink and jingle of the rusted handcuffs that dig into your wrists like a taunt.

You're not supposed to be the one in fucking cuffs, trudging across the desert with a bunch of lowlife criminals keeping you hostage.

In your defense, you were only expecting one, not four. It's a flimsy excuse. Even in your own eyes, but to be fair, coming by caps as of late has been difficult. And no caps means no food or water, and your supply of RadAway has become concerningly low. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to come by funds without murdering someone over it. It had made you a little reckless. Desperate honestly, and the need to get some actual currency in your palm, instead of scraps, had hung heavy on you. So when you had caught sight of some random wanted poster fixed behind the counter of a dingy hole-in-the-wall bar, you had all but jumped at the opportunity. He was low rung and inexperienced by all accounts. Just another random, petty man with a propriety for violence who had shaken down the wrong establishment. He wasn't anything special. There are thousands of others just like him, just as there always will be.

It was supposed to be a low effort job. You were planning on shooting him dead and taking just enough of him with you to retrieve your money. But what you hadn't accounted for was getting jumped by three (four technically, you did manage to kill one) other men when you confronted him. But they had been like ghosts, leaping out of the empty shadows of the night in the manner of creeping phantoms when you had approached the bounty with a loaded gun trained at his head. The cocky, gnarled grin that had stretched across his chapped lips should have been a big of enough clue to let you know you were on losing side of your fight.

But even now you aren't sure where they had even come from. You had been tracking your bounty for a couple days across the desert landscape, and not once had he met up with a single person. You hadn't heard a word of gossip about him running with any groups or raiders either. So imagine your surprise when the figures that had stepped from the dark had all been familiar. Familiar in the regard that you've seen the rough sketches of their faces pinned up along just about every business and dilapidated building in the Wasteland. Drawn out on rough parchment that declared them all wanted, dead or alive. The Silva Gang; a small band, but a notorious one. They've been making a name for themselves as of late, snatching up people in the cover of the night to sell them off to organ harvesters and sex slavers.

You aren't sure which of the two they have planned for you, but you aren't exactly psyched to find out. Regardless, if they have a buyer in mind, it'll be a wonder if you even manage to survive the trip there in your current condition. After you had shot down one of their members, made his head explode in a splatter of red and brain matter, they had all been quick to gang up on you. Knocking you to the ground to kick your stomach in with their steel toed boots until your lungs couldn't manage much more than a pathetic, airy wheeze. You had bit the inside of your cheek in the middle of the beatdown, tearing it open until iron had flooded the inside of your mouth and stained your teeth scarlet.

Every breath hurts. It's like your bones have been rattled loose, and you swear you can feel them wiggle with each sharp gasp, just barely held in place by the bruised sinew that binds it all together. All you can do is hope that there isn't any internal bleeding, but it's difficult to tell with the wound in your cheek tainting your mouth with a coat of blood. Though, if you can't manage to find a way to escape, then passing out from hemorrhaging might actually be a blessing in disguise. A mercy carried in on violent wings. But then again, the Wasteland has never been known for its mercy.

A brittle, whistling laugh breaks out with all the subtly of a gunshot. Though it sounds closer to a cough with the way that it sharply cuts across the atmosphere like cracking a bone-dry branch over your knee. It's about the only warning you get before the man strolling in front of you - your bounty - harshly tugs at the chain connected to your cuffs, jerking your joined wrists forward and forcing the rest of your body to follow in an ungraceful lurch. Your legs scramble to right themselves, weakly trying to balance the entirety of your body's weight on feeble ankles. For a split second you think that you might actually collapse and get a face full of sand, but you just barely manage to catch yourself on time, flinging a foot forward to get a hold of your equilibrium.

He doesn't give you proper time to gather yourself before he's nudging you along again with the chain, flashing you a nasty grin over his shoulder in a show of filed down teeth. You've seen the pictures of sharks before. A few years back when you had stumbled upon the old remains of a school building. You had meandered through the halls, searching for what little you could find, anything that might have been useful. For a moment your mind had wondered and wandered as you allowed yourself to entertain what the halls and rooms may have looked like all of those years ago when the paint wasn't chipping and brimming with radiation, even though you really had no basis to go off of. And you were quick to find yourself sidetracked, digging through old textbooks and sheets of homework. It was just some biology book, with wrinkled, stained pages and dust collected on the hard cover. There had been a chapter about marine animals: dolphins, fish, and the like. But what had really caught your attention was the drawling of a shark that had been in the corner. Particularly its teeth. Massive rows of lethal points designed to slice through meat and tear flesh. Underneath the depiction of the great white there had been some offhand little fact.

Did you know that you're more likely to die by bees than a shark?

But this shark, you're certain has taken countless lives; sank his teeth into human skin and gorged himself on their bodies. And you might just be next if you don't manage to find an opening soon. You aren't certain where they're taking you. How many more miles you have to cover on shaking legs and bruised lungs, but the longer they lead you the closer you're getting to a death sentence.

"What do you say, lovely." The voice jumps out with the pressure of a dead weight linking across your shoulders, pulling you close into the cradle of someone's chest. The stink that rises up to greet you is abhorrent; stale and putrid from weeks, if not months' worth of sweat and dirt and grime. You could choke on it. "You ready for a break yet? You look like shit."

A brief scathing glance upward reveals that it's the one that you had shot in the leg. Right in the artery. It would have killed him too if they weren't fortunate enough to be in the possession of a stimpak. He still has a bit of a limp in his stride, but now he's here to gloat. Squinting at you to combat the unrelenting glare of the sun with a crooked smile, his tongue reaches to slip across his teeth in an unsettling leer. If all the posters haven't left you astray then this would be the one that calls himself Vulture. A fitting moniker for a cannibal and a scavenger, you suppose.

You want to shove him off and flee. Even with the cover of your jacket still secure over your torso, his body heat feels like acid on your skin, biting and stinging. He has your gun on his hip, secure and snug within his holster. The silver steel of the handle glints like a taunt. Your fingers itch with the urge to slip around the familiar grip. To feel the heft of it in your palm and the recoil reverberating up your arm as you squeeze the trigger. But the chain pulling your hands taut and forward isn't very giving. Even if you managed to tug your bounty down by the tether in his hands and grab ahold of Vulture's gun (your gun), with how sluggish you are the other two would be on you in a blink. And then you really would be dead and left to bleed out on the parched ground and give it the only moister it's probably seen in decades.

Though you might have an opportunity soon. Reluctantly, you lift your head up and shift your focus from him to survey the horizon, and in your unsteady vision you notice a few buildings nestled close along in the distance. A weathered sign is fixed to the roof of one of the structures, declaring something in a mixed bold font. But what those letters spell you're unable to make out from the large gap of space, about a half a mile, give or take. But you think that one of them may be a gas station, based of the old pavilion posted out front; tilted and threatening to lean over on its columns.

"What do you say, Vernon?" The man with his arm still cinched around the back of your neck asks, shouting over his shoulder to look at one of the men walking behind you. "I say we give her a little break. She might collapse otherwise, and we wouldn't want the goods to spoil, now would we?"

He leans in low when he says it, wafting his humid breath over your face in a revolting puff. You don't even bother fighting of the grimace that crosses over your expression, letting disgust twist up your features into an offended sneer. But Vulture doesn't seem to be insulted in the slightest. If anything, you catch a glimmer of amusement pass through his bloodshot eyes in a mirthful wink. A part of you entertains lunging forward and sinking your teeth into the flesh above his cheek bone; letting the sun burnt skin there break underneath the weight of them to ease the way that his words sear across you mind like a brand. But you can't lose your head yet. So you keep your mouth firmly shut, teeth tucked behind your dried lips while you fantasize about gutting the four of them open from pelvis to groin.

You let them lead you across the desert floor, still guffawing and cackling over their perverted jokes and braindead banter. It still makes you nauseous how you've managed to let them get advantage on you and drag you miles across barren land. Humiliation settles in your gut like you've swallowed oil and salt. And despite your lethargic limbs and tender stomach, it's safe to say that your pride is the most damaged thing out of this entire situation. It's tart on your parched tongue. No respectable bounty hunter should ever be caught in a state like this. You can hardly even recall the last time a query has managed to get the upper hand on you, much less captured you in handcuffs and held you hostage. It's pathetic.

You can practically hear that grouchy bastard's voice berating you in that lazy, accented lilt. Chiding you for getting caught. For slipping up like some kind of rookie.

Well that just ain't like you, sweetheart, lettin' a coulpa shitkickers get the jump on ya.

But as harsh as the echo of his voice is, it does serve as a sort of comfort in a paradoxical sort of way. Like a soothing balm on a fresh, stinging wound. Bittersweet from the familiarity of it; sharp and smarting like a fresh bruise, but also dulcet and homey like the swaddle of a soft blanket. As big of a pain in the ass as he is, a part of you has to be curious how life has been treating him these past couple of months. You're sure he's fine. No matter how dire the situation, he always manages to survive somehow, whether that be by sheer luck or by the skin of his teeth, he always makes it out. He's older than you by decades; experienced in horrors and calamities that you would struggle to imagine. Still, sometimes you can't help yourself from being a little . . . worried. It's so nonsensical to be fretting over a man that has the blood of a thousand souls on his hands; who's just as hardened and unforgiving as the land he walks. Especially when you're the one with your hands fastened together by old metal, and the damaged taste of iron in your mouth.

Despite your hard exterior, you've always been a bit of bleeding heart deep down. And somehow, someone as brash and knavish as him has managed to worm himself past all your defenses and latched onto that tender little piece of your soul. He was purely competition at first. A rival. A thief is what he was. Then a reluctant acquaintance, and eventually a . . . tentative friend. A vulnerability, really. But you can't ever keep yourself from wondering about him. Even now, with a violent band of criminals crowded around you and guiding you like a twisted procession towards death or slavery, you can't fight of the impression of a smile that begs to lift at your lips. You have to contemplate the next time that you might see him. If you'll even have the opportunity to see him again, so's long that this doesn't go tits up and you end up dead on the ground. If he'll still smell with the subtle musk of the earth; the residue of soil staining his tattered duster, all damp and rich hidden underneath a layer of dust, and at times blood.

That bastard. That old, mean bastard -

"What are you over there grinning about?" Vulture queries, slipping his other arm up to clutch your jaw between his dirty fingertips, squeezing your cheeks close like an uncle with boundary issues would do at a family reunion. It has you mouth splitting into a snarl and the urge to bite is back again, like an itch on your gums. But you hold yourself back.

"I was imagining what your blood might look like on the sand," you snap, jerking your face from out of his tight grip with venom on your tongue. It nearly could have surprised you when a splitting white-hot heat erupts across the side of your face with enough force to swivel your head to the right, licking an electrical current down the back of your neck, but you were honestly expecting the strike. You draw in a deep breath, ignoring the way that your lungs rattle while you focus on keeping your legs steady. You can feel him when he leans in close again; you can see the hint of him in your peripheral vision too, a little blurry and unfocused from how close he is.

"Well, keep dreaming. Cause that ain't never going to happen."

You don't agree or refute that remark. Not even while you picture wrapping the chain lead hooked to your cuffs around his throat and watching the light dim from the pale blue shade of his eyes. It's then that you decide, even if they do manage to kill you today, you're taking at least one more of them with you.

You let yourself fall silent again, counting the soft tread of everyone's footsteps. The way that the dry, dead earth splits underneath the soles of your boots in a weary whisper. But you mostly try to think about all of the weapon's secured to everyone's person. The gun - your gun - cradled in Vulture's holster. The idiot had tossed his away earlier to swap it out with you own. And you're pretty sure that it had still had a few rounds left in its chamber. There's the handle of a small hunting knife peeking out from past the lip of your bounty's (Thatcher is his name) boot. You didn't see him brandish any other weapon when you had tried to corner him, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have any.

As for the other two following closely behind, you know for a fact that the one called Vernon has a 10mm pistol, and the other's been totting around an old baseball bat with nails buried through the barrel. The nails are rusted, tinged red, but you're certain that the dusty, maroon and vermillion is old caked up blood and not just oxidation.

There are too many guns. Too many of them. And you're weakened from exhaustion and dehydration; sore from getting your stomach kicked in. Running as of now is entirely out of the question. But if you make it to the gas station you should be able to use it as cover. There should be counters in there, shelves and a backroom. All of which can be used as protection against you and them, and the possible spray of bullets. But if you aren't careful enough, the tight quarters can also be used to box you in and keep you trapped between the four of them. You'll have to be cautious.

The twin buildings ahead of you are much closer now, and you're able to make out the worn, crippled details of the ancient establishments much better now. Old remnants of a time long before yourself, left shabby and broken by harsh conditions and war. The paint is all chipped and sun faded on both the motel and gas station; the colors muted down into dusty, pale shades that are probably a far cry from what they used to look like. Windows are opaque with dirt, and some of the panes have been busted out entirely, making some of the curtains still hung above the sills to billow softly. There's an old Nuka-Cola machine posted out front of the station with bullet holes peppering its metal casing; and a long bordering piece of the of the pavilion's roof is hanging from the edge, creaking and trembling with the influence of the wind, groaning and squeaking sharply with each tremor. Like the cries of a wounded, wild animal.

Apprehension settles deep in the pit of your belly like a stone, and you can feel it prickling along your fingertips and toes. The presence of the four men walking along you is like a heat on your skin, searing and stifling. It makes you hyperaware of everything. The brush of your own clothes, the weight of their eyes burrowing into your body; the light, shifting sounds of the desert. It's putting you on edge, making your muscles longing to tense and lash out but you have to keep yourself collected and calm. If you were to act out prematurely or let your nerves get to you, you might just end up with a bullet lodged between your eyes.

Thatcher stops short of the threshold of the gas station, which is left wide open from the twin doors that seem to have been blown from their hinges. He pivots on his feet suddenly, turning to you with another one of his nasty smiles. "Lady's first," he coos obnoxiously. That's the only warning you get before he's jerking the chain a second time. This time is much harsher than the first, and it sweeps you off your feet in a rush that snaps your neck back. You don't even register yourself falling. It's the pain that washes over your knees and eventually your right side that your mind notices first. Blossoming over your flesh like boiling water, and you can feel the stinging tingle of fine glass shards burying past your clothes to poke at your skin.

The hiss of pain that slips past your lips is overshadowed by the boisterous laughter that rings out around you. The sound of it has hatred simmering along your chest and slipping up your jaw, making you clench your teeth together so tightly that a part of you distantly worries that they might break. A string of curses and pyrophanites are heavy in your throat, but you don't want to give them the satisfaction of openly swearing. To let them know that they're getting under your skin. You keep your focus forward instead, ignoring the way they all chortle around you while you scan the dilapidated space. All of the freezers and shelves have been picked clean and left like a discarded skeleton. They would give you ample enough cover to hide behind, but there's still a decent amount of space between you and the aisles, and you aren't sure if you'll reach them in time. The counter ahead might be your best bet. It's thick enough that it can block a decent number of debris and bullets alike. But there's only a small gap of room provided between it and the wall behind it, which would end up working against you if one of them manages to follow you and evade getting shot. And coincidentally, you only have four bullets left in the chamber. One for each of them.

You can't afford to miss.

You have to swallow back a groan when you rise up on your feet, lifting yourself slowly to properly collect your balance; building up the tension your muscles while anticipation and adrenalin run heavy in your veins. Their body language is all still relaxed and unbothered, and in their comfortability, Vulture has trailed close to you. Apparently insistent on sticking to you like a disgusting shadow, but for once in this entire journey you're actually counting on his close proximity.

Something almost close to excitement trails down your back, lashing a familiar buzzing fire down your palms; thrumming like a living thing. You can almost taste it too, sharp and prickling in your mouth, and you can feel your heartbeat pulsing along your tongue. It flutters in your chest like something wild and stirred; but not panicked. This is something you've done a million times. It's like breathing almost. Like your brain giving your body a command without you having to consciously tell it to; it's second nature.

You jolt forward like a blur, fluid and quick even with bound hands. And when your fingers slip around the grip of your gun it's almost peaceful, subtly warm and familiar within your grasp. But you remove it from Vulture's holster even quicker, and in a blink you squeeze the trigger. The burst of sound that rises out is deafening, making your hearing fade out and go dim. Vulture's head lolls back on his shoulders from the bloody crater that splits into his skull, driven there by the speeding bullet that lodges into the wall behind him. You're already pivoting on your feet before you can relish the sight of his body collapsing on the old tiles in a heap of dead weight. But your sense comes back to you just enough to hear the dull sound of him striking the floor when you raise your pistol up to line up the shot, training your weapon up on Thatcher, who looks like he's preparing to tug the chain again in the hopes of knocking you off kilter and ruining your aim. But you set the gun off with a single twitch of your finger, and just as his companion's had, his head swings back like he's been struck and a crest of red sprays from the back of his skull.

As soon as his hands go slack, you're tugging the chain from his grip, making it swipe across the floor like a wounded snake towards your feet. But you don't get a single moment to enjoy your freedom before a bullet whistles past your ear, splitting and hissing. It doesn't allow you time to return the fire before Vernon begins unloading his clip in your direction with an angry cry. And without any other options you move back to spring away from him, launching yourself across the floor on shaky legs; burdened and aided by both adrenalin and exhaustion, but your desire to keep yourself in one piece has you hurtling yourself over the counter. You knock over an empty rotating shelf as you go, and the chain drags behind you with a harsh, metallic drag, striking against the front of the counter as you slip over the edge and fall on the floor.

When you land, it's on your ass, and heat sears across your tailbone and trembles up your spine, but you don't give yourself time to dwell on the pain when a spray of bullets erupts around you, bursting through the air and eating up the bit of wall above your head in a scatter of fraying wallpaper.

"You fucking bitch, you killed 'em!" A voice shrieks, hoarse and raw in its distress. "You fucking killed them!"

Based off of the tone, you're willing to be that it's Vernon, and the near relentless flurry of bullets is definitely coming from the pistol he had hanging from his hip. He has to run out of rounds soon, and hopefully it'll give you an opening when he has to load up the chamber, which shouldn't be too far off. But you still have the other one to worry about too, with his stupid bat. It has you looking around at your surroundings for anything that may held you pick the lock of your cuffs, glancing behind you to check the empty cubbies built into the counter for an old paperclip or a bobby pin, but there's nothing except for dust and an old candy wrapper. There's another scathing swear on your lips, and you can't help but spare an aggravated glare up the water damaged ceiling; cursing the universe, or bad luck, or maybe even whichever god is out there. But you choose to take your frustrations out on the remaining raiders instead.

"Yeah, and I'm planning on you two being next!" You shout loud enough to be heard over the onslaught of bullets. They've got to have another gun at this rate, there's no other way. "I just hope you don't go out as easily as your friends did!"

It's then that you notice the fisheye mirror posted along the corner of the wall, just above the counter, giving you a clear view of the front of store and some of the shelves that stand along the right. But you're concerned with the two figures that are posted near the door, standing close to the fallen bodies of their partners. And sure enough in the other man's hand - Rocky? Rocco? You aren't entirely sure - he's holding a pistol up in the direction of the counter you hide behind, his baseball bat long forgotten and discarded on the floor near his feet.

They both have ammo pouches strapped to their thighs and cartridge belts strung around their waists. Your only saving grace might just be that the majority of the loops are empty of bullets, but between the both of them, there's still enough to be a problem. You've been counting the number of bullets that Vernon has blindly planted in his maddened onslaught. One, two, three, . . . He has a few more in the chamber. Four or five more, at least.

You should have a clear opening soon. And Rocco dares to creep forward, most likely in the hopes of coming around the side of the counter to close you in. Unfortunately for him, he was also taking it as the time to reload his pistol. Probably lured into a false sense of security while Vernon continues the assault with his own gun. His bullets should be running out shortly if your count isn't wrong, but Rocco will reach you by the time that Vernon's supply of bullets has been drained. It's an ill-timed assault on their part. Sloppy. You can hardly believe that they're the gang that's been ravaging the towns made from the remnants of old Los Angeles. The same gang that had trapped you in a pair of rusty handcuffs. This is going to be salt in the wound for years to come.

It must be the deaths of Thatcher and Vulture that's made them messy. But it is working in your favor, so you can't complain much.

You keep your eyes trained Rocco as he approaches, hand raised to slip another bullet into the cylinder. He curses when he drops it, fingertips probably shaking and slick with sweat and twitching from the rush of adrenalin and the deaths of his companions. It clatters on the floor, metallic and chiming, skipping over the tiles, sounding like a bell. You draw in a breath then, forcing your body to gulp in the stale air even though its hurts and sears around the edges; even while fire licks at your lungs, you never wince or remove your sight from the mirror posted along the wall. You keep your focus trained on their reflections; the even, calculated steps that Rocco takes in your direction, nearing closer with every movement. All the while Vernon continues to fire, gun blazing while he screams himself hoarse. And for a moment, one wicked moment, you worry that he isn't going to run out of bullets.

You might have to risk jumping out of cover and hoping that you aim is true while your hands are bound with metal and dragging a heavy chain. But then, like a blessing you hear it: the harsh, hollow click of an empty chamber. It's a dull sound, echoing across the confined space of the tattered gas station with a pronounced finality.

Click, click, click

He repeatedly presses down on the trigger like he might jostle loose a magic bullet and kill you with it. You hear him swear. A low, scathing, shit huffed under his breath. The sound of the empty gun is like a countdown, and you're quick to act before the timer runs out. With an aching pain in your gut and the taste of blood in your mouth, you scoot yourself across the floor to line your shoulder up with the edge of the counter. Rocco has just one more bullet to slip into the chamber of his gun before it's fully loaded, and he already has his quivering fingers clutched over the copper casing of a bullet, ready to drop it into the last empty slot.

It's like you're tugged forward on a string. Muscles twitching and lead by pure memory; instinct. You have your gun drawn before you pivot yourself around the corner on the point of your knees. You know where Rocco is standing. You marked his place in the mirror above. It's bleached behind your eyelids now; fixed across your mind like a picture. It's a blueprint, a set of instructions, and all you need to do is follow your body's orders.

The trigger is warm when your squeeze it. Rocco's head jerks up as he notices you, eyes rolling and a little frantic when he registers the glint of the gun in your hand. In that spit second, you see so much pass through his eyes: surprise, disbelief, fear, and finally, a fleeting shred of what might be angry acceptance. It's a look that you've seen on all of the faces of the people you've felled. The five stages of grief compacted into a singular, short moment before the killing blow lands. And the blow lands in his chest, puncturing a clean hole through the flesh and sinew and clipping his heart. His breath rattles. A nastier sound than the labored gasps that have been ailing you, and you can't help but relish in the wet noise of blood welling up in his throat.

The gun slips from his hand and clatters to the ground long before he stumbles back on weakened legs and collapses backwards with a death rattle. But you don't have any time to gloat. Vernon cries his friend's name in protest. Like it'll keep the blood in his veins if he does. And then his eyes are on you like a rabid dog's that's been crowded into a corner and is coiling to lash out. He doesn't even bother finishing up on reloading his gun before he tosses it like it's useless trash, and then he's lunging forward to cross the bit of space that's between you.

It has your body twitching to spin your focus onto him and shoot. But the abruptness of it all, the hindrance of the cuffs has your aim off by just a few inches, and instead of hitting his heart like you had intended, you miss your mark by a few inches and get his left shoulder instead. That was you last bullet. Your chamber is completely useless, and your pistol might as well as be dead weight. You try to right yourself. To shift yourself on your feet properly to launch yourself out of the way and behind the cover of one of the shelves, but you hardly make it more than a few scant feet or so before he's pile driving you to the floor with a violent snarl. The weight of him pinning in place is crushing. Digging your bones into the tiles and forcing the air from your lungs in a brutal press; squeezing a cry from your aching chest.

Your lips peel back into a feral sneer when one of his hands slip around your throat to wring the oxygen from your body. Your hips writhe and feet kick in some mindless scramble to shake him from you, but he might as well as be made of lead; fixed in place and unwavering. And for a horrendous moment your brain is reduced to an animal's. Wiped blank and clouded over with pure primal instinct. You hand claw up towards his face, desperate to feel flesh underneath your nails to tear, but he leans himself out of your reach with a caustic, demented laugh.

"You brought this on yourself," he hisses harshly and flexes his fingers to make you choke. You can feel your eyes roll towards the back of your skull; your muscles draw up tight when your lungs seize, empty and burning. Tears threaten to fall, prickling at your waterline while your brain fogs over in a suffocated haze, and for a brief, drifting second you wonder if this might be your final moments. But then you feel it. The pull of the chain tugging at your handcuffs. Tender around your wrists. And while he's distracted watching the life fade from your eyes, you slip your fingers around the groves of the chain, drawing up the metal links until you have it gripped tightly within your sweating palms.

You bare your teeth when you swing your hands up to launch the chain in the air. It cuts across the atmosphere with a heavy whoosh, and when it meets his cheek, it splits the skin underneath the force of it, parting his flesh with a rivulet of red. His head jerks on his shoulders harshly and his body twitches and tugs to the side from the sheer weight of the hit, but his grip around your neck doesn't so much as flinch. His free hand strikes out like a serpent, snatching ahold of the chain before you can strike him again and he pins it to his side, immobilizing your defense. And in some mad scramble your frayed mind catches onto the glint of red pouring from the hole in his shoulder. It guides you to lift a hand up to burrow your fingertips into the wound, pinching and tearing at the torn flesh until blood flows over your hand, all warm and damp.

The angry, anguished roar that he lets out could have been deafening if your hearing wasn't already tarnished and fading from the pressure of his chokehold. But instead of getting him to flinch away or weaken, somehow it makes him grip you harder. The sheer strength behind his fingers has your lips parting in a silent, tortured cry. It's here and now that you decide that your luck really must have run out. You suppose that the Wasteland can only do you so many favors before it comes to collect, and you've evaded horrors and troubles that would have shaken and killed the Devil himself. You were honestly just hoping that your death would be a little more honorable. A blaze of glory with fire and blood. Not delivered by the hands of some cheap raider. But you can't always refute the hand you've been delt - no matter how shitty it is.

You can feel your vigor and breath slipping. The blood rushing in your veins while your heartbeat pulses in the cage of your chest - all frantic and panicked in a hail marry to keep your body functioning while your lungs starve. Even with all of the adrenalin thrumming hot throughout your body, the exhaustion that tugs your limbs down is too great. It's like you've been dipped in syrup and glue and have been left to stick to the tiles like a rat caught in a trap. Your eyes roll again. Slipping back to focus past the sadistic grin curling on his lips; past the form of his head which has faded into a sort of silhouette. A dopey sort of smile blossom on your face when you catch sight of a stain marring the ceiling. Its shape is all random, made from a scattered assortment of moldy blotches that bleed into each other, made from shades of tan, and brown, and gray. It's nothing. Just stain on the ceiling. But if you squint your eyes a certain way, it kind of looks like a cowboy hat.

It makes you wonder if he'll miss you once you're gone. If he'll even notice that you're gone. That maybe, after a few more months or maybe even years, after fate or circumstance hasn't led you to cross paths again, that he'll realize that something has happened to you. That life has finally struck down the hammer on your head and snuffed you out. Maybe he'll look out ahead one day when the sun's brushing along the earth and painting the sky in searing shades of orange and red and rose in its descent and realize that you're well and truly gone. All you can do is hope that he'll think back on you fondly; that his deadened heart might actually miss you - if that is something that he's capable of. But the Wasteland is a vast place. It's so big that it can swallow individuals whole; get them lost in its sweeping landscapes and violence. It's so easy to forget people here. Family, lovers, friends can all get swept away and distant until they're hardly more than a mirage on the horizon. A ghost on the fringes of the mind. And maybe that'll be you. Just another ghost lined up alongside a thousand others.

And while you choke and sputter on your last remnants of breath you continue to stare up at that murky little cowboy hat on the ceiling with something akin to hope in your chest, taking the place of air. But he probably won't remember you at all, the asshole. He's too brash. Too guarded. The sharpness his eyes is always hardened and a little distant behind the sardonic glint in them. He's shown you parts of himself that others could only dream to know. Small pieces in the grand scheme of things. Like broken, trivial shards torn from a greater image. Hardly enough to make a full picture. But it still lets you see him a little more clearly. You've seen all the ugliness. The callous, indifferent brutality; the sarcasm and guarded emotions. He's a walking mystery. An impenetrable fortress. But every now and again you see a hint of the human underneath it all. The man, the movie star.

You can't believe that he's going to be your last thought while your lungs burn and draw up tight. His wicked, playful grin; the charming, languorous drawl of his voice; the gentle chime of his spurs when he walks. You can almost hear it over the wild roar of your blood in your ears and the relentless string of Vernon's swearing and gloating; repetitive and ringing and light. Like old useless coins jingling in someone's pockets. Almost musical in the rhythm of his phantom steps.

You always did like his walk. Always lazy and confident like a saunter.

When Vernon's head explodes like a ruptured balloon you think that you're imagining it. One second he's grinning down at you with his teeth bared and glinting, and the next his face seems to fracture. It erupts and cracks into tiny fragments and slivers like a dropped vase. But instead of water splashing out, it's sprays of warm, wet blood and chunks of brain matter. In your oxygen deprived daze, you're certain that you see a scatter of teeth soar across the air like nuggets of porcelain. The blood lands against your skin like the drops of a rare rainstorm. But it's still hot from the heat of his body, like something molten on your skin.

His torso wavers unsteadily, rocking and unbalanced from the sudden absence of its head, rolling back on its weakened spine like an old tower swaying in a strong wind. The debilitating grip around your throat slackens when the body finally gives underneath its own weight and topples over on the tiles in a bloody heap. The greedy, hoarse gasp that you draw in instinctive, but once you start, you can't stop. Not even when the air catches on your throat and threatens to choke you again with the twitching, painful coughing fit that wracks your body, clawing and itching at your lungs.

Clarity comes back to you slowly, nudging at the disoriented cloud that fills your skull like drugged stuffing. You shift onto your stomach with another long gulp of air, kicking at the corpses legs that lay across your own; and finally, it begins to feel like a cool balm inside of your chest instead of a fire. But the world is still sluggish. Muted and slow from your distress and you relax your belly on the tiles, suspending yourself on shaking elbows.

It's then you notice the figure standing in the open doorway. Your body coils up tight, sucking in a few more desperate puffs of air while you brace to fight again, even though your limbs are drained and quivering, and your stomach and chest ache and burn. But then you notice the little details of the silhouette. The worn brim of the hat, the tattered and torn edges of their duster, the relaxed and confident way they hold themselves. It has you thinking that you really are dead. That you passed away right on the floor from the pressure of the raider's hand around your throat. That he really did succeed in squeezing the life out of you. This must be some sort of deathly hallucination. Your mind playing tricks on you as pass out to the other side - into an afterlife or into nothingness, you aren't sure.

But then a tepid, clement wind brushes into the store, and it's perfumed with the scent of something earthy and rich and familiar: Soil. The figure tilts their head like a curious dog before they holster their gun against their hip. On the right side, just like it should be. He steps forward, and you can feel the weight of it pass over the floor in a gentle thrum; joined by the soft chime of a spur. Of the disk jingling and spinning in its rowel pin. He crosses the distance in a few calm strides with the metallic, melodic sound following each step, and pauses to consider you once there's little more than a foot of space between you and him just before he lowers himself into a crouch.

You watch his descent with a rapt, dazed sort of fascination, and you can feel the impression of a smile on your lips when the shadow made by the brim of his hat fades from his proximity. The familiar weight of his eyes surveying you is comforting, and the delirious grin on your face grows even more.

"You look like you've been dragged through ten kinds of hell," he observes tactfully. But you can't even manage so's much as a flicker of annoyance when the only thing you feel is pure relief. You want to greet him properly, like you usually do. Something witty or sarcastic, but your lethargic brain is about as useful as a bottomless bucket.

"I was just thinking about you," you blurt, and your voice is raw and shredded when it grates up your throat. You notice the way that his hairless brows perk up at the confession, and something amused passes through his eyes while he considers you from your gore-soaked place on the dirty tiles.

"Is that right?" He turns his head to scan the rest of the room, taking in the sight of the rest of the bodies that are strewn about like discarded toys. "Well, given the predicament I found you in, I'd say you need to get your priorities straight, sweetheart."

There it is. That damned pet name. Even though it's spoken with an air of derision, it always sounds so syrupy and sweetened. Cradled softly within his accented drawl like it's saturated with melted sugar. Even with your mind all muddled and scrambling to form a coherent thought, it's still lucid enough for you to register the uncomfortable thrum of embarrassment at the remark. But most prevalent is the sense of bewilderment that nudges up at you and breaks through all of the confusion and pain. You can feel your eyebrows furrowing on your head, openly showing your puzzlement.

"What exactly are you doing out here?" You ask around your cracking voice, drawing yourself up onto your knees with a ragged groan.

"That's no way to talk to someone who just saved your ass," he chides without any real bite. He rocks back on his heels just a bit, making the worn leather of his boots creak in a low protest. "I heard there was a bounty for the Silva Gang; a pretty hefty price is out for 'em. I just didn't expect to see Ezra Thatcher here. " His focus settles back onto you then, and the familiar, devious glimmer that shifts through his stare immediately has your hackles rising. "There's a pretty hefty price out for him too."

A snarl perks at your lips, and you can feel anger flaring in your chest; hot and searing around the bruising ache, and it singlehandedly douses out every bit of joy and relief that you initially felt upon seeing him. He appears to be nothing but amused by your apparent outrage. Not that he ever isn't. But you're sure that shackles still secure around your raw wrists only serve to cement his security. Plus, you don't look particularly threatening, all glistening with a layer of sweat, bags under your eyes while your lungs gasp and shudder harshly. But you're a little tired of this little cycle of yours. Ever since the day that you two have met he's been sweeping bounty's out from under your feet. Sneaking up like a shadow to rip out criminals from your grasp to take the prize money for himself.

"No!" You snap, lurching forward on the points of your knees to lean you face close to his. Close enough that if he still had a nose, it would probably brush against your own. "You are not taking another one of my bounties."

He doesn't answer you yet. He cocks his head again, slow and intrigued while his vision lowers to the handcuffs binding your arms. The smile that lifts at his rough lips is patronizing all in itself, but the way that he slips a gloved finger through the link of metal that secures your wrists together is just more salt on the wound. He tugs it lightly like he's testing its hold, checking to see if it'll give underneath the weight, but you know that he's really just rubbing in your current situation in further. Letting you see how well and truly helpless you are with your hands literally and metaphorically tied.

"I really don't think you're in any position to be making demands," he responds easily. "And considering that I just saved your skin, I'd say that it would properly suffice as payment."

You settle for rolling your eyes. An otherwise childish gesture, but as much as you want to argue, you know by now that trying to reason with him once his mind is set is about as successful as trying to have a conversation with a brick wall. It's a waste of air, and as of right now you're in short supply with how ragged and strained your lungs are. You're in no condition to be trying to pick a fight with someone as treacherous as the Ghoul. Sure, the two of you are . . . somewhat friends. But his sympathy and courtesy are a delicate thing, separated by an even weaker sense of resolve that often blends in with his cunning and brutality. Associating with him is like befriending a feral dog. He has his moments where he's cordial and even companionable. But those moments are few and far between. Borrowed time. At the end of it all, he's still wild. Corroded and shaped by the harsh, ferocious nature of his environment. Even when he's laughing and smiling, you know that he's really just baring his teeth. Waiting for a moment of weakness so that he can lunge for the throat and rip until rich blood flows, and he can drink.

It's like reaching your hand out to pet something vicious, even when you know that it can twist around and sink its fangs into your flesh; saliva dripping with poison.

He can see the defeat weigh down at your body, shoulders slumping as a part of you relents. His satisfaction glints in his gaze like an ember. Buring with the potential to become something greater; something roaring and consuming if need be. But there's no need for that fire today. You know when to give in. Even when it makes your pride curl up into something brittle and pathetic in the center of your chest.

"Take these damned things off at least?" You nudge them up as much as you can while he still has one of his fingers looped around the small metal rings. The pause that takes over is a little stifling. It's like all of the walls have drawn up tight, and for a second you dread that he might not answer. That he'll leave you to suffer in silence while he snatches up what he needs from the bounties and vanish off into the desert while you rot away in this damaged little gas station in the middle of nowhere.

"That very much depends on you. 'Sides, I kinda like you in these." He replies, tugging lightly on the cuffs with a glint in his eyes that could be considered dangerous, voice dipping down low like he's sharing a secret or reprimanding you for a sin you haven't committed yet. And you know him well enough to know that he's doing it on purpose, dropping his tone down into something smoky and warm. "Are you gonna behave?"

For whatever reason it has a smile perking at your lips again. It's soft despite the simmering affect that his voice has on you, rushing your body with a dull flutter of heat. The smile is far from beaming or broad, but you can still feel a delicate trickle of humor spread over you; peeking through the pain that riddles your body. "Come on, Coop. We're friends, aren't we?"

A huff rises from his chest, not quite enough to a laugh or a chuckle but close. "Didn't you shoot at me the last time we seen each other?"

You hum in agreement. There's no way that you can deny that accusation. That was roughly five months ago on the outskirts of Junktown, on what should have been another easy job. But it had been quick to go tits up when bounty hunters and desperate residents alike came scrambling and crawling out of the woodwork to get ahold of a single criminal; like a circle of starved animals stalking a wounded rabbit. And Cooper had been one of those animals. As dangerous and troubling as his presence had been, it did work in your favor with the other hunter's serving as a distraction and an obstacle for him to get through. Still, he had picked through the majority of them fairly quickly, and once the dust had mostly settled, he was free to turn his attentions onto you and the rambling lowlife that had been clinging onto your forearm - begging to be spared. He had even drooled on your coat while in the midst of his blubbering; hanging from you like a dead weight. So yes, you had shot at Cooper. Actually, he was being generous. You didn't shoot "at" him. You shot him. A light graze really, just along the thigh. But it had worked to waver his concentration just enough for the remaining hunters and armed citizens to sweep in and unintentionally give you time to flee the scene of the chaos with your sobbing bounty in tow.

So, you can't exactly blame him for being for being wary.

"And the first time we met you nearly put a bullet between my eyes. It was nothing personal, you know that." It's hard to tell what he's thinking with how unchanging his expression is. That amused edge is still heavy in his features and keeps you from seeing if he's willing or not. "Look, I'm tired, I'm dehydrated, and I feel like I've swallowed a handful of nails. All I want is the stuff that they lifted off of me, and one of the stimpak's they've got, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to start bleeding out of my ass if I don't. You can have the bounties. I don't care."

When he pulls in a deep sigh you nearly think that he might be ready to deliver one of his famous quips. Some sarcastic remark on how little he cares, or that it sounds like a personal problem. But you notice something subtle shift on his face, and you know his answer before he speaks. It has your body relaxing, muscles unwinding and going lax without you consciously telling them to.

"All right then, sweetheart," he relents and shifts up to rise on his feet. His eyes don't leave you once, fixed on you with an intensity that could make you breathless. Evaluating you and weighing your soul with a single casual glance. Always stripping you bare with the disarming hold of his eyes. "Better not do something you'll regret."

All you manage is a nod. Looking up at him from your place on the bloody, dirt coated tiles with a promise lodged in your throat. You must look sincere enough because he doesn't ask you for any verbal confirmation as he pivots his feet to survey the bodies again. It's only then that you manage to spit any words up, forcing the shape of them out with a soft breath. "I'm not sure where the key is specifically, but Thatcher's probably our best bet."

He doesn't respond when he strides across the floor in the direction of the fallen body, leaving you to stew and sit in silence. As soon as he's crouched beside the fresh corpse, he's rummaging through the pockets. Slipping back the layers of the dead bounty's coat to search the inner, built in pouches when the rest of his pockets come up empty. You stare at the expanse of his back with bated breath, tracing the shape of the rifle secured behind his shoulders and the way that his ragged coattails drape along the tiles as you wait. Suddenly the pressure of the rusted metal around your wrists feels so much tighter. Grating and stinging around your skin. It has you shifting uncomfortably, tracing the nails of your thumbs underneath your fingertips to distract yourself. And then, blessedly, he's lifting a silver key from the depths of Thatcher's coat and jingling it in the air like a trophy.

The relief that floods you could make you double over on yourself. But luckily, he's standing in front of you before you can give into the weakened sway of your spine and grabbing ahold of the cuffs to slip the key into its slot. You let yourself admire him. It's a little shameless, you know, but you also can't be bothered to care. You always manage to get swept away by harmless little musings. Tracing his gaunt features with your eyes while you try to reimagine what he looked like before . . . all of this. And even though you've caught a glimpse of his former self, before the radiation and the horror, you still always fail to properly imagine smooth, unblemished skin in the place of leathered, marred flesh. The nose that would have filled out the place where a vacant cavity sits underneath the ridges of his browbones, gapping and almost painful looking. At one time he had hair. He could have been a dark blond, or brunette, or maybe it was an auburn color, or black.

"Take a picture, darlin,' it'll last longer."

Despite the low register of his voice, it snaps you from your trance like a gun shot. You're forced to meet the hold of his eyes; attention held and stuck by the dark shade made in flecks of a light green and rich brown and amber. For a pause too long, you're left to sit with your words lodged in your chest as the cuffs around your wrists come undone with a metallic rip, and the absence of their harsh pressure around your tender skin is like heaven on your flesh. All light and soft, even while they sting dully. It's only then that you manage to speak as you shake your hands out in the hopes of knocking loose the rest of the pain that thrums through your wrists.

"Yeah, but I doubt it would compare to the real thing," you quip back. It's completely corny, but it doesn't keep a smile from perking at Cooper's lips even though you can see a hint of what could be exasperation in his gaze.

"Careful," he chides and lets the cuffs fall onto the floor with a clatter. "You'd give a lesser man idea's." And with that he's rising himself up again to shift around you. Stepping past your shoulders to analyze Vernon's body for anything that might be useful. You can't see anything with him sitting behind you, but the sharp sound of a knife being freed from its holster is enough to tip you off to his plans. Knowing him, he's probably inspecting to see whichever part of Vernon might be the plumpest to make some jerky out of the meat. The thought does have a grimace threatening to curl at your features, but you're able to hold it off. You've seen him carve strips and chunks out of people more than once, but the sight of it will never truly desensitize you.

But you've got scavenging of your own to do, and with a quick sweep of the floor your eyes land on Vulture's body near the entrance of the store; limbs strewn outward and skull bleeding in a crimson pool like some sort of morbid halo. But none of that is important. The only thing you care about is the backpack that's still clinging to his shoulders.

You try to mentally brace yourself before you lift yourself from the ground, but you're quick to find there isn't a single peptalk that could prepare you for the aching, bone deep throb of pain that lashes through your body. It's like you've been gutted at the atoms; cut open from your throat to your bellybutton. You think that you could actually sob, but the last, worn remnants of your pride keeps the water secured within your body as you limp over to Vulture's. He's only a few feet away from you. Eight at most, but it feels like an eternity passes before you're able to collapse beside him with a soft gasp.

His eyes are dull and faded now. Completely devoid of the violence and arrogance that had once lit them up, but no they stare at the ceiling; dead and unseeing. Maybe at one point, a younger version of yourself would have felt a twinge of guilt. Some sort of remorse, even though his death is more than deserved. But now all you feel is relief. Peace. It's like a drop in an ocean, but at least the Wasteland is devoid of one less asshole. One last violent soul who was even more guiltless than you.

Of course, he landed on his back, pinning the back underneath limp, spiritless weight. With a reluctant, tired sigh you grip ahold of his shoulder and forearm to start flipping him over. It takes a bit of effort, with the burden of his slack limbs and the searing pinch in your lungs and ribs fighting you in your endeavor, but you do manage to flip him. You're face twists up when you palms make contact with his chest, soaked and warm with a fresh coat of blood, but you swallow your complaints down. Once you get him on his side and shove, gravity does the rest of the work for you and his corpse lands face first with a blunt thump and you're quick to reach and slip his arms through the straps of the pack. You've got it free and stripped from his body in a manner of seconds and in your desperation you're quick to unzip the pack and hold it upside down to jostle its contents out, letting it all spill onto the tiles with a layered clatter. When you drop the bag, you're too engrossed in surveying the strewn jumble to fully register the thud that sounds out when you carelessly drop the pack on the floor.

Your eyes scan over various items; a box of matches, an old watch, and a balled-up piece of tissue that reveals a morbid collection of teeth when it unfurls. But the most important is the familiar sight of a needle with a rusted gauge crowning the opposite end of the barrel. Your fingers are a little clumsy when you reach for it, slipping with sweat and fried nerves as they wrap around the chilled metal and wires. You try not to focus on the deep ache that wracks through your body when you shrug your coat from off of your shoulder, draping it low enough to expose the expanse of your arm.

It's with a shaky breath that you lift the needle up to your forearm and sink it into the tender flesh of your inner elbow. It stings when you inject it, flooding into your veins like a dull, white heat. You have to hiss through your teeth, trying to block out the pain until it finally gives into something soothing. You can feel the effects of the medication spread throughout your body like a balm, shifting a near unbearable discomfort into a faint echo of itself. The crushing sting around your throat melts into something soft and docile and the burning in your lungs is nearly doused out completely until your finally able to breathe without gasping and choking around your own breath. It's relief, finally. After hours - almost a day of pain and misery.

"You never did say how they managed to get you all caught up." Cooper's voice sounds out again, pulling your focus behind you even while you slip the needle from your flesh and let it drop to the floor. Though, you almost wish that you hadn't started listening in on him, because you can hear the sharp and tearing sound of a blade flaying through meat.

"I was only ever aware of Thatcher. The other's got the jump on me." It's such an awful excuse. You've known that this entire time. But actually, speaking it aloud - admitting it to someone else is entirely different. It tastes rotten on your dry tongue, and you swear you could gag on it.

"Made you look like a fuckin' fool, huh?" You can hear the delight in his tone. It's grating and acidic on your nerves, but you distract yourself with the dry feel of your mouth. It has you remembering faintly the way that the bag had thumped against the floor when you had dropped it, and with some new hope in your chest, you slip a curious hand inside the pack with some strange optimism that there might be some water tucked away inside. Your fingertips brush against something smooth and cool, and your brain distantly registers that it might be glass.

"You don't have to rub it in," you snap, gripping your fingers around what must be the neck of a bottle.

"No. I don't," he agrees, but it's all sarcasm and selfish amusement.

You pause in your current task, a bit of confusion and frustration setting over your face. "You said that you were tracking the Silva Gang. How long were you following us for?"

"Caught up to ya when y'all entered that canyon."

"That was about five miles back," you say with a scowl. Honestly you aren't sure how to take that little revelation, and it has irritation thrumming over your entire body and settling in deep.

"Yeah, it was," he confirms casually, and another wet slice rips across the air before his voice dips into something teasing. "Truthfully, I wanted to see if you'd try and make an escape attempt. Imagine my disappointment when you didn't."

"Asshole," you curse hotly with the rush of anger that flares over you, and you tug at the bottle, but it snags on the clothe lining of the pack, stubbornly staying fixed in its place. The wet sound of Cooper's knife slicing through another chunk of flesh rings out, all damp and soaked with blood. You nearly groan aloud; at your wits end from your dehydration and exasperation, but instead of openly lamenting about or turning your attention onto him, you focus that energy and wiggle the container free from the bag. When you finally work it free, the sound of liquid sloshing against the glass could be considered musical. If your body wasn't already wrung of all of its moisture, you could have drooled. So when your eyes and brain finally realize that the fluid contained in the bottle is a rich, dark amber, nearly brown in the shade, the disappointment that prickles at you and pulls at your limbs nearly feels like it could become a physical thing. Your muscles bunch up with the flaring urge to hurl the bottle across the room and watch it explode in a burst of glass and bronze and gold.

But defeat settles afterwards, dousing out the rage into a faint simmer, and it leaves you to stare at the bottle wordlessly. Your eyes scan over the faded label, probably once a clean, soft white now soiled and stained by years, if not centuries of dirt and grime. The words and artwork that decorated the sticker are now muted and completely incoherent, but you're certain that the liquid inside is a type of alcohol. Most likely a whiskey or bourbon based on the color of it. You shake the bottle lightly, absentmindedly watching as the fluid inside ripples and lulls against the glass, glinting and twinkling in highlights of gold from underneath the dimming sunlight that pours in from the threshold.

"Hey, Coop," you call and dare to look over your shoulder. It's an immediate regret when you see that he's tugged Rocco's pants down and has been slicing of generous strips of the dead man's thigh meat. A large pool of blood surrounds Cooper's feet, staining the tiles in a heavy red that taints the air with iron and fresh death. An inquisitive hum rises from the depths of his chest; a low rumble that seems a little irritated from being disturbed. He flicks off another ribbon of flesh with a quick, practiced glint of a knife and leans a little to place the dripping piece down onto the saddlebags he's sat beside himself; lined up along the rest. "Feel like sharing?"

It's then that he finally bothers to look up at you, forcing his eyes away from his task, and they're quick to gravitate towards the bottle of liquor that you now hold up in the air. You brandish it like he had done with the keys to your handcuffs, and the look that crosses over his face is answer enough.

"Well, shit," he grins, all sharp and a little teasing. "Pull my leg, why dontcha."

It took a little while to move all of the bodies over from the store to one of the rooms in the neighboring motel. Cooper had been able to carry the majority of them like they were a sack of potatoes, but that hadn't kept him from nearly leaving you drag Vulture's corpse all on your own; abandoning you to grip onto the corpse's feet in an effort to drag it across the burning sand. It had taken a good amount of glaring and the threat to leave the body out in the open for him to help you in lug it inside with the others, tossing it on the ratty rust colored carpet for safe keeping. By the time you're both finished up the sun has already dipped low in the sky until it's brushing along the shadowed mountains in the distance while you both tuck away in the adjoining room. Still fully decorated and furnished. Frozen in time from a past that's well beyond you with various pictures of cowboys on ranches and looking over sweeping landscapes from the saddle of their mounts are hanging on walls where the wallpaper is peeling and stained. There's even a landline phone on one of the nightstands and a water damaged Bible tucked away in the drawer.

But the air in here is stale from dust, almost cloying with the scent of mildew even with the glass from the windows blown out, allowing a soft, summery breeze to drift in and circulate throughout the room. It does nothing to chase out the dirt and probably mold. But it all becomes little more than an afterthought with the warm thrum of alcohol simmering through your system, making your fingers and toes feel as though they've been dipped into steaming water. You've only taken a few swigs from the bottle, but it already has the beginnings of a decent buzz stuffing your head. Granted you haven't eaten in quite some time. So it probably isn't a good idea to be drinking in the first place, but you're a little beyond caring right now. All you want to do is relax after the absolute disaster that these last fifteen hours have been. To forget it entirely, even if it's only for the night. Though you didn't manage much more than a few sips of the old alcohol before the burn of it had become too scathing and nearly nauseating, and you've long since passed up to Cooper who's downed the majority of it in nothing more than a few gulps.

A low groan erupts from across the room, drawing your attention over to its origin like a magnet to steel. It's low and raspy, and it has your fingertips curling in on the canteen you have clutched in your grasp, nails burrowing into the thick leather like it might distract you. But it's an awful diversion when your eyes are unable to tear away from where Cooper has slumped himself against the cushioned backrest of the old armchair nestled in the corner. The expression on his face could nearly be described as euphoric - or maybe that's just your own perversion talking. The sunken lids of his eyes are closed and nearly fluttering while he tilts his head back to let the liquor flow down into his waiting mouth. Some of it slips past his lips, trailing down the shape of his jaw to trickle across his throat in a shimmer of faint amber before it vanishes underneath the edge of shirts collar.

The sight of it could have made your mouth run dry, and suddenly you're even more thankful for the canteens of water that you had both managed to find on one of the bodies. It's shameful the way you watch him, and you can feel embarrassment prickle at your face in response. But it's even worse when his eyes open and pin themselves on you as he lowers the bottle away from his lips. There's something knowing in his glance. It's amused and a little too perceptive, making you feel as though you've been caught red handed, and it has a fresh coat of what must be guilt rushing over you. But you don't have any reason to be humiliated. You were just looking at him. You've done it a thousand times; this one wasn't any different.

Still the way that he watches you is stripping, like he's weighing you again and finds what he's discovered entirely entertaining. So when he finally drops his attentions down on the bottle cradled within his palm it makes you feel as though you can breathe clearly again.

"It's been about over two hundred years since I've had some of this," he remarks aloud, shifting the glass in his hand to watch the contents lap and sway inside. "Old Maverick's."

Your eyebrows perk up curiously and you shift slightly in your position settled on the dingy carpet as you consider him. "You can tell what type of whiskey it is? "

He nods just the slightest, letting you know that he's heard you even though he doesn't spare you as much as a glance; too caught up in his own thoughts and reminiscing to bother. "I had an old buddy that used to drink this like water."

You can't hold back the disbelieving huff that rises from your chest at the comment. It's odd, as small as the remark is, for Cooper to make any allusions to his past. He's always been so guarded in what he shares with you - with anyone. Even when he told you that he was an old movie star, he had said it so jokingly that you had assumed he wasn't being serious. That he was pulling your leg to try and make a fool out of you. It wasn't until about a year after he had shared it with you, that you had truly believed him. It was back when you were trying to make a purchase inside of some trader's cabin, staring at the withered face of an old man that was trying to highball you on a pack of ammo. The smarmy grin on his face had made irritation itch down your spine, and the urge to reach out and strike him on the nose had been strong. But it wouldn't have gotten you anything other than kicked out or shot at, so you had slipped your attention off of him and onto the old TV set that sat behind him on the counter. It was playing some vintage grainy film - long before your time when the air wasn't tainted and radioactive, and families sat around a dinner table to eat steaming hot meatloaf and talk about work, and baseball and the quality of their lawns.

It was the man on screen that caught your eye. He was doused under the monochrome hue casted over the film, which projected a deep shadow over his face from the brim of his cowboy hat. Though it had done nothing to dull the quality of the pleasing, dulcet smirk on he wore while he leaned against the wooden support beam of one of those old western styled buildings. A smirk that had been directed at a pretty starlet whose mouth was busy delivering some sarcastic remark at his expense. But it was his eyes that had really struck you. Even though it was impossible to make out their true shade - turned dark under the black and white pigment of the movie - the familiarity of them had given you pause. The snarky trader's rambling had faded into the background while you squinted at the screen across from you, trying to place a man that you weren't even sure that you had ever met before, and the smirk on his lips had grown into a large, mostly one-sided smile. The familiarity of it had your realization hitting you like a ton of bricks, all abrupt and a little disorienting.

He hadn't been joking, or mocking you with the tales of some past, fancy life. He really had been a movie star with his face drawn and printed across newspapers and gossip magazines. He had a mother and a father, friends, a lover. He might have even had a family of his own that dined with him and sat at his dinner table to gossip about baseball and the lushness of their house's front lawn when he wasn't standing behind a silver screen and dressed up as a cowboy. Or a marshal, like he had been in that particular film; hunting down criminals and fighting for the decency and virtue of the Wild West.

It's kind of ironic actually, in a dark and depressing sort of way.

Cooper's attention shoots up to you in the form of a glare from the sound of your amused, disbelieving snicker. You can see the defensive way his muscles coil underneath the cover of his coat, all bunched up like he might jump at you with his teeth exposed in a wicked snarl. "The fuck are you laughin' at?"

You shake your head softly, and you can only hope that you properly show your apology on your face. "Nothing. I just - I'm surprised you had friends, is all."

Luckily, he seems to catch the jest in your tone and the subtle tension that had been there melts back into his casual indifference. "And why's that now?" He asks, angling his chin lower as his expression shifts into something impish and mirthful. "You can't say that you haven't been at least a little bit enthralled by my boyish charm. "

"Boyish? There's nothing "boyish" about you." You nearly laugh again, but this time your reaction doesn't do anything to dull his own amusement. If anything, it seems to amplify it with that way that it seems to dance and glint in his unwavering stare.

"But I am charming?" He says queekily, and the rough ridge of his eyebrows lift with the question. "Come on, I'm sure this ol' ugly mug does something for you."

It always throws you a bit when he gets like this. Playful in a way that isn't violent or sardonic, almost soft - not that'd you ever tell him that. These moments are always few and far between, nestled between the gore and brutality of the Wasteland like something rare and delicate. This is when he lets you see a hint of the man he probably was once before, back when his concern was house payments and landing a role for an upcoming film. It's a type of humor and demeaner that's so different from the venomous delight and selfish sarcasm that he often indulges in, and it never fails to make a melancholic ache gnaw away at the pit of your chest. It's always a painful realization, that he had a life and loved ones at some point. He was a person who loved and was loved in turn, and now it's all gone. Scattered away and volatilized by the consuming rushing plumes of heat, and energy, and pressure. But you couldn't tell him that. Just how much sorrow and regret you feel for him. He'd lash out and bare his teeth. For him it wouldn't be sympathy, it would only be pity, and that's something that a man like Cooper just can't handle.

And you do like feeling the sharpness of his teeth against your skin, just for an entirely different reason.

"And what if it does?" It comes out easily enough, even though it's anything but unsubtle. The tone of your voice is too telling to be considered a joke, and the knowing look that crosses his face lets you know that he's caught onto the insinuation. The dark glint in his eyes is one that you've been pinned under more than once, yet it never fails to make a shiver shoot down the separate ridges of your spine; like an animal that's wandered to close to danger but isn't smart enough to flee. It's gone so quiet that you could probably hear a pin drop with the unhurried atmosphere around you slowing down into a sluggish but striking halt that makes it difficult to believe that the two of you aren't the only people left alive in a world so dead and violent.

"You sure you can handle this tonight?" His tone has taken on the low, graveled sort of edge. It serves as a warning, and it's only amplified with the way that his eyes glimmer from the receding sunlight that trickles in from the window in the shades of an ebbing gold and lavender, shining like the lethal cut of a blade or the barrel of a gun. It makes you feel frozen in place even though something molten licks through your veins and begins to smolder deep in the pit of your stomach. And you know what he's asking you, what he's cautioning you against. He won't be gentle, or sweet, or nice. Cooper is all want and greed. He takes and takes like something starved and gluttonous that's sole purpose is to devour and pick you down to the bone, all flayed open and quivering. But you don't want sweet, you just want him.

You could sit and tell him all the way's that you crave him, and all the things that you need him to do to you as proof of your desires, but you know that Cooper is a man of action and not words. If you really mean to prove to him that you need him to touch you, then you'll have to meet him halfway. It has you lifting yourself from the dingy mattress, making the springs groan and whine as you shift and rise to cross the floor. You could try to be sexy about it, swinging your hips enticingly to draw his attention in a performance, but you don't. He has to know that you're being serious, that this isn't a decision that you're making because of the stress or alcohol, but that it's something genuine and raw.

He watches you like a hawk as you approach, vision fixed to you like he might spring forward and snatch you if you so much as flinch. His fingers run across his thumbs, causing the leather of his glove to creak dully. There's a hunger in his gaze that should make you waver or reconsider your steps, but if anything, it only serves to have a dangerous rush through your body, fueling you with a risky sense of empowerment. It's like a drug almost, having one of the most dangerous men in the Wasteland looking at you like he could rip you apart and piece you back together again, all at once. Like he's going to break you with his tongue and draw blood.

You're close enough now that your knees almost brush along his. When you lift one of your legs to climb onto his lap, he's quick to place the bottle of whisky on the nightstand beside him before settling both of his hands your hips, gently guiding you sit up top him even while his fingertips flex and threaten to bruise your skin. He hasn't broken eye contact with you once, entirely zeroed in on you with the rapt, analyzing sort of focus, like he's trying to notice everything about you at once, searching for a vulnerability to make you malleable and pliant if need be.

You let your hands settle along his shoulders, feeling the smooth but worn leather of his coat underneath your palms, all buttery and warm from the tepid air and the heat of him. Almost as though it has a mind of its own, one of your hands sweep close to his neck and you glide the pad of your thumb across the textured skin peeking out from his button up's collar, all raised and slightly gnarled from radiation exposure. You've always wondered if it ever hurts him to be touched, if the brush of your hands along his skin might sting or prickle. But you suppose that he might be too dopped up to even register the pain that might come with the old burns and damaged nerves. A look of relief always takes over his features when he drinks that pale amber liquid from those chem vials. The chems that keep him from turning Feral; all drugged and dulled as the effects of it course through his body to soothe and suppress those mental and physical ailments. But even with the chemicals in his system, he is still able to feel you. This you know for certain. You've witnesses the influence that your hands have had on him before. You've reveled in how he's pressed into your palm and demanded more while his chest has risen in greedy, panting breaths.

And that's all you want. To see his control slip again while he grips your hair to bare your throat to him so he can scatter more bites along the delicate skin, breaking capillaries underneath the wet suction of his tongue and parting flesh from the pressure of his teeth.

"I know what I'm asking," you answer firmly, fully resting yourself on the support of his lap. "And right now, I'm asking for you to touch me."

A dangerous smirk breaks across his face; the kind that immediately lets you know that you're in for nothing but trouble. He cocks his head when he considers you, eyes glinting underneath the brim of his hat. "But I am touchin' you, sweetheart."

This is another one of the moments where you could probably slap him if you weren't already so taken with the charming mischief dancing in his stare, the honeyed drawl of his voice. It never fails to make you a little weak in the knees, and it's a crack in your armor that he never fails to exploit to the fullest. There's already a dim pang of desperation growing in your chest, but you won't dare to let him know that. It's always a constant push and pull in this little dynamic that you've cultivated with him - a constant state of cat and mouse. And unfortunately for you, you're typically the mouse. But every once in a while, if you play your cards right, you can get his claws to slip just the slightest.

You lean close to him, angling your head just enough to keep from nudging his hat from its perch but also close enough to brush your lips against his. They're rough against your own, rugged from the texture of his skin and a little chapped by the baren, harsh elements just outside the safety of the room. But the shiver that trembles down your spine is far from disgust. It's excitement, clear and burning; thrumming along your nerves like an electrical current. The scent of him only strengthens it, perfumed with the earthy musk of soil and smoky with leather, and there's whisky on his lips, spicy and wooden, and you long to taste it. But you can't be too hasty, not with him poised to strike and sniffing out even a hint of weakness.

You take ahold of the lapels of his coat, running your fingertips over the stitching worked along the edges as you lock your stare with his own. "Come on Coop, do we really have to do this tired routine, again? " You murmur it lowly while leaning in to nip your teeth along his ear, relishing the subtle salt of skin when it washes over your tongue. "Can't we just treat ourselves, and give in?"

The grip on your hips tightens just a bit and you can feel him sweep his thumbs over you, though its agonizingly dull through the material of your pants, making it almost impossible to properly feel the way he caresses you. And then his voice rumbles out with the pleasing lilt, dousing out the tiny flicker of hope near your heart. "Oh, call me old fashioned, but I've always been at the mindset that it's best to take these sorts of things real nice 'n slow."

He wants you to beg. To give in and whine. And pathetically, with the way that one of his hands slips around your front to tease and toy with the button on your jeans, it already has fissures breaking along your sense of restraint. It's such a small touch, but the graze of his knuckles gliding across your skin leaves something blazing in their wake, making kindling out of your bones and threatening to set you on fire. But in your defense, you haven't been in the company of someone in a good while. The last person that you had touched had been him, and that had been all of those five months ago in Junktown, tucked away in some shady back alleyway before you both turned on each other in favor of trying to snatch up the bounty. You had left the dingy passage with your back clawed up from the rough exterior of a building and your knees smarting and stinging, and those little scratches and bruises have long since healed and vanished.

But you don't want to break just yet. You want to try and hold onto those slipping, fraying little pieces of your pride for as long as you can, but this his deft fingertips are popping the button of your pants open and gripping the zipper to tug it down on its tracks with a sharp, metallic hiss. It has your breath catching in your throat, and the oxygen is all but siphoned from your lungs when one of his fingers softly plucks at the elastic band of your underwear. Like he might finally humor you and slip it inside to properly touch you. But that's such a foolish idea.

"You know, I think I've missed you," he muses against your throat. You can feel the vibrations of it softly reverberating along the skin and tendons there, sinking in deep and humming along your blood. "Have ya missed me at all?"

It sounds like such a genuine question, but the tone he's using is entirely too mocking and yet your clouded over brain wishes to give him an authentic response. It's right there on the tip of your tongue, a single, devout yes. But you snap it shut behind your teeth before it can escape. Instead, you settle for a strained maybe, that nearly hurts to say, a bitter half-truth that taste like chemicals and ancient coffee grounds.

"Don't be like that now," he nearly coos, all patronizing and falsely sweet. His face shifts, brushing the rough drag of his lips over the edge of your jaw as his free hand lifts to cradle your chin, guiding you to tilt your head and meet his eyes again. The leather covering his thumb glides over the shape of your bottom lip, while the colorful glimmer of his eyes captivates you and holds you hostage with shimmers of green and amber and rich brown. "I think you did miss me, my little hunter. "

You hate the heat and want that bleeds throughout your limbs and chest and trickles down from your spine to settle between the cradle of your hips. It nearly feels like a type of betrayal, that way that your body longs to give into him so easily, with nothing more than a few calculated touches and some honeyed words. And when he slips his thumb past your lips and into your mouth your mind nearly draws a blank, falling flat and fuzzy like radio static at the smoky taste of old leather. He flashes you that charming, crooked smile, and you're certain that you must look just as dazed as you feel. When you run your tongue along his thumb, brushing it along the stitching and seams, you see something spark in his stare, all starved and restrained like he's trying to keep himself from eating you alive.

"Why don't you get down on your knees and show me just how much you really missed me?"

Those words enter into your brain like a burning bullet splitting through empty air, piercing through the fog and stuffing packed into your skull abruptly. It draws all of your attention onto him, narrowing all of your senses down into a point to latch onto him. Even with the hunger and greed shining through his expression, you can still see a clear sense of patience showing through it all and it grounds you like a stream of warm sunlight cutting through the cover of heavy storm clouds. And despite his words, you know that he's waiting to see if you want to back out. Cooper is a lot of things: a murderer, a cannibal, and easily one of the most underhanded individuals that someone could cross paths with in the Wasteland. But if you uttered the smallest no or showed even the faintest hint of hesitance, then that would be that. You'd be back alone at your place on the bed, and he, sitting across from you while you both catch up on your lost time and exchanged stories and recite the past few of months in words and passing comments. But that's far from what you want right now.

You don't look away from him when you shift and slip down onto the floor, and his eyes trace you hotly when you settle between his spread open thighs and place your palms just above his knees. His warmth radiates through the worn fabric of his pants, soothing and grounding, but what really draws your attention is the familiar shape of his cock making a heavy impression against the hidden zipper. The sight of it alone has your mouth watering, and you swear that you can already taste him, all salt and musk and like a rough velvet against your tongue.

His head tilts and the action has the brim of his hat casting a soft shadow over his sunken eyes. "Get on with it then, it ain't gonna take care of itself," he remarks, a little condescending. His brows perk upward when he speaks, and the rumbling edge that his tone has adopted as anticipation and electricity singeing over your limbs and fingertips. And it has your hands lifting forward like they've been drawn up on a string, all impulse and instinct driving you forward to start working on the buckle of his belt and then the clasp of his gun holster. You're a little impatient when you slip the leather strap through the metal ring, with your movements all a little hurried and the amused huff of laughter that rises from his chest has you openly glaring up at him. The way that he casually meets your scowl nearly feels like some kind of challenge. There's an unsaid taunt in his eyes when you pinch the zipper of his pants between your fingertips and tug it downward over the metallic tracks.

That smug smile is pressing at the corners of his mouth, growing wider and threatening to show teeth when you impatiently tug at his pants, hooking your fingers into the belt loop to try and shift them down his waist. But it's only when you shoot him a pointed, unamused look that he finally lifts his hips to help aid you in your efforts and allows you to drag his pants down around his thighs. It's almost a little surprising when his cock springs from his pants, half-hard and already leaking a few drops of precum. Of course, he isn't wearing any underwear.

You can see another taunt rising up in his expression, probably at the ready to leave his mouth and mock you, and that wicked glint in his eyes is more than enough to have you leaning forward with the desire to finally have him speechless. A challenge for sure, but you're determined. You take ahold of him in the grip of your palm and drop your jaw open to lick up the length of him. He's warm along your tongue, just as textured as the rest of his damaged skin, but it isn't unpleasant in the slightest. The taste of him spills over your palette like salt and a little musky, and the familiarity of it has you eager to take more of him. You hardly give yourself time to adjust to it before you slip the head of his cock past your lips and work more of it down until your nose brushes along his groin, and you can feel the weight of him press along the back of your throat until water threatens to well up in your eyes.

You hear hiss sharply through his teeth over the haze in your skull and the obscene sound of your tongue and mouth gulping around him wetly. His thighs clench and flex underneath your palms, hips twitching like he might already start thrusting until you're gagging around the thickness of him, so it surprises you when he holds himself back. His impulse control is such an unpredictable thing that seems to revolve entirely around his terms. Usually, he's intent on seeking out his pleasure. Not to say that he's entirely selfish - he always makes sure to leave you a breathless, boneless mess, no matter if it's an impromptu quickie behind a random building or an entire night spent on top of the roof of some old, dilapidated diner with the stars scattered above while coyotes cackle and yelp in the distance (that won't be a moment that you forget any time soon). But he's more than a little self-serving, and that often translates into sex. Particularly when getting head, he enjoys fucking your throat until tears are pouring down your face and you have to remind yourself how to breathe.

But he's being gentle, almost - something that you never would have associated with a man like Cooper. Though there's no other way to really describe it when he slips on of his hands over the side of your face, curling his fingers near the nape of your neck and gliding his thumb across the swell of your cheek. It's how you touch something that's delicate; made of porcelain or glass, and it might shatter and crumble if it's handled too harshly. It makes your heart ache and long for something that you weren't even entirely sure that you wanted from him.

Maybe he's sudden display of uncharacteristic sweetness is just his way of extending a sense of control to you after the sorry state that he had found you in, all clinging to air and bloody with a hand around your throat. It's such a simple thing really, but in a world as greedy and stripping as this one - from a man as selfish and ruthless as him, it almost feels a little vulnerable. And maybe it is a little stupid how a simple touch has a tender gash opening inside your chest, and a small barrage of emotion welling up to the surface and threatening to spill out. It doesn't help that you can feel his eyes on you when glide your mouth over him, all heavy and unwavering when you trace the subtle veins that trail across his length with the tip of your tongue. And even with the chaotic torrent of emotions that are trying to bubble up to the surface, you can't help but to delight in the way that his hips twitch and roll upward to meet you when you bob your head down on him.

It's all sort of pathetic. The flurry of admiration and want that pools in the center of your gut and pours downward in rivulets of liquid heat to settle in the apex of your legs, where you're already certain that you're wet. And when you dare to look up, glancing through the tears that blur your vision and cling to your lashes, you have to all but slam a door shut on every single one of those dangerous little feelings, packing them up tight and shoving them deep down when you meet the weight of his stare. His head is leaned back against the back rest of the chair, threatening to nudge his hat from the crown of his head and his lips are already parted to release quiet puffs of air that rise and fall from his chest.

It's dim. Sort of blink and you'll miss it, but you swear that you can nearly catch a kind of glazed over glint to his eyes. Like if he allowed himself, the pleasure could take him apart. It has the warmth smoldering within you fuming into a licking, desperate heat that feels like it could devour you whole. The expression on his face has you mind flatlining into something thoughtless until all you're nothing but impulse and want. You need to see more of that look. To watch the pleasure overcome him until his voice stretches out into rumbling sighs and fucked out swearing.

It has you doubling your efforts. You lift one of your hands to twist it over the girth of him, adding to the stimulation when you lap at the head of cock and take his balls into your free palm. The low, almost strained fuck that you get in response is like a reward, brushing a shiver down your spine like fingertips and you can feel your cunt clench around nothing. It has a whine slipping from your chest, nearly choking you when you take more of him into your mouth and the walls of your throat flex and ripple over the girth obstructing your airway.

A dazed, bewildered moan escapes you when one of his hand grips you from its place around the back of your neck and guides you up until you only have the flat of your tongue against the head of his cock, catching the beads of cum that trickle from the slit.

"Easy there, now," he warns lowly. "Wouldn' want you to hurt yourself, now do we darlin'?"

The saccharine implications of his words and the subtle mocking of his tone has a conflicting set of responses rising in you. A part of you preens underneath his attentions and the other bristles from the taunt. In a small act of defiance, you halt the stroking of your fingertips from his balls and drop your hand entirely from him in favor of slipping it underneath your pants and the elastic band of your underwear. You can't help but to think him for unbuttoning your pants earlier when you nudge them downward until they glide along your clit in tight circles, spreading sparks and heat across your nerves and you mouth drops open even further into a drunk gasp. "Maybe that's what I want," you reply, even though your voice is already a little raw.

"Well, with way you're touchin' yourself from just suckin' dick, I'd say you'd like that," he rumbles softly with that sharp grin on his face. You can see the lust and delight burning in his eyes when you lick against the head of his cock and eagerly swallow the taste of him - too shameless to even register a shred of embarrassment at his taunt. It feels like your body might turn itself inside out when he grips ahold of his length just above your own hand; stroking himself and making the leather of his glove creak lowly when he guides the tip across your lips to smear them with spit and cum like perverted sort of gloss. "Oughtta grab those cuffs you were in earlier. Bind you up nice 'n tight and use you up until there's nothing left. . . If only I could remember where I tossed 'em."

It's disgusting how the thought excites you. It should be abhorrent. Something you should shy away from or openly reject considering that you had just been cuffed and dragged across the desert only a few hours earlier, but it only has something burning and heavy filling up your skull again. It threatens to sweep you under, clouding you mind over like a haze and the scent of him only intensifies it, all earth and dust and leather and salt. It's enough to have your mind twisting up and fraying around the edges until it might become completely useless. It makes it difficult to notice the impression of his hand slipping back around your neck again, digging into the tender flesh of your nape to guide your mouth back onto his cock.

You yield underneath the nudging pressure of his hand easily, allowing it to coax you downward until your throat is flexing and swallowing around his girth; saliva slipping past the suction of your lips to drip and coat him in a way that's entirely filthy. But you welcome and bask in it completely, relishing in how it aids you when you begin to work your hand back over him, syncing it up with the drag and glide of your mouth.

The hinges of your jaw are already beginning to ache a bit, straining from how he stretches your jaw wide to fit between your lips, but you still have absolutely no desire to stop or take a break. You can hardly even focus on the dull throb while you sweep your slick fingertips around your clit, flooding your veins with molten lust and endorphins. And it isn't long until you're rolling your hips against your own hand, and it has you almost completely pulled under, enraptured by the weight of and taste of him in your mouth and the pleasure you have building between your thighs. It makes you completely helpless. All caught up and moaning lowly around his girth when you sweep your tongue along the head of his cock in each upstroke before you glide your head down until he nudges the back of your throat.

"You know, I never did give you permission to start touchin' on yourself like some cheap slut," he comments, all casual and sardonic, but you can still a sweetened edge to his tone. A little too sweet honestly. It would have concerned you if you weren't already hazed over and unbothered, but you should have taken it as a warning, because he's suddenly shoving one of his legs between your thighs and rudely grinding the toes of his boot up between your thighs. The pressure of it crushes against your knuckles and forces you to remove your hand from your pants to try and evade the sting of pain that spreads along your tendons and the back of your hand. It has you split in your reactions, and in your confusion, it has an almost melancholic whimper bubbling from your chest at the loss of your fingertips while you also glare up at him through the blur of tears from you place on the floor. Though, you can't imagine that you seem all that imposing with his dick completely stuffed in your mouth.

The smug grin that he sports is confirming in that little assumption, and the arrogant glint in his eyes has a little trickle of irritation skipping down your back. "Don't worry, now. You've caught me a generous mood," he says, much too composed even when a soft groan rumbles from him at the wet glide of your mouth. "I'll play nice with you; just this once."

And then he's pressing his boot up against the heat of your cunt. Even with the layers of your pants and underwear still secure around your hips, the friction and weight of it against you is exquisite. Your eyes nearly roll back at the feel of it as you get caught up in the fire and burning, liquid honey that scolds and eats at you bones and flesh. The fit of your jeans is loose enough that it has the seam of them dragging along your clit, and it's only amplified by how he nudges the firm leather of his boot against you. It has your hips twitching and rolling over him mindlessly; your body instinctively seeking out pleasure before you have to consciously tell it to.

It all already entirely too much and too little. You can feel the creases in the leather along the top of his boot pressing underneath the material of your clothes, firmly grinding against the wet heat of your cunt in a way that's almost mean. A sob rises in your throat, begging to slip free but the gentle press of his hand on the back of your head keeps you pinned in place as he rolls his hips to work himself into your mouth. It's obscene, the way that you can hear yourself, whimpering and moaning weakly around the ceaseless thrusts of his cock; the sloppy, wet glide of your spit slipping past your lips and tongue.

You should be ashamed of yourself. A bounty hunter reduced to a mess with your knees digging into the dingy carpet while your mouth and hands are full of someone who should only be a rival. A threat to your survival and lively hood. But you know damned well that even if you weren't currently blowing him like you'd been paid for it that you could never bring yourself to see him as such. Cooper - even with as infrequent and unplanned as your interactions always are - has been the only constant in your life. The closest you've ever come to a friend or anything of the like. Everyone else is dead and gone. Killed off by time, circumstance or bad decisions. Ever since that night in the Mojave when you were both strangers with nothing more than the driving force to survive and the need to claim the same bounty there was an intrigue there. A morbid sort of curiosity that comes with leaning over to admire the depth of a canyon and wondering what it might be like to just dive in, and like a glutton for punishment you had been unable to resist the call to it. You had flirted with danger every chance that you had gotten; nearly each time you had crossed paths. He's been a sort of shadow in your life ever since. Always looming in hanging in your peripheral vision, even when he isn't close. Always present, despite being miles and months apart.

Maybe that's why you always end up on your knees or on your back whenever you cross paths with the ghoul. Not that you're complaining. Especially not now with fire searing at the base of your spine and settling deep inside the cradle of your hips. It has your cunt clinching around nothing, begging to be filled while you desperately roll them against Cooper's boot in a fruitless attempt to nudge yourself close to the edge that seems to rise and fall and extend out in front of you with no end in sight. You swear you could sob. And with the dim groans and rumbling breaths that nearly pant out of Cooper's chest he seems to be getting just as worked up as you. But you can feel his cock pulsing along your tongue and his thighs tense and clench, signaling that he's about to reach the precipice that you're helplessly dangling along.

You can hear him whispering over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears; hushed praises and snippets of "that's it - just like that." His head is still lolled back against the rest of the chair, chin tipped upward, and lips parted while his eyes are all lidded and dark and threatening to slip shut while he watches you. It's almost lethal, how gorgeous he looks like this. Just a little glazed over with pleasure, but still coherent enough to have a hint of that smug smile pressing at the corners of his mouth. Despite his viciousness; all jagged, rough edges and scathing sarcasm; gaunt and worn features crafted by the Wasteland, there's a brutal sort of beauty about him. A kind of repartee and charm that you don't find in many anymore, and you can still see a faint reflection of that suave, chivalrous move star in that smile of his. Even if it's just a vague ghost. A faded reflection of something - or someone - who's dead and gone and buried.

You like those old glimpses of Cooper that you've seen. The star that graced the silver screen and entertained and enraptured the masses with his gallant declarations and witty one-liners. That old version of him seemed kind with a sort of virtue and gentleness glinting in his eyes. Something that you're always unable to find reflecting in Cooper's gaze now that centuries of war and violence and bloodshed have carved him into an entirely new being. One that has to fight and tear and kill to survive. But you like this version of him too. Maybe just as much, skeletal features, jagged edges and all. You can't tell him that. Not when you can hardly admit it to yourself. Not when the revelation could tear apart this delicate little friendship that you've curated with him throughout the years.

But you can show him as best as you can. As best as he'll allow. And you'll pretend that every tough of your fingers, the stroke of your palms and the brush of your tongue along the salt of his skin is completely detached, even while it digs and cracks at some pathetic little piece of your soul.

You swivel your tongue along the head of his cock, lapping at the precum that's collected there as your work both of your hands along the base of him. You're desperate to taste him, to feel him pulse in your mouth as that long, guttural groan slips from his throat, and his thighs twitch and shudder. Just the thought of it has your hips working against the firm shape of his boot with even more fervor, shooting electricity throughout you with each grind along your clit. It already has your stomach clenching, muscles seizing up tight in the preparation to squeeze every ounce of ecstasy from your body.

You're both right along the edge, you can feel it. The anticipation of it has that smoldering, debilitating wave rising over you and cresting up higher with every roll of your hips. You can feel him throb in your mouth, only seconds away from coming. It has your body twisting up tight, moaning wantonly around the length of him while you eagerly await the rush of cum to spirt from his cock. But that's when the guiding hand on the back of your hand suddenly grips ahold of your hair, grabbing it tight to use it as leverage to pull your mouth from his length with a nasty pop just as your orgasm sweeps over you like a burst of fire and smoke. It forces you to make eye contact with him while bliss and heat ravages every ounce of you and your mouth drops open in a silent cry.

He doesn't even wait for the bliss and pleasure to subside or for you to get your bearings before he's all but lurching forward with a quickness that's frightening. You just hardly catch the dark, starved glint in his eyes before he's on you and sweeping you up from your place on the floor with a jarring speed. Taking you into his arms as his rough lips meet yours in kiss that's mostly teeth, and then he's backing you up, guiding you towards something that you can't see and nearly dragging you in his urgency while his hands grasp the back of your neck and hip with an iron grip. The ferocity behind it has you moaning, all wanton and depraved when he licks into your mouth, tasting himself and biting at your lips with the ardor of a man possessed. Your hands are everywhere they can reach, sweeping along the expanse of his chest and shoulder, slipping up his neck and knocking his hat free from the crown of his head to land somewhere forgotten on the floor.

He follows you down onto the support of something soft yet firm when the back of your knees hit what must be the edge of the bed, making the old springs squeak and groan in your shared weight. When he speaks next, it's nearly mumbled against your lips, grumbled out between the sharp, starved nips of his teeth. "You're too pretty for your own good," he drawls, breath tasting of whisky and salt. He pulls back just enough to look at you, supporting his hands on either side of your head as he wedges himself between your thighs. "I could just eat you alive." He dips his face into the crook of your neck and biting into the tender flesh there just harshly enough to sting. It's just enough for you to think that he might actually follow through with it and eat you alive; sink his teeth into you while you're vulnerable and dazed to lick your blood from his lips. It should disturb you that you wouldn't really mind it. But then his voice speaks out against your ear, thick and slow like molasses. "I think I'll just settle for fucking you."

That's when he starts shoving your pants down your thighs, shifting back enough to peel them down your legs roughly. When he reaches your boots, he doesn't bother with any sort of finesse or tact, he just starts tugging them from your feet and tossing them like he's being timed for it and is running behind. It has you worried that you might slip from the bed and your fingers sink around the old comforter to try and stay latched on as he finally pulls your underwear and jeans free from you, digging your nails into the stitching sewn into the blanket like it might help you stay put. But he's on you with all of the fervor of a wild animal, eyes blazing even in the dark that's fallen over the room.

You're completely enraptured while you watch him slip two of his fingers between his lips, biting into the tips of his glove to tear the leather from his hand before spitting it out somewhere on the mattress. But even with the entirety of your focus zeroed in on him it still takes you by surprise when he reaches down and swipes his fingers along your cunt, spreading you open to glide one of his knuckles along your clit. It has your back bowing and your mouth dropping open in a silent scream from the pressure of it. You're still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and your nerves feel as though they've been zapped with an electrical current. It has you hissing through your teeth, your breath snagging in your lungs while your body writhes and jerks like it isn't sure if it wants to squirm away or lean closer to his touch.

"You're fuckin' soaking," he gloats openly with a shameless grin.

"Cooper - I don't know if I ca-"

"You can," he insists. His voice is coated with a layer of satisfaction and perhaps even humor, but there's still an edge of patience to it despite the boastfulness. It almost seems like enough to center you, quieting your thoughts down in to dim background noise. But it's the brush of his lips along your own that truly silences everything, drawing you attention onto him when he licks into your mouth, still tasting like whisky. It's almost enough to distract you from the tight circles he draws around your clit, forcing a broken whine from your throat when he replaces his fingertips with his cock, smearing your cum along his length in filthy, teasing glides.

Now you find yourself pulling him forward, slipping your hands around the back of his neck and hooking your legs around his waist to tug him closer even though you're still too sensitive; lit up like a live wire from his touch. It has you gasping into his mouth, nipping your teeth along his bottom lip like you might be the one to eat him alive this time, and the pleased rumbling sigh that rises from his chest feels like a reward all in itself. For a moment everything is all soft. Placid and unrushed despite the frantic, zealous edge to it. Like you've been drawn into a hushed pocket of time. But it's just as dangerous as it is gentle. Begging to lure you into a sense of comfort and adoration that you can't afford to succumb to. An adoration and comfort that you know that a man like the Ghoul will never be able to give- the vicious, maverick creature that he is.

Loyalty in the Wasteland is a liability just as much as it's an advantage. It's the people you cherish the most that cut the deepest. They slow you down and keep you tied. A death sentence for a world so violent. It makes your time with him limited. Always borrowed until the seconds tick down to zero and either one of you slink away until you cross paths again weeks or months later. After tonight you aren't sure when you'll see him next. If you'll ever see him again. There aren't any guarantees in this life, and at any moment your days could be cut short. A single bad decision or one bad move and your breath could be snuffed out like a weak fire on a short wick. You aren't sure how much longer you have left, but here and now it's safe to pretend that there's more waiting for you. That he won't slip away into the night as soon as the rush has worn off and the tension has ebbed from your bodies.

It's the drag of his cock slipping over you harshly that snags you from the chaotic scatter of your thoughts, forcing your attention to snap onto him abruptly. The look in his eyes fixes your focus onto him like it's magnetized. There's a weight and fervor burning in them that leaves you completely breathless, pinned underneath his gaze and left malleable and wanting. But the smug, calculating glimmer to it should have tipped you off that he's planning something, because it's the only warning you get before he's notching the head of his cock at the entrance of your cunt and shoving himself into you in a single thrust.

Your jaw drops in a silent cry as your walls stretch to accommodate him. Your hands scramble for purchase, clawing and clinging to the leather of his coat, slicing along the material and probably leaving visible marks along the tanned hide while you try to hold on and survive the wild pace that he's set. He's driving into you with a sort of ardor that already has your back bowing, driving his cock into you with debilitating strokes that punch the air from your lungs each time he bottoms out. You feel like you've been set on fire, all tingling, burning nerves and electricity rippling up your spine while he splits you open on his length.

It's stupid how easily he always reduces your mind to a useless pile of mush. But no matter how many times you wind up underneath him or on top of him, he always manages to strip you down to your basest levels. And the way that a bout of low, guttural groans slips from him with each thrust has you squirming even more, meeting his rhythm with the roll of your hips. You feel the sound of him more than you hear him with his breath puffing against the crook of your neck and reverberating along your chest as he mouths along your throat with the sharp scrape of his teeth and the soft brushes of his tongue. The sounds echo along the room are filthy, filled with the sharp, repetitive squeak of the mattress's springs and the wet slap of skin on skin. It's all a little filthy. The unrestrained way that he fucks into you, the tender bruises that he's leaving along your neck - like he's trying to leave his claim on you. Like he wants to carve a place for himself inside of you that no one else will ever be able to fill. Making you a wreck and mess just for him.

The buckle of his belt has become pinned between both of your bodies, and the chilled brass and silver rubs against your clit with each and every thrust. But it's the bumps on the plating that really make you twitch, almost forcing your body to tighten and clench around his girth with each deep drag. It has you gasping in seconds, clinging to his shoulders like the support of them underneath your palms might save you.

Sharp, warbling moans split across the air, and it takes your sluggish brain a few moments to register that it's your own voice that's whining and sobbing. You can feel your lips moving, the shift of your tongue in your mouth but you can hardly comprehend what you're even saying. It could be anything from rambling pleas to cries of Cooper's name, but you can't be entirely sure. Not when your body is already coiling up tight, muscle seizing and your abdomen bunching up while that familiar surge of smoke, and fire, and ecstasy rises up to take you over and apart.

It has you entirely conflicted, mourning the thought of already reaching the end and what might happen afterwards, but your body also craves the release. It has you staring up at the ceiling while you cling to him, darting your vision along the cotton webs and dust that sticks to the surface like it might stave of the wave of bliss that threatens to pour over you. But he must be able to tell that you're resisting somehow, because of course he can.

He nudges his head back from its place along your throat, and his bare hand rises to grip your face between his fingers. Stroking along your chin and your lips as he stares into your lidden eyes with a sharp grin. "Come on now, sweet girl, what'er you holdin' back for?"

It almost sounds rhetorical in your dazed out state, but honestly, you couldn't answer him properly even if you wanted to. The way that he pistons himself in and out of you gives you no breathing room to form a coherent sentence or even so much as a word. Your tongue is useless in your mouth, and it leaves every little motion that you make nothing more than instinctual. Driven by pure impulse and bodily desire as you scratch your nails along his back and cry out into the dark. And it's now that you realize that you are indeed saying his name. Whispering it out brokenly alongside wild, broken cries of rapture.

One particular thrust from him brushes along that devastating spot inside of you and it has your spine arching in almost painfully and you toss your head back with a noise that's close to a sob. Like a feral animal drawn to a weakness, he's unable to resist the exposed collum of your throat and suddenly you can feel the wet, hot heat of his tongue laving along your neck. No doubt feeling the scattered thrum of your pulse and blood beating wildly and coursing throughout the veins underneath your tender skin. The damp drag of it continues upward until glides up to the edge of your jaw where he nips and bites with his teeth like he might sink them in deep and gulp down the rivulets of red that would pour from the wound.

"I can feel you fuckin' squeezin' me," he groans raggedly, now staring into your eyes. His glimmer faintly in the final scraps of light that trickle in from the twilight. Searing and gleaming like the vision of some sort of otherworldly entity that's come to take you in the night and drink you of all of your vigor and affections; leaving him incomparable to anyone else who may touch you.

You try hard to bite back the scathing fire that's ripping across your nerves and atoms like something molten and consuming, but your body is yielding to it despite that fact that you don't want to give in yet. You don't want this moment to end. You aren't ready for the quiet that may come afterwards. The way that you'll have to pretend to be indifferent and unaffected when he begins to buckle his belt and holster before he disappears into the dark. And you'll be left to wonder if he's alive or hurt as he trudges across the barren earth in search of the thrill of a fight, and the gore-soaked glory that comes with it. But even with all of your fears and anxieties looming in the back of your mind like unwelcome phantoms it's too difficult to stave off the bliss scorching at your flesh and rushing alongside your blood. Not when he's holding you so closely, and the scent of him hands heavy in the air like leather and rich soil. Not while he's still holding your face in a grip that could almost be taken as soft with the sensation of his bare palm cradled against your skin. It's warm and intimate.

You can hardly see him anymore with the final traces of the sunlight having finally wanned behind the distant mountains, but you can still make out his silhouette above you. You can still feel him, firm and real and present; you can hear his breath and words in the hushed, heavy atmosphere. It's such small things. Little minute details that hurtle you closer to the end. It makes you latch on to him with even more fervor, hitching your legs around him tightly and digging the heels of your feet into his lower back.

"Quit holdin' yourself back," he it urges in a snarl against your lips like a devout prayer, like an addict asking for absolution or another fix, and the hot coil in your gut burns hotter. "Let me fuckin' feel you. Just let go for me - you can let go."

That's all it takes for the band to snap and the waves to crash down on you in an unforgiving torrent. Everything in your winds up tight simultaneously as a rush of an almost violent sort of euphoria tears throughout you and leaves your lungs gasping for even a shred of oxygen. You're certain that you might be screaming. Your throat feels raw enough. But it's difficult to make sense of anything while stars dance across your vision in a flurry of burning white like you've gone lightheaded and might faint. And you might would have if not for the support of the ragged mattress underneath you or the grounding weight of Cooper above you, still driving himself deep inside you with heavy, practiced strokes as he chases after his own release.

The aftershocks of you twitch throughout your body, forcing weak sobs from your empty lungs as the pleasure melts back into that electrical sort of overstimulation. It makes you weakly lift up your head to bite into the leather draped over his shoulder as your body bears down on the girth of his cock to wring out his pleasure. And the ragged string of curses and loud, guttural groan that breaks out across the room is quickly followed by the flood of warmth that spreads throughout your cunt, stuffing you with his cum with a few more uncoordinated thrusts before he collapses on top of you.

The hush that falls over the room is almost jarring now- a complete juxtaposition to the desperate pleads and blissful sighs that had filled the space just moments before. You can still smell the scent of sex in the air, all tangled up with the fragrance of tobacco and leather that always clings to him like a kind of cologne. It seems so bittersweet now. And when he pulls out of you - the both of you hissing lowly from the sensitivity that it brings - you expect to hear the familiar metallic chime of him slipping his belt through its buckle so that he can right himself to leave.

But he doesn't do that.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he huffs and rolls over onto his back with a ragged groan, situating himself next to you before he curls one of his arms around you to guide you to lay alongside him. Your head is cradled along his chest, allowing you to listen to the wild, steady thrum of his heart raging underneath all the blood and bone while you both pant and collect yourselves. It brings a comfort and fondness to you that you still know is stupid to entertain, but it's so damn easy to give into. Everything with Cooper is always so damn easy with him even though he's as difficult as they come. And you suppose that's what's made you so helplessly stuck on him. How easily you've been lulled into this relationship with him, this cat and mouse game; the constant, simultaneous state of both confidant and rival. It's isolating and welcoming all at once. Despite being such an infrequent presence in your life, he's also managed to become such a permanent fixture as well. The mere thought of his absence always leaves you completely lost, and you aren't sure how to deal with that.

"You should try and get some shut eye," he mumbles, and you swear that you can feel the brush of his lips against your forehead, much too gentle and delicate for a man so rough. It has a smile threatening to break across your face and suddenly you're thankful for the darkness, and the cover it provides. The last thing you need is for him to taunt you for going soft, even though you certainly could do the same to him with the way that he's got you curled against his chest. But for once you don't have the urge to ruin with moment with sarcastic quips or well-meaning insults. You want to stay here forever. Even though you know it's impossible to remain paused in this moment with the delicate, cooling desert air gliding into the room to brush along your bare skin like a lover's fingertips.

For once in this hellscape, everything is quiet. Intimate and peaceful. But just like always it's all on borrowed time. And come a few minutes or maybe hours, if you're lucky, Cooper will lift himself from the old bed and slip into the dark to claim whatever poor soul manages to catch his eye. But here and now, you can play pretend. You can imagine that when you wake up in the morning, while the horizon is blossoming with the golden hue of the dawn, that he'll still be here to greet you with that honeyed drawl. It's a fool's dream. But dream you do.

#the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #cooper howard smut #the ghoul x you #cooper howard #fallout x reader #fallout

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halaboyz · 20 days

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did you like her in the morning?, yunho

ateez bf! yunho x fem! reader angst angst angst angst (pre-breakup) wc: 1.5k warnings: desperation idk, mentions of cheating, a whole lot of cursing, mention of k-word and d-word for the sake of the argument a/n: you voted for him YOU GOT IT ! this has two POVs, the other one (the actual arranged marriage) is still in the works ! i think this hurts more idk !!! don't ask me ,, i alternately use jeong and yunho in the dialogues bc "jeong!!" feels a little bit more powerful and "yunho" seemed soft so don't bash my head for that !!

"...Can we talk?" Yunho calls over the phone a few minutes of silence after the line got connected. He sounded awfully serious, yet so soft-spoken.

"Of course, Love. What time do you get home?" You coo, staying calm amidst the anxiety building up. "I've also got groceries I just picked up to cook so if you want to eat something, tell me,"

"No, y/n. I meant now. Can we talk now?" You hear him sigh, and you could make out in your head that he was slightly shaking his head and massaging his forehead.

"Okay, since you seem so head-straight about it. What is it?" You surrender, putting your groceries down and sitting on the couch. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. We just need to talk," Yunho quickly shuts you down, as if he was in a rush to let everything out. "I... I'm not going home."

"..Okay? We'll see each other tomorrow night though, right?"

"No, I meant I'm not going home. Anymore." And silence. It wasn't even supported with any explanation. Any kind, any type. As if you were just to accept what he's saying.

"What do you mean, Yunho?"

"I'm not going to go home anymore, y/n. Not anymore." It was that simple. It was just like that. Told like news, and he wasn't even fazed while you were nearly on your knees to understand.

"Love, I don't understand. What do you mean you're not coming home? Hmm?" Your voice wavered as you begged for him to say something.

"I'm not going home anymore, y/n. What's so hard to understand?" He exasperatingly replies, making you furrow your brows.

"I asked what you fucking meant! Make me understand, Yunho! You can't just drop a bomb like this and act like I'm the dumb one here!" You exclaim through the phone, jumping on your feet and then going back and forth the living room and the front door. "I know we're not getting along the past few weeks but god, Yunho. Let's at least work it out,"

"I'm getting engaged, y/n." You wait. You wait, and wait, and wait. For further excuses. Further explanations. Anything. If you thought that the words 'I'm not going home anymore,' was a bomb, this was self-destruction. You shouldn't have asked, huh?

But when it was followed with nothing but silence and his sighs, you scoff in disbelief.

"...That's it?" You just... held on. He was being ridiculously funny that an insignificant, lifeless laugh comes out of you.

"Dad set us up."

"So, that's it?" You reply quickly when all he does was take his time sculpting an acceptable answer, but he was greatly failing at it. So when you replied that quickly, he doesn't try anymore. "Come home, Yunho."

"No, y/n."

"Come home and fucking explain looking at me in the eyes, Yunho. I'm not going to make any engagement happen if you're not going to come home, Jeong. So come home if you really want that and, end us. I'll even pack your things with my own two fucking hands," And you were stern. Yet you mean the other way around.

Just to prove something, you don't want him to come home. So that no engagement was going to happen in your territory. As you end the call in a hurry, you fall down to your knees as you sob, it was better to sob all by yourself than have Yunho standing in front of you in minutes, hours...

To which he is.

As you were hugging your knees, unable to move from your place on the floor leaning on the couch, you hear your front door opening to your horror.

Yunho, standing tall and mighty before you, as if he even dropped everything just to come home. To come home and end everything; to come home and ruin you.

He stared right at you, love long left his eyes. It was clear through your teary eyes, and it wasn't as hard for him to let go as it was with you.

"You want to leave so bad you really came home, huh?" A chuckle of some sort leaves your lips, wiping your tears.

"Are we going to make things hard for the both of us, y/n?" He starts, and he doesn't break eye contact as he slowly steps closer to you. Close enough to hear him better, far enough not to reach him to hold him back.

"It's not hard for me though, Yunho." You say out, coming as a whisper that shakes. "It's not hard for me holding on to you, Yunho. I've loved you all these years and we've had rough patches too, but it was never hard for me to always, always choose you."

You've come to think Yunho's silence was a tinge of hesitation, or so you hope. Because Yunho doesn't respond.

"You don't look like you're having a hard time too, only that we meant totally different things." You chuckle lifelessly, sniffing. "You don't look like you're having a hard time letting go of the woman you dated for five years."

"Y/n. Stop it. It wasn't an easy decision,"

"Wasn't an easy decision, for whom, Jeong?!" You've risen up to your feet to step closer to him and have him a good look of your disheveled appearance. "You're twenty-five for fuck's sake! Would your dad kill you if you went against him for once?!"

Your pushes were harsh and so you wanted it to be painful as well. But god you wished these number of pushes that hurt him amounted to the pain you were also carrying.

"Would you die if you fought for us once, Jeong?!" Yunho tries grabbing your arms but you only broke away. "You gave them the right of the decision, but how about me, Jeong?! How about me?! Am I invisible or something?! Because for all I know, I'm still fucking here!" Falling to your demise as your knees hit the floor once again.

And Yunho just watches.

"...I'm still here, Yunho..." Your hands grab his index finger ever so desperately to hold on to him. It was like hanging to your life. Because everyone knows he was your life. He was someone you'd choose a hundred times over, return to earth for, and die a million times for.

Yet he can't do anything for you. He can't fight for you, he can't stay for you, he can't.

"I wish you'd fight for us like how I do, Yunho..." You sob helplessly, leaning your forehead into his hand that you held.

Yunho watches. Just watches. You had no idea how he felt, or what he was thinking. You don't even get to think about that. You were overwhelmed with your own, so how could you even think of him now?

"We were meant to end this way or that way, y/n," Yunho mumbles, head turning to his side to avoid looking at you.

"...So you took the way you'd ruin me best," You nod unknowingly, hands slowly slipping away from his finger. "Okay."

Yunho looks at you, and how your hands slowly dropped.

"Leave." It barely leaves your lips. You don't want him to, of course, but you were done.

You were done fighting for someone who can't do the same for you. You were done holding on to something you're only slipping away on.

With courage, you meet his eyes once again as you stretch your neck up in dejection. And for the first time when Yunho step inside your shared apartment, you saw emotion in his eyes.

That is, of empathy.

He looked at you as if you were such a pitiful thing, in denial of what he made you.

In ruins. Who was taking each of her broken parts and hugging it all in desperation to keep it and everything together.

He made you like that. And now was he thinking that this is the reason why he took the easy way out.

Because if you took much longer to stay, to find more reasons to love each other, and someday just find you or Yunho in this position of yours, in despair, in shambles, and probably much even worse, he'll take the easy way out. He always will.

And you didn't deserve that now, nor will you ever.

"Leave," So you glue all your broken parts and glare at the man you loved, you once ever so loved, stern in tone and harsh in glare. "And like I said, I'll even pack all of your things for you. So leave, Jeong."

You may or may not have, still, prayed for him to stay. For the last one.

But when he doesn't, and your met with his back scrambling to the front door and closing it, you can't help another surge of tears flow as your broken parts get much more broken than it was before.

So much for gluing it back together for a mere thirty seconds.

He left in thirty seconds.

permanent taglist: @sunlightwoo

networks: @kflixnet

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httpsryu · 8 months

Text

muse? pt. 3

pairing: kang haerin x fem newjeans!reader

summary: getting a new member way long after debut and before a comeback isn't really the best idea to haerin

category: enemies-to-lovers (?), kpop idol au

genre: slow burn, angst, and fluff

warnings: a bit frustrating and A LOT of jealousy

a/n: i appreciate all the love muse has gotten so far! tysm everyone :) pt.1 and pt.2 of muse

The second the leader entered the dorm with the rest of the girls behind her, she feels a sense of energy being off at the sight of seeing you sitting on the couch in the living room.

"Is Haerin not keeping you company?" Minji asks, setting down the food and cake on the countertop.

You look up from your phone, startled while wondering what time the others have gotten back. You let out a half smile, shaking your head.

"She did keep me company." You lie.

Great; the first day and you're already lying for the sake of someone who probably and surely doesn't even like you.

"I'll go call her to help set up." Danielle announces with a gentle smile, rushing towards the end of the hall where Haerin's and your room sat.

Minji hums with a nod, looking over at you with concern. She's worried that you're regretting the decision to come over here from SM.

"Y/N! Which hat do you like on me?" Hanni breaks the weird atmosphere, holding up a princess crown and a bear headband with a bright smile, scrunching her nose.

You let out a small giggle at how adorable your member is. Getting up from the couch, you walk to where Hanni is and tilts your head while thinking. Eyes constantly darting back and fourth between the two options before catching the other choices in the bag next to Hanni.

"You're so cute, Y/N!" Hanni scrunches her nose at how cute you look trying to concentrate.

"I think this one seems to match you well." You reach for the bunny ears in the bag, holding it up next to the Vietnamese with a content smile at how well it resembled her.

Hanni smiles, showing her gums as she grabbed it. "If Y/N says it matches me, I'll wear it."

"Minji unnie matches this bear headband." You speak with a small smile, handing it to the oldest who is checking off a few things to make the best welcome party.

The leader feels her ears flushed from you calling her 'unnie', grabbing the headband from you and clearing her throat afterwards. "Thank you, Y/N."

"Oh get up woman!" Hyein exclaims, making Minji choke back on her saliva before turning over to you. "Unnie, pick one out for me too!"

Strange.

You turn to the youngest, letting out a hum as you take a look at the remaining options. Before you could make a choice, Danielle emerges out from the hallway while dragging a lifeless Haerin along with her.

"Did we miss anything?" Danielle asks, noticing how Minji and Hanni have headbands on and seeing you look so cute focusing on what to pick for Hyein.

Hanni can only giggle in response. "My Y/N picked out my headband for me."

Haerin snaps her head at the 'my'.

MY?

The youngest excitedly nods. "And you should've seen how red Mi-"

"-Hyein-ah?" Minji glares, having the youngest exert a low pout on her lips.

The other Australian releases her grip from Haerin before prancing over to you too. "Omg!!! Could you pick one out for me too?"

The cat-eyed female could once again scoff and roll her eyes at how her members are acting right now.

What a joke, really.

The feline-like female can only watch with a bitter taste in her mouth as the other girls are fighting for your attention on helping them choose out a stupid accessory (besides minji who's still a bit flustered and taken aback from you calling her 'unnie').

"Let's start making the desserts and prepare the food!" Danielle suggests, having the others nod in agreement after all of them got assigned a headband from you. "That way, when we're finished eating, we can all have a sweet treat!"

Hanni gently held both of your shoulders from behind, motioning you to sit comfortably at the couch while promising that she'll make something delicious for you.

"Haerin, will you keep Y/N company?" Minji sternly commends.

The introvert could only hum with a small nod. What other option does she have?

Apparently, the cat-eyed female who thought others having you pick out a stupid accessory all of a sudden had a change of heart because she's already making her way to where the bag of party favors all sit in. She quickly turns around to take a peek at you, noticing that you, the person that they're throwing the party for doesn't have an accessory.

Looking down at a few options, the cat-eyed female grabs one.

"It matches you."

You blink a few times at the sight in front of you. Blankly looking at the hand, which is handing you a princess tiara.

Are you hearing her correctly? What happened to the Haerin earlier?

"Are you going to take it or just sit and stare at it?" The female who is barely older than you monotonously asks.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes all the way to the back of your head, you grab it from her. Getting startled at the touch both yours and hers fingers had. Coughing to get rid of the weird air, you put on the tiara.

"Oh-you have some hair-"

"-Where? Here?"

"-No, a little more to your left-no, it's-I got it." The other leans down to fix the piece of hair standing out from you and putting it behind your ear. She stares at you afterwards, you and her make eye contact prompting her to back away.

Rubbing the back of her neck, she motions over to the bag of party favors. "You're not going to pick one out for me?"

"Huh? Oh, I can if you want me to."

From afar, Hyein is trying her best to hold back Hanni from barging over. "Do something! She's trying to make moves on my Y/N!"

"Haerin does like pretty girls." Danielle could only say, laughing at how Hanni is overreacting.

Haerin awkwardly sits away from you on the other side of the couch, a space evident between you two.

Her hands are laying on her lap as she attempts to concentrate on the screen in front of the both of you. She still can't believe you're 100% on board with debuting as a member of NewJeans.

What could this mean for her though? Could there be possibly a concept change last minute for the comeback all because of a newcomer? How will this affect NewJeans positively? When will ADOR announce to Bunnies that they're debuting a new sixth member after releasing countless of hits.

Haerin can admit you're pretty, yes. She's certainly not blind. However, everything just feels like an irrational choice. She's not happy with Min Hee Jin's decisions this time.

She wants to ask you why you chose to be apart of a rash choice.

"Y/N unnie!" Hyein runs out from the kitchen, scurrying over to sit right next to you, leading you to sit a bit closer to Haerin. "I think you're really cool."

The feline-like female furrows her eyebrows, wondering why the other girls are perfectly fine with this. She furrows her brows even more when seeing your eyes crinkle brightly, a perfect smile that could make anyone caught in your charms.

"Oh, Hyeinnie, I think you're more cooler than me." You gently say back to her.

The big baby shakes her head. "Min Hee Jin told us earlier that you've been a trainee since you were 6, is that true?"

6? Haerin can feel how tense you've gotten at the subject.

"Haha. I was casted at 5 and was wary about the idea. But they kept casting me til I finally gave in." You managed to say without sounding too exhausted about your now previous company, the place you grew up to as home.

Hyein nods, interested in your early life. "I see. I can understand why they kept casting you, you look like a star, Y/N unnie."

Oh please. Haerin wants to snort at the nonsense. A star can dance to a whole choreography without messing up every damn 5 seconds.

"Say that for today." Haerin mumbles under her breath lowly, enough for only her to hear.

"Hyein-ah! Quit bothering Y/N and help us set up the table for dinner!" Hanni yells from the kitchen, resulting in the giant baby to groan loudly in agony before getting up from where she sat.

Haerin laughs at Hyein's antics, shaking her head at the oldest's scolding.

You smile a bit at the feline-like female's laughter. Ever since you've gotten here this morning, it seems like Haerin has been in a weird mood and just doesn't like to smile. At least around you, that is.

"She's cute when she smiles." You "think" to yourself, returning back at the screen.

The female besides you quickly turns to look at you, meeting with your side profile instead.

Did you mean to say that out loud?

Haerin feels the back of her neck burning up at those words, she gulps not wanting to take any meaning into it before slightly shaking her head and going back to look at the same screen you were looking at.

Haerin isn't like the other girls; she won't let a pretty girl get to her like that. She's standing her ground on why you being apart of this team is such a bad idea.

Right? RIGHT!

Just in time, the other members finally got done preparing the food.

"Alright! Time to eat!" Danielle loudly exclaims, walking in carefully with a big pot of wonton soup (the other girls totally didn't search up your favorite foods) for this party.

You immediately stand up from your spot, wanting to rush over to help the Australian.

"Oh no! Sit down Y/N, you're our special princess." Danielle brightly smiles, setting down the pot on a thick coaster. "Rin, could you help Hanni out back in the kitchen?"

Haerin tenses, looking at her best friend with a bothered expression at the idea of having to do stuff FOR you. Prompting the Australian to mouth the word 'please' with her adorable puppy eyes, leaving Haerin to sigh and get off from her seat.

"Y/N-ah! You look so pretty with this crown." Danielle turns her eyes back to you, looking at you with immediate affection.

You smile back at the other, eye-smile crinkling. "Thanks, Jihye unnie."

The older can't help but to gasp again at you calling her 'unnie' with that cute eye-smile. Oh, how she understands what Hanni is talking about now. (you're very real).

"Hey! Bro! Bro! Back off my Y/N!" Hanni glares at her fellow Australian mate, with Haerin clenching her hands tightly around the soda bottles at the word 'my'. "I wont hesitate to throw these cups at you!"

The 05' just purses her lips while shaking her head, grabbing the cups from Hanni.

"Bro, I can hear your voice from the kitchen." Minji tiredly says, emerging out from the kitchen with another big pot of spicy rice cakes and Hyein accompanying her with bowls and plates. "Tone it down a notch before you scare our new member away."

New member. That word makes you happy.

On the other hand, the irritation that Haerin always keeps feeling is creeping at her head.

New member. Oh, how she wishes it wasn't true.

Seeing your new team all enjoy their food, you can't help but to smile gently at them all (not haerin though, she made you mad by not handing you a pair of chopsticks even though you asked).

"You know how we planned to eat desserts after?" Hanni yawns, stretching out her arms. "I'm too full and tired to."

The others nod in agreement.

"Okay. Let's pack them and take them with us to our schedule tomorrow." Minji suggests, darting her eyes between Haerin and you.

The Vietnamese knows the tricks up her friend's sleeves. "Last one to touch their nose has to clean up these dishes and pack the cookies away!"

Everyone INSTANTLY touch their noses, you and Hanni both being the last ones.

"Ahh~ I get to be with my Y/N!" Hanni jumps up in excitement, knowing she lost on purpose (she couldn't help herself)

There it goes again; the way Haerin's jaw clenches at 'my Y/N'.

And for some strange reason, she hates to be around you, yet alone stand near you. And yet, she likes to be near you. Like now, while the others fought over who got to sit next to you during dinner, the cat eyed female silently walks over to you, taking the spot everyone seems to only care about.

But it doesn't make any sense for Haerin and what she's about to do.

"I'll help Y/N clean and put away the cookies." She monotonously says. "After all, she is my roommate."

Minji pleasantly smiles at the feline-resmebling female, nodding. "Great, that works out then."

"Wait! No!" Hanni argues, standing up from the ground with her hands in fists. "I lost though?"

Hyein yawns, stretching out her arms. "Just let Haerin do it, it makes sense anyways. Aren't you tired anyways?"

"Yeah. Bro." Minji teases, sticking out her tongue at the younger.

Hanni dramatically "fumes", her nostrils flaring in anger. "Dani, hold me back before I do something regretful."

"Let's start cleaning up before something breaks like last time." Haerin gets up, collecting the pile of plates.

You blink, processing what your member just said. Break? Last time?

"We don't have all night." The other said from where she's standing, peering behind her shoulder to look back at you with an annoyed expression.

You can't help but to silently sigh, grabbing the rest of the plates and cups and shortly following the cat eyed girl into the kitchen.

"Just leave them on the counter." Haerin shortly says, turning the sink on.

You shake your head. "We're supposed to be working together?"

"Y/N! Haerin! We're going to get ready for bed now." Hanni yells from the other room.

"Don't forget! We have to wake up at 5 today for the reshoot!" Minji also yells.

Getting up at 5AM to do a reshoot on the concept photos rubbed Haerin in the wrong way. Why does she have to suffer her precious sleep for a stranger?

You notice how loud Haerin has gotten when it comes to the dishes all floating in the sink, causing all sorts of clatters and ruckus.

"Everything okay over there?" You ask, coming over to help her with drying the dishes.

Haerin tenses up, feeling anger creep up her neck. "Just back off, okay? I got this."

"I just wanted to help you?"

The feline-like female scoffs, inhaling and exhaling deeply. "I don't need your help."

"What's your problem?" You fume, looking at the plate in the other's hand.

Haerin shrugs, rinsing off the plate and placing it aside for her to dry later with a wipe cloth.

"Oh. I get it. You're still mad that I messed up during today's practice."

Haerin rolls her eyes, knowing you at least got one thing right today and it was the fact that yes, you did mess up and yes, Haerin did get upset about it. She is not going to sit here and watch you jeopardize her career that she's worked so HARD for. No, Haerin was not going to let that happen.

"Pack the cookies up." She unemotionally says, continuing to rinse the remaining plates trying to not let her anger take the best of her.

Not wanting to pick a fight, you obliged and went over to where the tray of cookies sat on the kitchen's island. Opening the container sitting besides them, you placed the heart-shaped cookies into it with a soft smile at how thankful you are for the members.

"Try not to screw it up for the rest of us during the reshoot, yeah?" Haerin dries the last plate up and places them in the cabinet. "I'm getting ready for bed, close the lights out after."

What the hell was that about?

Most importantly, what the fuck is up Haerin's ass for her to be so mean and rude all the time.

"I should've never left SM..." You couldn't help but to quietly mumble under your breath, regrets are finally sinking in to you.

"I wonder how Y/N unnie is going to look in the outfits." Hyein jumps up in excitement upon arriving to yours, Minji's and Danielle's dressing room.

Hanni nods in agreement. "I still can't believe they put me with you two and not them."

"Excuse me?" The youngest whips her head in instant speed, looking offended. "It's bad enough I have to share a room with you, you think I want to paired up with you, Hanni unnie?"

Haerin sighs, knocking on the door of the dressing room.

"Coming!" Danielle says from the other side, opening the door slightly and letting out a cute noise before widening the door to let her members in. "You guys look so good!"

Haerin smiles softly in response, linking her arm with Australian.

"Where's my Y/Nnnie?" Hanni walks in, scanning the room before taking a seat down on the couch.

Not that word again.

"She left real quick to get a drink with Minji unnie." Danielle replies, dragging Haerin with her to sit down on the couch in the dressing room. "But omg guys! She looks super pretty. Like she was already pretty when she first arrived, right? But after her hair got done, her makeup and her fit of clothing, AHH she looks amazing!"

The Vietnamese smirks, looking at the other Aussie. "Sounds like Jihye has a crush?"

"What? No." Danielle flat out denies.

However, Haerin stares at her best friend, confused as to why her face is suddenly all flushed bright pink.

"You sure?" Hyein asks, wondering about the actual truth. "Because if you do, you have two other girls fighting for her attention."

Danielle gasps, covering her mouth. "Omg, whoo?"

"Me!" Hanni retorts, rolling her eyes.

"And Minji unnie."

Haerin cannot believe it. She really absolutely can't.

'What are they on about?' Haerin cannot help but to think to herself.

"Whether you guys have a crush or not, we're a team so nothing is going to happen anyways." Haerin breaks the slight argue, unlocking her phone to interact with 'Bunnies'.

"Okay, whatever." Hanni replies, rolling her eyes again at the younger's 'nerd' talk.

A knock on the door leads the other four girls startled, wondering who it is.

"Hey Dani, we're back." Minji announces from outside.

Danielle quickly fixes her hair, releasing her arm from her best friend's, she gets up with a slight prance. Clearing her throat before opening the door.

"You guys took so long, I was starting to miss you." She frowns with a pout, earning a small giggle from you.

Haerin turns her head at the sound from you, she feels like she suddenly can't breathe at your appearance.

Dani was right.

"Y/N unnie! You look so pretty!" Hyein jumps up, darting towards you, Minji and Danielle.

Seeing Hyein, you smile and wave at her. Darting your eyes to the other two members sitting on the couch, Hanni waves back with a wink while Haerin stares at you before looking back down at her phone.

You conclude that the member is an iPad baby.

"Y/N, this bow matches you so well!" Danielle said, for what seems like the 6th time today.

She tries to look occupied with her phone but her eyes are constantly staring down at the way Minji's arms is linked with yours and how Danielle is fixing the cute bow in your hair.

"Are you excited for the concept photos, unnie?" Hyein asks, leaving you wide-eyes at the sudden question.

You start to walk, to take a seat and everyone follows you, wanting to know your answer. Most importantly, they want to know how you feel about being apart of the team, on the second day.

Something naturally must be pulling you close to Haerin, because somehow, sitting besides her just feels right, even if the both of you haven't come to terms yet with one another.

Haerin feels her body tense at the scent coming from you; she was always weak for pretty girls who smell good. God, the universe is starting to curse her, this has to be karma, right?

The cat-eyed female doesn't know if it's because of the way your hair is beautifully styled in waves; kind of similar to Minji's hair, or if it's because your eye makeup seems to accentuate your already natural features or if it could be the cute elf ears added to you for the concept. Something about you makes Haerin have a weird burning and itchy sensation in the back of her throat and it pisses her off.

"I am excited." You can't help but to feel grateful for how welcoming everyone, well mostly, are to you. "You all have been so welcoming, it feels like I've been here since day one, thank you all."

The Wasian female giggles, screaming as she squeezes your cheeks. "AHH, Y/N, you are SOO CUTE!"

"After we do solo shoots and group shots, we'll be in pairs." Minji announces, taking the piece of paper she was handed earlier in the morning from her coat pocket.

Her eyes read the pairs, a small little smirk is tugging on her lips. "Hanni and Jihye are paired up, Y/N and Haerin are paired up, and Hyeinnie and I are paired up."

The Aussie line sighs, relieved that they're partners but upset at how Haerin manages to be SO lucky to get paired up with you.

Haerin cannot help but to feel sort of smug and nervous irritated knowing that she's yet paired up with you again.

Everyone watches you as you pose in the water, holding a white rose in your mouth as you look over at the camera with a specific look in your eyes.

"She's a natural.." Minji couldn't take her eyes off of you and at how you being in front of the camera looks like such an every day thing to you.

Haerin understands now. She understands why SM kept casting you; you do have that star quality in you, you were born to be an idol. She gets it.

Just how much did Min Hee Jin went through lengths to snatch you from the basements of SM.

"You two are definitely going to kill this couple shoot." Danielle encourages her best friend, with a small 'fighting' symbol made with her fist. "I'm positive you two will lead one another well during the shoots."

Couple shoot?

"Good! Y/N-shi, each photo is coming out very well!" The photographer praises you, making you feel red about it which earns an orchestra of 'awes' from your members.

Even Haerin couldn't help but to let out a small smile at it.

Wait, what? Did Haerin just smile at you?

Why does the smile from her face makes you feel even more shy?

"She's all red from the water but somehow it makes the shots look even better." The director says to his assistant, who agrees with a fast nod. "Fans will love her, for sure."

Is he right? Would 'Bunnies' love you?

"Okay Y/N-shi, you're all set!" The upperman in the industry says with a proud smile, looking at you like you're his own daughter. "After Danielle-shi and Hanni-shi, we'll get your shoots with Haerin-shi."

Haerin feels her breath hitch at the thought of doing a couple shoot with you.

"Haerin-ah, go over to the dressing room with the stylists to get prepared." Minji places her hand on the feline female, indicating her to follow the two hair and makeup stylists. "Y/N will be with you shortly."

The younger nods with a half-smile, peering over to where the stylists wait for you and her. She gives another smile to the oldest member before walking off to the pretty unnies, hehe.

"Thank you! You've all worked hard." You bow to the staff and director, getting out of the water as you quickly scurry over to where your members were standing.

"Y/N! You did so good out there, oh my god!" Hanni wraps a towel around you to stop you from shivering.

Minji agrees, nodding continuously with a pretty smile. "You were really pretty, Y/N."

"You really know how to set a mood for the pictures." Danielle can't help but to compliment you, making sure her eyes meet yours.

Hyein jumps up and tackles you. "Unnie, you did amazing!"

"Hyeinnie, you're going to get wet!" You warn the girl with concern, but ultimately, you still hugged her back.

"Haerin already went over with her stylists to the dressing room to start getting ready for the pairing shoot." Minji informs you. "Just follow with your stylists and you'll meet with Haerin."

You hold the towel around your shoulders, nodding at the oldest's words. "Thank you, Minji unnie."

The leader widens her eyes again at 'unnie', but she manages to calm herself down, ignoring the way her ears are burning up. "Of course, Y/N."

The youngest snorts at the oldest, earning a small smack on the back from Minji. "OW!"

january 27, 2024; publishing date

Pt. 3 IS UP! thank you all for the love and support on muse, it's making me happy and excited to keep writing the mini series :) i'm SOOO SORRY for how late it is; been kind of going through it 😭😭

taglist: @ilovekimminji , @justme-idle , @kyuusberry , @masuowo , @iraa567 , @shycreationdreamland , @idunnofr , @imahybridicannotbekilled , @twicesserafim, @awkwardtoafault

#kpop x reader #new jeans x reader #kpop imagines #new jeans imagines #haerin x reader #kang haerin x reader

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pinkydevil16 · 3 months

Note

hello, I hope your day is going well. I was wondering if you could do (if you haven’t already) Aegon II’s reaction to his sister-wife falling gravely ill after giving birth?? A little dark, but idk I’m kinda into dark themes and how they’d play out. Thank you!!

so i began writing this and then when i went to upload it my phone crashed and deleted it all so i'm sorry this is a bit shorter than i normally write but i almost cried when it happened

Aegon stumbled into the room, his breath stunk of alcohol and his slurred speech wasn't out of the ordinary as he flopped into a seat and looked at his mother. Alicent held the babe in her arms, a healthy baby boy, the first son out of the three children Y/n had birthed and the heir to the iron throne.

"A boy! A son, what a miraculous day." Aegon cheered as he picked up a cup of wine, thrusting his arm in the air as the wine spilt over onto his hands and trousers before he finished the cup and slammed it down. His drunken joy drowned out by the sudden scream, handmaids rushing in and out of the next room, hands covered in blood as they carried pales of water and bloodies bed cloths. Aegon looked at his mother as she gave him what could only be described as motherly disgust, her eyes dropping back to the babe in her arms as she rocked him as he cried out for his mother. Aegon forced himself up, stumbling into the bedchamber where Y/n, his sister and wife laid. Her bottom half covered in blood as Maester's demanded the handmaids retrieve more cloth. Aegon stared at Y/n as she weakly breathed in and out, her body pale and lifeless as a thin coat of sweat covered her body, falling next to the bed suddenly he held her hand. Her fingers twitched as her cold skin made contact with his warmth, her eyes fluttering open to look at Aegon as she gave him a small smile and whispered his name. Aegon could feel his body grow cold as he shouted out demands to save his wife, his own mind not taking in his words as he turned and caressed her face. Her whole body seeming to fall limp as maester's tried to come to a solution, the door opened slowly as Alicent entered. Her eyes fell in Y/n with a heartbroken look as she handed the babe to a handmaid and talked to the maesters. Aegon looked at his mother once before his attention was back on Y/n as she wheezed and coughed, her ribcage sounding almost empty as handmaids rushed to her side as they cleaned the blood from the corner of her lips.

"Aegon. Y/n must rest." Aegon was pulled from the ground as maester's approached with milk of the poppy, assisting her to drink before the doors closed and Aegon slumped against the guards arms.

It had been three days since Y/n had given birth, she had made no improvements as Aegon sat beside her for the third day in a row, the babe in his arms as he told her about their son and daughters. Y/n could not move her hand nor open her eyes as a handmaid came and collected the young prince. Aegon took Y/n's hand and pleaded with her to awaken, to just look at him once more, to see her son but nothing worked. He had demanded the greatest maester's in the realm to be brought to the kingdom, but all had the same answer, one which Aegon refused to listen to

On the fifth day Aegon awoke the same as he had previous days, Y/n's hand in his as he barely opened his eyes and stared at her, but this time he could not see the rise and fall of her chest. Could not see the parting of her lips or the slight colour to her skin, instead she lay completely still, lips parted and chapped, eyes closed and skin sunken in. He could feel the cold skin against his own as he held her hand, could feel how her body seemed to have frozen as he sat up and cried out her name. Maester's walking in slowly as Alicent entered behind them, watching as her son seemed to descend into madness demanding they bring his wife back, his eyes red raw and dark circles around them as he held Y/n's hand tight. The maester's explained they could do nothing before leaving as Alicent insisted, leaving her with her son as he cried and screamed out for Y/n, her body paralysed as she stared at her daughter's body.

She had done what was merciful, she had done what was right. She kept repeating it to herself as Sunfyre burnt Y/n's body, her two granddaughter's clutching her hands without their father present. She hadn't let Y/n suffer any longer, she had done what was right for her daughter. She had to believe it, or else she would fall into a depression like Aegon. She had to believe Y/n needed the poison to be free, that she would not be herself again, just as the maester's had said.

#aegon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #house targaryen #Sad

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morphodae · 5 months

Text

The 3 Times Kurapika Has Shown His Love For You 🌷 | Kurapika x Reader (Hunter x Hunter)

This is something small that I felt like doing on a whim and wanted to write it with @bwabys-scenarios in mind. I hope they enjoy it!

cw: none, fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of Reader wearing a dress yet still no pronouns given

1. Reassurance

Brown, faded green. Wilted.

The plant before you is sitting drooped within its pot on your patio; limp and teetering on lifelessness.

The sight causes your lips to curl into a frown. You swear you took great care of it. You watered it as needed, kept pests away as best you could, pruned it when necessary, and even spoke to it softly! You read somewhere that plants responded to tones and voices, so that’s what you had tried. Still, the plant was nearing its deathbed and there doesn’t seem to be any more you can do for it.

“Angel? There you are.” A familiar voice from behind slides the door open and shut behind you before you feel a presence kneeling behind you. “Why are you out here, staring at that plant?”

“It was our anniversary gift.” Your voice is roughened with grief, a mere whisper carried from the wind to his keen ears.

“Pardon?”

“You gave this to me on our anniversary and I’ve tried hard to keep it alive ever since,” you state, frowning. “This plant… means a lot to me. It’s from you, so of course, I wanted more than anything to keep it from,” you gesture to the sad state that it’s in, “this.”

Kurapika is silent; he ponders a moment before embracing you from behind without a second thought. The position is a bit awkward but he hopes his warm and firm hold can ease your worries.

“I’m touched, angel,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “But… it isn’t your fault. Please don’t feel that it is. My affections for you haven’t ceased even a little from this.” You turn around to peer at him and let out a small smile.

2. Insecurity

The cacophony of voices became too much. Their stares, the noises, the texture of the itchy dress on your person. It’s overloading your senses and you rush to the nearest, empty hallway where you can take a moment to breathe before an anxiety attack begins to take place.

Leaning back against the cool wall, you take deep breaths to offset the oncoming anxiety attack and close your eyes to do what you can to reset your heightened senses.

“I noticed you came this way. We can leave if you want to.” You see Kurapika making his way to you. Even in your overwhelmed state, the sight of him fancied up in a suit for this Hunter event still makes your heart leap in your chest.

You take a deep breath. “No, no, it’s fine.” You shake your head at him. “I just need a moment and I’ll be back out so no one worries. I don’t want anyone thinking I chickened out of such an important event.”

It’s Kurapika’s turn to frown, he takes one glance at you before sighing. “No. We can afford to miss this party. I don’t want you uncomfortable the entire evening for my sake.” His perception skills and empathy were always second nature to him; the intuitive nature in which he observed others, observed you, always amazed you no matter how long you’d been with him.

“I don’t want to ruin this night for you because of me! I’m sorry that I can’t keep my senses in check. It’s just… it’s j-just that I… sometimes too many people and noises and too much and so I—“

He notices the tears beginning to spring up in your eyes and interrupts you. “—you are not ‘ruining’ my night, angel. There is absolutely no need to apologize for having limits in your sensory experience. Never. So please,” he reaches a hand to your face hesitantly, watching your reactions in case the contact would be too much for you. When you don’t move away, he continues to move until he softly wipes the tears from your lovely face. “You mean so much to me. Far more than some silly, convoluted party where elite Hunters bother me with their praises. There’s far more important things to spend my time with.”

You hold onto his wrists as he is caressing your face. You let out a small sniffle as a couple of tears escape. “Like what?”

“Like you.” He kisses you with all the gentleness and serenity that only Kurapika was capable of. Once pulling away, he gives another kiss to each cheek and then one final kiss to your forehead.

He lets go of your face, reaching for your hand. “Now, let’s go home and relax, shall we?”

3. Celebration

Months. It had been months.

The last you’d heard from Kurapika had been before this mission for his people’s eyes. He couldn’t involve you, couldn’t even afford to bring his burner phone to contact you and update you on the progress. For months, you were alone.

Now, you would finally meet him again. After all this time he was scheduled to arrive at the airport. You’d pried the information out of Leorio and some other Hunters who had a closer detail of information on his schedule. It wasn’t easy for them to get, either, but you’re so grateful that you were able to obtain it.

Standing nervously in place, staring intently at the arrivals as groups of people came and went, you pace a little; heels rocking back and forth in anticipation.

The time finally comes and you swear that time slows down; especially when he seems to notice you too. That thin build, exotic gaze, the familiar mop of blond hair… Kurapika.

The love of your life.

He stops in place, watching you from several feet away, eyes wide and mouth agape. His face morphs into something akin to surprise, then sadness, and then desperation as he makes a beeline for you across the airport.

You, shocked as you are, don’t seem to care in this moment. You open your arms wide as he rushes to you and finally, finally embracing you in a frenzied hug. You’re lifted off of your feet and spun around gently as his hands can’t seem to stay still on your figure. A soft, nearly inaudible sob of relief can be heard before he finally parts.

You break the silence first, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands find refuge against your sides.

“Welcome home, Kurapika.”

Home… he looks like he wants to cry. The often-composed, cool and intelligent Kurapika in an airport full of people could care less at any eyes on him right now. You were the only thing that he saw.

He lets out a small, choked laugh before kissing you passionately. It was short lived but only the beginning of several acts of affection to come now that he found his way back to you.

“Home… you’re my home, angel. I love you. I always will love you.”

#kurapika x reader #kurapika kurta x reader #kurapika hxh #hxh kurapika #kurapika #hxh x reader #hxh fluff #hunter x hunter x reader #hunter x hunter #anime x reader #x reader #anime x y/n #gender neutral reader

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erajoie07 · 2 months

Text

Aegon's defeat: Aegon Targaryen x fem reader

Writer's note: No I haven't watch any new HOTD episodes. This imagined fic follows Aegon's entity, the idea just came to me while I was cooking breafast. I hope you enjoy it!

Warning: horror

🫶💓

Aegon never recovered from the incident in the plantation. He has made peace by laying an offering to the foot of the tree where he saw it but his nights were consumed by sleepless hours, and his dreams and visions were plagued by the entity he saw. He laid awake thinking it may be in the corner of the room or under the bed or beside him just looking at him. Sometimes he sits on the bed just guarding himself. He hallucinates that it walks through the darkness and the movement of the curtain as made by the fan may reveal the entity. Nevertheless, Aegon tries to fulfill his duties in the plantation, in the house, and to his wife.

“Is it me or does Aegon look pale?” Someone voices out to another when Aegon walks past them. “His eyes are heavy and red, maybe he isn't sleeping.”

Aegon continues to trudge to the plantation and the othes continue to speculate about him when they caught the still eyes of Y/N on them. Her lips are pursed, eyes stared that can kill, and her straight posture locked with her hands clasped in front of her.

Y/N picks up the pebbles of the rice on the bilao before flicking tossing it on the air multiple times to remove some impurities. Dragging footsteps fill the path and a familiar voice booms at her. Aemond's wife, Aegon's sister-in-law, who drags her heels when she walk, even in heels.

“Hello, sister! I brought you a basket of bananas from our harvest. There are some vegetables I picked this morning. May these serve you well.”

Y/N smiles, “Thank you. Would you like a drink?” She calmly asks before her.

“It's fine. I drank my fill by that store there before I came here.”

When she leaves, Y/N could still here the dirt and rocks she drag with her heels. There were more harvest this time.

By the time the afternoon hours come by, Aegon returns to a steaming pot of soup and fish on the dining table. He comes home with a sack of mangoes for themselves.

“Hello, dear, the harvest went well and the plantation is fine.” Now she could see in the light he has grown pale and his eyes looked traumatized. When she touches his cheek, he moves away and bids that he want to rest a moment before he eats.

The house becomes eerily silent and uncomfortable. Aegon would be making a fuss at these hours, always blabbering and making general insults to his brother and their nosy neighbors but for the past days none of that happened. He could smile albeit a bit and he could laugh out of courtesy gor her jokes. She could feel him toss and turn on bed many nights. While she rests beside him as he pursued his rest until nightfall, Aegon becomes still and as if lifeless. She sits up to check up on him. He lies on bed like a corpse and his touch becomes a little chilly.

“Aegon, Aegon, what's wrong?”

He whispers tiredly and out of breath which she couldn't muster what it is.

“Aegon,” she taps his cheek, then he hears a sound coming from him, a resonating sound that echoes and goes on for a few minutes. Then his chest stops. Tears prick her eyes when he falls lifeless on their bed. “Aegon! Wake up! Wake up!”

A figure walks through her side and out of the door. Y/N is building with fury and utter destruction for the curse that she conjured to bring Aegon to bend and ask for her forgiveness that day he called her his slave and possession. She rushes to where it went outside in the dark and cold night. Then a branch breaks where the entity went like a man rushing to the plantation with his high knees as it goes there.

“You come back here!” Y/N runs to the entity into the dark plantation only illuminated by the moon's light. Reaching the middle of the forest, she tries to look for the entity that took her husband's life.

“That was not the agreement! Bend his mind so he may never call those words to me again, why would you kill him?” She screams to the wind as she spins trying to look for it.

“My husband is dead because of you, you got out of the contract. Face me!”

Then for a brief moment as if time stopped, Y/N sees the entity face to face, a rather unidentified creature, with long, black hair, and red eyes, and a pale face.

Aemond looks at his brother's corpse one last time. It was a fine day yesterday only to be mourning that day.

“We cannot find Y/N, sir.”

“Aemond,”

Aemond turns to the voice that called his name, one of the nosy neighbors.

“I need to tell you something about Y/N and ehat happened last night. It may shock you but it's the truth.”

The officer speaks, “What is it, ma'am?”

Then she proceeds to tell what happened last night in the plantation. “She called for something to scare Aegon because he called her his slave and possession. A married couple's quarrel really but that's what she did. I belive the entity was still there afterwards.”

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monvante · 8 months

Text

persona non grata ╱ myg, 𝟏.

per·so·na non gra·ta: unwelcome or unwanted. not popular or accepted by others.

pairing: myg x f!reader

genre: suspense / noir / detective au

rating: mature | 18+

chapter word count: 3,067

content warings: crime, blackmail, missing person investigation, themes of violence and murder, 90's cult references, corrupt cops, mentions of physical fighting, cockroaches, depictions of dementia, substance abuse & addiction, reader is grieving a breakup;

next chapter | series navigation | masterlist

chapter i. goodbye, kanan.

Tuesday night, March 18th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.

Your hands don’t feel clean. They just never do.

“It’s that same nightmare,” you rub them together, finding comfort in the heat.

Yoongi looks at you. He says nothing, because of course he doesn't. He already noticed the dark circles under your eyes this morning, how you looked at your cup of coffee with a bit more disgust than usual.

He admired your hatred, your devotion to your spiteful heart.

“Cockroaches.” Your sad chuckle is but self-mockery. Your gaze is crestfallen.

He’s left to calculate within the machinations of his mind whatever meaning there is in your nightmare.

Yet, Yoongi finds none whatsoever.

“Have you eaten?”

“Why?”

“Just asking,” he shrugs. “Take tomorrow off,” Yoongi hides his hands inside the pockets of his trench coat. His concern is disguised in his eyes, looking out the foggy windows of the department office. “You need it.”

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Let it go.”

“He was eight years old! He was a child!”

The air tightens in your lungs and your throat thickens with silence. You didn’t mean to sound so exasperated, you didn’t mean to sound like anything, but you’ll have to be the first to face your emotional ties to the cold case of a young boy whose face is ingrained in the back of your mind.

Yoongi gulps ⎯ it’s the first thing he does when the truth’s engulfed in his stomach. You glare at him, but he doesn’t budge. Not for a few seconds at least, taking a few steps back as he still refuses to look you in the eye. All cops are cowards.

“You wanna know why we got this case?”

Your brows perk.

“It’s not because we’re good,” he scoffs. “Last year... I confronted McKinnon about the money. He called me a snitch… I didn’t- I didn’t tell him you were in on it, but I figured he knew. That bastard just.. kept looking at me with those filthy eyes and I- I hit him, okay? I got him good. He deserved it.”

“Is that why you kept avoiding me all those months?”

“Kind of. He said we wouldn’t come out of it alive if the ACU so much as dreamt of it… So I kept quiet. He gave us a case full of dead ends and shit evidence to keep us busy… Said we deserved it.”

The Anti Corruption Unit had been onto the agents’ tail that month. Not that it matters. Nothing was found.

“Why– why didn’t you tell me?”

He runs a hand through his hair, slowing down his breath. In the same second, he fails himself and his fury comes out in full force.

“Fuck’s sake! And risk you being dead? Or worse?!”

There are drops of sweat down his temple. You can see them because the yellow street lights glisten against his skin and you figure he’s telling you the truth. Even if he wasn’t, you’d be inclined to believe him.

No one else in this godforsaken unit has a commitment to the truth like Yoongi.

Thursday morning, March 20th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.

Agent Gerwig gives you a warm, tight-lipped smile when you pass her down the hallways. You hurry past the agents down the coffee machine, avoiding small talk and nearly tripping down the stairs on your way to Yoongi’s desk.

The insides of your stomach are twisting and turning as you rush inside, uninvited and breathless, waiting for him to acknowledge you behind his incessant typing and the meaningless emails he reads everyday.

Yoongi seems as still and lifeless as ever, which somehow comes as a comfort to you.

“Days off are supposed to make you look better, not worse. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He types as fast as he comes up with witty remarks.

“That’s because I have!” You spit back, fists closed tightly around the newspaper in your hands.

He quirks up one brow, enough for you to know you’ve got his attention.

“Here,” you toss it onto his desk. “Read it.”

November 27th, 1991. Solved case: Thanksgiving kidnappings linked to man apprehended by police.

“That’s Adam Bowen. He got arrested a night after Kanan went missing,” you huff, catching your breath. “They never considered him a suspect because… the timelines didn’t add up, apparently.”

Yoongi looks up at you from the large frame of his glasses.

“And?”

“Police always suspected he worked with his brother… but they never found enough evidence to prove it. They never even found said brother, the guy disappeared out of thin air and Bowen never told them anything. Not a word.”

He leans back, stretching his arms. His gaze diverts away from you or the paper altogether and he’s staring into space, seemingly at a loss for words.

“They got one brother, huh? Looks like it was enough for them to settle it,” Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Sloppy as all hell.”

In your heart, there’s some feeble hope, but most of it has been filled with despair and a fierce jealousy towards anyone who still maintained a sense of normalcy. Your last seven years have been haunted by nightmares, tainted by the faces of all the missing person reports hanging on your walls.

“We got a second half of the story to figure out.”

Yoongi nods. He closes off his laptop and puts his hands around his gun belt.

Friday night, March 21th @ Agent ___’s home.

Circe’s orange tail swirls around your leg before she’s meowing next to her empty bowl, with cute and threatening eyes glaring into your soul. You can barely catch your breath on the couch ⎯ you got shit to do.

Her paws trail happily after you once you’re pouring the pack of Whiskas onto her tiny plate, making a mental note to throw nearly all the home decor away before Easter comes. The apartment is filled with portraits, vases and candles Yuri generously left you with.

Such courtesy of your ex-fiancée to have abandoned all your memories and stories behind.

You’re running out of coffee, hope and sugar.

Yuri was not a bad man. It’s what you told yourself, once. He wanted the kids and the white picket fence life, away from violent gangs and city lights, where he’d craft the perfect nuclear family, worthy of homemade apple pies and Sunday barbecues.

But you liked the urban loneliness, your shoebox apartment and the green subway lights on your way back home. You liked the comfort of knowing every neighborhood like the palm of your hand, the ins and outs of every highway and the thought of heartless strangers passing you by, not caring for your name.

You missed him. His warm body pressed against yours and his golden, brown skin; you missed him selfishly ⎯ your comfort zone walked away and resentment grew alongside the fondness.

You hoped he was happy without you, but not too much.

When your co-workers asked you about him, a few days after he packed his bags, all you gave them was a shrug and a poor explanation, the kind that everyone does: we were incompatible, it wasn’t meant to be, I wasn’t ready. The list went on and on.

The only one to not probe was good old loyal Yoongi. He was indifferent enough to other people’s personal lives not to ask. When you told him, he patted you on the shoulder awkwardly and placed your coffee by your desk with extra whipped cream.

Saturday afternoon, March 22nd @ Rosefell Nursing Home.

Violet Bowen was not, by any means, what you’d call a reliable witness. She seemed pale beyond human comprehension and her words mostly consisted of hummings or muttering. The moment you saw her, you felt a sting of empathy too strong to ask her of her missing, possibly outlaw brother.

She had no other relatives nor close visitors, except for a caring ex-neighbor who’d bring her flowers every Friday. With nails painted a deep shade of red, she looked to be around eighty, but you couldn’t quite tell. Violet was in poor condition, plagued by dementia and the loneliness of lost loved ones.

Her caretaker is a vibrant, blonde nurse. A blonde Southern belle whose name tag read in big, uppercase letters.

CAROLYN R. NURSING ASSISTANT

It’s Yoongi who interrogates Violet, remaining unaffected by her lost gaze and brown eyes. He flashes her a picture of her brothers back in the 80’s, sporting what looks to be fluffy mullets.

She smiles then and her shaky hands point at Adam, but nothing else comes out of her aside from a gleam of life in her eyes. Even if she knew where they were, she wouldn’t tell them a word.

Carolyn’s smile grows disconcerted. Her hands lay on Violet’s forearm as she pulls a thick chunk of her blonde hair out of her face in typical Southern charm.

“I think my girl’s had enough here, yes?” She forces a grin, glancing over at Violet. “If you’ll excuse us, it’s tea time.”

Carolyn helps Violet out of her seat and into the cafeteria. You’re not sure if it’s bad timing or a deliberate attempt from the nursing assistant to end this conversation, but you’re leaning on the latter. Off they go, taking slow, mindful steps away from both of you.

You refuse to look at Violet’s way. Something about her made you want to cry your heart out; the thought of loneliness being an imminent threat to you, too.

“It’s pointless, Yoongi,” you mutter in your seat, slouching your shoulders. “She’s not going to remember anything.”

He hates to agree. Yoongi tsks, fiddling with his watch.

“Did you check her records at the reception?” He glances over at you, mind brimming with some sort of nefarious idea.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I mean- I didn’t check if she had any funds… It looks like all her properties and money were confiscated by the government, but I should run a background check on her bank accounts, to be sure.”

Monday afternoon, March 24th @ Tech Unit, Information Management Division.

Jenny’s doodles lie by her desk, making the room feel like a high school classroom. You haven’t spoken to her since December; what was once a blossoming friendship wilted away thanks to your cowardice and the desire to protect her from Deputy McKinnon’s claws. If Jenny found out, she’d jump the gun.

And she didn’t have the best aim.

Her Naruto sketches have improved greatly since you last saw them, a massive improvement for just a couple months. Both of you used to laugh at her poorly drawn stick figures, now it looks like she’s ready to take her comics career seriously. You’re happy for her ⎯ she’ll find a way out of this hellhole.

The air is thick and humid in the early Spring, but filled with an extra layer of awkwardness when she sees you from across the room. Jenny’s strides towards her desk are heavy with grief and resentment, but she holds her gaze your way.

“Have you had enough space from me after not picking up my calls?” She slides onto her chair, scribbling a few notes onto her monthly planner. “Long time no see, idiot.”

You don’t have much to say for yourself, even when your chest pangs with her affectionate, yet sarcastic use of the word idiot.

“A lot happened, is all,” you gesture sheepishly, hands reaching for the insides of your pockets.

“I can imagine.”

“I’m sorry, Jenny… I didn’t mean to-”

She looks up at you, eyes drenched with irony and something.. something which you can’t name. If it’s hatred or love, you can’t tell.

“Wat’cha want?”

You swallow dry and uneasy, unfolding the paper on your hand with Violet Bowen’s name and address. It’s crumpled and a little thorn ⎯ you were ready to throw it away seconds before coming into the Tech Unit.

“I- I need a background check on someone,” you mutter, lowly. “Bank account activity… Credit cards… Anything you can find from the last… thirty years, maybe?”

Your attempt at a chuckle fails, denouncing your regret. Jenny notices the furrow of your brows and how concerned you seem, ripping the paper away from your hands.

“Sure.”

The seconds fill with silence. You stand by her desk, waiting for a snide comment, a spiteful joke, anything. She looks at you like she knows you want to apologize again.

“Nice sketches!” You smile as a desperate invitation to make friendly conversation.

Jenny doesn’t cave in.

“You’re dismissed,” she nods at the doorway and hops onto her laptop. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”

Monday night, March 24th @ Agent ____’s home.

“Hey,” you mutter over the phone. “Just checking up on you and mom.”

“Finally!” Albeit sarcastic, your younger sister’s voice is nothing but chirpy, as it has always been. “We miss you, you idiot. You know that, right?”

Over the phone, you can hear your mom’s laugh and a few unintelligible words. It seems she’s adjusting to your dad’s absence. Somehow, you had stopped calling after the funeral. It’s not that you didn’t miss them back ⎯ you were sick of being flooded with memories every time you’d hear her voice. Like your dad was still there too, right beside her.

“Sorry, sweetcheeks. I’ve just been busy.” The explanations and apologies roll off your tongue.

“You know you can’t avoid us forever, right?” Her voice is so sober, it’s as if she’s older than you by a million years.

When you gaze out the window, loneliness overcomes you. The years spent playing hide and seek in your childhood home are long gone, replaced by miles of distance between you and your family ⎯ how you became so caring and so bad at expressing it like your father. You hate how much of you is made of all the people you love. And miss.

“You there?”

“Y-yeah, yeah I’m sorry.”

“I swear to God, you gotta stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” She pauses. “Acting like we don’t exist. Seriously. We miss you.”

A pang of guilt flashes through your chest.

“I know.” Your voice is small through the phone again. In between the anxiety and the seconds, you fiddle with your bracelet. “I’m sorry.. It’s been hell.”

“I promised you I wouldn’t tell mom about your breakup, but she keeps asking me. It wouldn’t hurt if you opened up for once.” She sounds more hurt than angry, vindicating your mother after all the months you spent avoiding calls and texts under the pretense of your busy adult job.

Even in the softness of her voice, her words feel harsh. You gulp down a threatening tear, staying silent on the phone. She was still right, though.

“Listen, we love you, okay? I don’t know what kind of shit you’re going through because you won’t tell me everything.. but dude, please, seriously just come visit us sometime. I know you’ve got your job and all, but act human for once. Please?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll try. I promise.”

“Good. I gotta go now. Mom wants to go grocery shopping for some french-whatever-pie and I promised her I’d help. Give Circe my love!”

You chuckle, sadly.

“Yeah… Yeah, it’s okay. I’ll see you guys soon.”

When the call ends, silence deepens. It’s your own doing, you know, but that doesn’t make it any less suffocating. Even when you crave solitude, you’re just plagued by loneliness.

Wednesday morning, March 26th @ Java café.

Today, Yoongi thinks you look a little better. And by better, it means rested. Of course, your gaze is still very much zombie-like, with glimpses of terror in your eyes when you look away.

But in this line of work, it ain’t all rainbows and sunshine.

It’s never rainbows and sunshine, he realizes.

“So,” you sigh.

“So.” Yoongi punctuates, giving you room to breathe.

Your eyes are distant, watching children play in the puddles from last night’s rainstorm. The weather has been cruel to this city, punishing sinners and saints alike with a dreadful fog in the mornings and plenty of humidity to drive your hair follicles to the brink of insanity.

“Bowen’s alive, Yoongi. There’s a big chance he just… got away with it.”

Your words aren’t met with so much enthusiasm. You suppose it’s the skepticism in this field ⎯ even the good news don’t feel like good news. Before his questioning and theorizing begins, Yoongi brings up a valid concern.

“Why didn’t his brother spill his whereabouts, though? It’s not like Adam had any reasons to protect his brother any longer.”

“Unless he did.” You counter-argue.

“Why, though? It doesn’t make sense. In ninety percent of the cases, you know what happens. So-called partners in crime turn against each other. It’s good ol’ politics.” Yoongi leans back in his chair, nodding at the waitress for more coffee.

“Maybe he had something to lose,” you purse your lips. The biting of your inner cheeks is such an instinctive habit of yours that it barely stings until you realize how much tension you’re holding in. “Or someone, you know?”

“Several someones.” Yoongi blinks. “Do you remember the Mormon Heritage cult?” His eyes narrow as he scrapes the top of his head.

Your back and forth is interrupted by the local waitress pouring hot black coffee onto Yoongi’s cup. He seems like he’s on a roll today ⎯ it’s his third cup. That you know of.

“Uhhh, kind of. They were a thing in the nineties, weren’t they?”

“Yeah.. well… the Satanic panic might’ve contributed to that,” Yoongi nods, slipping his mobile out of his pocket. His fingers are hasty, typing up a Google search so he can word vomit every single fact possible. “But we know that the Jesus believers can somehow always be worse.”

He sounds so snarky, it earns a laugh out of you.

“The Bowens were around that time,” he says. “I mean ⎯ the connection seems unlikely, but with these people, you never know.”

You sigh.

“McKinnon didn’t give us this case for nothing, huh?” Even with half a smile on your face, you can’t help but feel defeated.

“Cheer up, buttercup. I think we got a lead.” He smiles with his teeth for once in a lifetime, raising his eyes from his phone to meet yours. You know he is up to no good ⎯ and that can only be a good thing.

“Buttercup?”

#yoongi fic #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts imagines #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x yn #yoongi x you #bts x reader #bts x you #bts smut #bts x yn #png: c001

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taki-yaki · 6 months

Note

What if Tav is a hireling? Astarion gets attached to her, so after the brain is defeated he either convinces Withers to let her stay as a messenger, or Astarion follows Withers around so every time there's a world ending emergency Astarion volunteers just so he can get Tav as a hireling. Astarion becomes a selfish hero that keeps saving Faerûn XD

Oooh a Hirling would be interesting since from the limited in-game info, they are souls who clawed their way back from the Fugue Plane for vengeance but they can not recall how to speak.

Astarion x Hireling Tav Headcanons

You didn’t expect your life to be cut so shortly, one minute you were showcasing your battle prowess in a local tavern, and the next some so-called absolutes decided to cut your show short by slaying you, all in the name of their so-called god.

But you didn’t want it to end here so soon, there was so much more to do, clawing out of the fugue plane holding onto the last string of thread that your life was hanging on. Before a white light blinds you, wake to the feeling of soft sand under your feet.

It felt strange for the others in this little coup to make him the designated group leader so quickly. He was lucky enough that they hadn’t figured out that he was a vampire spawn, yet. Despite the unique set of people he’s gathered to journey with him, perhaps some extra muscle wouldn’t hurt to have.

When you’re summoned, you seem to be more aware of your surroundings, unlike the others he’s summoned, acting more lively than that of a lifeless husk awaiting commands. When you attempt to speak, nothing comes out, until you feel a husky voice come out from your mouth instead.

“This vessel is at thy disposal. Do what thou wilt.”

Of course, there would be repercussions for attempting to escape the fugue plane alive, as a final act of cruelty by the gods, you can only view the world through your eyes all whilst another puppeteers the words spoken through your mouth.

During your battles, you would usually follow the instructions parroted to you from the voice of the withers.

Until one fight, thrown into yet another battle with members of the absolute cult, noticing a surprise ambush about to strike him.

You attempt to react by yelling for him to move, yet nothing comes out of your throat, quickly pulling against the strings in your mind and rushing towards him, shoving him aside to take the force of the impact.

After the fight, he approaches you with a slight twinge of annoyance in his voice

“I can’t tell whether you were brave or stupid doing that during that fight, but I see that you're not like those other brainless ghouls. But maybe we should work on your communication skills instead.”

Every night from then, he would attempt to teach you thieves can��t as a form of sign language for each other, creating a loophole to the calamity that the gods wish to gift you. Even Slowly bonding, by sharing your tales with him from tavern fights to tales of your travels around Faerun.

The others in camp had thought their leader had gone a bit mad, after seeing him night after night talking to what seemed to be a husk of a humanoid with only a craving for vengeance. Even Withers lighting jabbing at him for being attached to such a person, always reminding him to “not distracted on thy quest, seeking the comforts of the flesh.” to which Astarion would respond with a short huff, before taking you away from him.

After the defeat of the brain, you knew that you wouldn’t be able to stay on this plane forever, with your soul ready to depart, unable to cling onto this body provided to you for much longer. Astarion stays by your side throughout it, promising that he’ll meet you again, no matter what.

After you left his side, he would end up travelling around Faerun in search of either, any world-ending events or withers. Sometimes he would get lucky, having to save a county or two from the new villain of the decade, those who wish to revive the absolute cult, but those fights didn’t last long enough.

Ultimately, Astarion would get ahold of a wish spell, either as a gift from a powerful wizard or one from the gods after becoming Faerun's most selfish hero after stopping numerous life-ending threats. Giving you a real physical body for your soul to finally call home.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion headcanons

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s-4pphics · 1 year

Text

scent of the pine. finale (e.w.)

it took me almost 90k words to realize i am in fact not a good proofreader

wc;cw: 8k, sistersbestfriend!ellie, gutarist/producer!ellie, violinist!oc, age gap(three years), all ocs r black coded <3, some angst, light smut sorry whores😓 MDNI, fingering, eating out no olive garden, dirty talk, mentions of squirting, finger sucking, more love and more sad😐, underage smoking/drinking, corny

You were back home, standing in front of your sister’s apartment door with a small happy birthday! teddy bear.

You were finally seeing your sister for the first time in months, and while you were elated to finally speak to her, you were horrified to spill that you and Ellie were together and happy.

You could still hear your best friend's gentle consoling before she left after you handed her two small baggies of potent bud before dropping you off: Girl… this is family we’re talking about; you’re freaking out for no reason!

You hadn’t knocked on her door yet; You just stood there as your nerves skyrocketed, making sure to take deep breaths and reassure yourself that she didn’t despise you.

She reached out! She wants to see you! Everything is going to be fine!

You tried to convince yourself to believe it, but anxiety was still building in the pit of your stomach. What would she say? What would you say? Was this teddy bear enough to be a peace offering? Did she even want peace with you! You should’ve brought her fucking weed like you did your friends!

Just knock! Just knock, just knock, just knock! —

The door pulling open gently scared you. You looked into your sister’s… exhausted eyes for the first time since you fought. You could’ve broken down at the sight of her right then, but you held your composure. For her sake. She looked seconds away from breaking.

It's like she hadn’t slept in weeks: dark, half-lidded eyes, pajamas askew, hair matted, her nails weren’t even done! She was a complete wreck, and guilt washed over you in a drowning wave. Don’t cry, don’t cry—

“… Hey.”

She spoke first in a broken tone, and it crash-landed you back down to Earth. You took a deep breath before whispering, “Hi.”

You watched her look down at the stuffed animal in your hands, and a pitiful smile appeared on her face, “That for me?”

You could only nod stiffly as you clenched the furry object’s side in your hands. She nodded back before moving to the side to allow you entry. You swiftly inspected her space from where you stood: it was clean—which was a good sign!—but it felt dull. The silence made it feel lifeless, unlived in. It didn’t feel like the home you came to know when you spent nights here.

You gently brushed past her and she shut the door behind you before walking into her kitchen. You kicked your shoes off as she took a seat at the small dining table, and you followed, sitting directly across from her and propping your small gift against the wall.

“It’s cute, thank you,” she said softly as her eyes flicked between you and the bear.

“Of course.”

Your sister's eyes closed briefly at your response as she twiddled with her crossed hands. She looked so… tense, a bit on edge, and it made your heart pound nervously.

“Guess we got some things to talk about.”

You nodded at her and took a deep breath. Tell her! You need to tell her!

“Ellie’n I are together… like dating,” you said abruptly, but with confidence. Your sister’s eyes darted around the room as she nodded slowly. She looked at you again, her expression unreadable.

“How long.”

Your eyes connected with the table, staring holes through the glass and into the floor as your voice cracked, “We, um… I saw her last year on New Years… like, for the first time since everything happened. Uh, at the bar, she was there. And we’ve been… talking ever since. But uh, now we’re dating… like officia—“

“How was Cali.”

She cut you off quietly. Confusion rushed through you at her genuinely curious tone. You were shitting bricks all the way over here and now she’s asking how your trip went? “F-Fine? It was fun.”

You heard her hum quietly, “Does mom know about you two?”

… Where was she going with all this?

“Um, not yet. She will soon, I guess.”

You didn’t look at her, but you heard her sigh heavily after some silence passed, “Still love her? Even after everything?”

You looked up at her, staring into her casted eyes and nodded surely, no hesitation. She looked down into her lap and shifted in her seat.

She was silent for a while, the only sound filling the quaint room being her jittery tapping on the table and your unsteady breaths. The anticipation for her response was killing you.

I love you so much. Please don’t make me choose. She makes me so happy. I love you!

Her voice cracked as she spoke. You almost didn’t hear her, but your ears were too perked, too eager. Her barely coherent words made your heart pause in your chest.

“Me, too.”

You couldn’t stop the shock in your expression before your tears built. The last time your sister and Ellie saw each other, she nearly ripped her head off her body. And now she’s saying that she misses her? What the hell is going on?!

“W-What d’you mean?” you choked out, your head shaking in confusion.

Tears fell down her face as she propped her chin up with her hand, her gaze cast downward like she was embarrassed, “I really miss h-her.”

“… But, but you almost— “

“I know,” you’ve never heard her sound so unsure. “I know what I said, I know what I did but I can’t help it! Whenever I see her, I wanna cry. I miss her so fu-fucking bad.”

She was hysterically sobbing at this point, and you instantly got up out of your seat to comfort her. You wrapped your arms around her near trembling frame, and her arms came around to wrap around your hips as she cried into your stomach, wailing out apologies to you. You couldn’t verbally console her over your own choked wails, but you hope she knows you’d forgiven her months ago.

It sounded like she was unleashing weeks of pent-up emotions, and all you could do was hold her tightly.

You were here for her in any way she needed.

You and your sister moved to the couch after she calmed down.

“I was just so… angry. And sad. I felt so cornered when I walked in because everyone was staring at me and… I went into defense-mode immediately. I had, like… tunnel vision on her,” she explained as she picked at the loose threads of the cushion. “I regretted it the second I got in my car… but it doesn’t even matter, now.”

You shook your head, “Why wouldn’t that matter?”

She shrugged, “Do you seriously think she’s gonna give a fuck about me feeling bad for almost beating the shit outta her? She’s probably put a restraining order on me the second it happen—“

“No, she didn’t! That’s not true,” you said incessantly. “D’you seriously think I would lie about her wanting to apologize to you? She misses you just as bad as you miss her, regardless of whatever the hell happened that night!”

You could tell your sister didn’t believe you fully, but you saw a smidge of hopefulness shine in her eyes when she looked up at your reasoning. You continued, “You weren’t there for the conversations we had about you. She misses you. Everyone fucking misses you! You’re just… stubborn and you… don’t get that for whatever reason.”

You sighed, “Me talking to them behind your back wasn’t right, and I know that. I… we still feel terrible about it! But… we’re not your enemies. They all want you happy a-and present just as badly as I do! Especially Dina.”

You saw tears jerk in her eyes at the mention of the brown-eyed girl, a sad smile appearing on her face, “She texted me happy birthday earlier.”

“Because she cares!” You placed your hands on your sister's slouched shoulders as you forced her to stare deeply into your eyes. “Please promise me that you’ll talk to Ellie. No matter what the outcome is.”

Silence filled the room, and your heart pounded in your ears.

Please. Please, please please—

“… I promise.”

You sighed in relief and pulled her into the tightest hug you could manage. She fell back onto the couch, and you climbed on top of her. She huffed out a laugh as you kissed all over her cheeks and head.

“When did you get so persuasive,” she snickered at you, trying to dodge your affection.

You smiled through your dry cheeks. “I don’t know, I’m just that great, I guess!”

She laughed harder before looking up at you with admiration, “I love you. So much.”

You saw her eyes glisten, just like yours did… again. Just two crybabies!

“I love you more.”

It was almost midnight when your sister dropped you off at your mom’s house.

You spent the rest of the day with her: you both laughed, cried, apologized, you even told her about your YouTube channel. She was shocked, then joyous, then pissed!

Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, I coulda ran your likes up ages ago!

You sent her your channel, and she laughed at your name as she subscribed. You hoped she, and all your other supporters, enjoyed the gift you planned to post soon.

Before you left Los Angeles, Ellie handed you a small, green flash drive before you went into the security check. She instructed you to wait till you get home to listen to it. And don’t tell me what you think, I’m shy!

You were so tempted to inspect the drive on the plane, but you refrained. You were finally back in your room after making up with your sibling, plugging the drive into your laptop on your bed with heavy anticipation.

Multiple files popped up with different titles like uhh take 1, lalalala, trash this lol, and skippideedoobop. You were very… confused, but you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you as you went through the silly names she gave her documents.

Until you reached the last one titled i luv u.

You opened it curiously, and your laptop's media player popped up. You pressed the large, blue play button in the middle of your screen, your girlfriend’s raspy voice filling the silent space of your room. You instantly smiled.

“Hiii… I literally just realized how awkward this is, what the fuck,” she laughed; She sounded so nervous. “Uhh, so… I made you something. Wrote you something, I guess. I’ve been working on it for a while but, like… I’m a pussy and I never told you.”

Her sheepish laughs surrounded you, “I was gonna be gay’n give it to you on your birthday but… I couldn’t wait that long, I was too fuckin’ nervous. You’re coming to Cali in a few days, and I finally finished it so I could give it to you when you get here… sooo, yeah, please don’t fucking laugh… I love you.”

Tears were already falling down your face at her gentle tone, but when the strums of her acoustic started up, you sobbed.

You listened closely to the melodies as you cried, her soft voice confessing words of her affection and adoration for you. The entire song was almost seven minutes, some parts of it being filled with her declarations of how much she missed you when you left, while others were simply emotional thrums from her instrument. Your eyes squeezed shut as your tears fell.

The song ended quicker than you liked, so you replayed it. And then replayed it again. And then again.

Your eyes were red, and your nose was running when you finally closed the audio tab and inspected the other files. They were filled with all the other versions of her song that she “trashed”. Some takes were of her cringing when her voice cracked or screaming when one of her strings broke. Motherfucking son of a bi— before the audio cut off. You laughed wetly.

But then you checked the dates for when the files were made, and your tears started back up again.

They dated all the way back to January. She’d been working on this for almost seven months, and it tore your heart to pieces in the best way possible.

You sobbed quietly—your mom was sleeping! — and your body shook as your love for her rocked you.

You yearned for her terribly when she wasn’t with you, and it hurt even more knowing that she felt the same.

Your cries calmed eventually, and you reached for your phone to open the texts between you and your girlfriend.

You sent her a message before plopping back down onto your pillows, new tears seeping into your hairline.

i love you more.

Ellie returned at the start of August, and you were so thrilled to finally see her.

You, Dina, and Jesse were parked in front of her terminal as you excitedly waited for her—and Duchess! — to walk through the automatic doors.

Your girlfriend, Marcus, and Isaiah appeared ten minutes later with their bags and tired eyes. Ellie was clad in a black beanie and sweats, black carrier in hand. She rubbed her eyes with her free hand before looking up. Your gaze met hers through the backseat window and she instantly cheesed wide, her aura instantly brightening. You jumped out of the car with a bright grin, and she gently sat Duchess down before you pulled her into a tight hug. You breathed her in like she did you and sighed in content.

“Missed you so bad, baby,” she whispered in your ear, gripping you tight.

“Missed you, too, El.”

“Damn, can I get a fucking hug. I drove!”

Jesse's voice cut through your small moment, and you laughed into Ellie’s neck before pulling away. You watched as Isaiah and Marcus dapped him up and hugged Dina.

“C’mere, prick,” she huffed with an eye roll as she pulled him in, hugging Dina immediately after as Jesse put her bags in his car.

You all jumped into the car, Marcus, Isaiah, Duchess, you and your girlfriend snuggled in the backseat as you smacked kisses on her cheek, nuzzling into her neck as she kissed your forehead. You could hear soft shuffling in the carrier in Ellie’s lap. Baby was awake!

You inhaled her scent the entire drive to her apartment.

You helped Ellie bring her bags in as Jesse complained about not being invited inside.

Dina flicked him on the forehead with an eyeroll, saying Let them have their alone time! as you and Ellie snickered, waving goofily as they drove off!

She carefully held a snoozing Duchess in her carrier as you rolled her bag onto the elevator and into her home.

You set her bag to the side and refilled Duchess’s food and water bowls. She set the occupied carrier on the floor and smacked quiet kisses at her kitty, waking her up gently so she could eat and sleep properly. The tired baby walked to her designated area by the window and ate comfortably.

Ellie was grabbing water from the fridge as you made your way over to her stealthily. You pressed your front against her back, trapping her against the counter as you hugged her.

“You’re clingy,” she said gently as she relaxed against you.

“Shut up, I missed you,” you snickered before kissing her neck. “You tired?”

She nodded before turning in your grasp to face you, setting her bottle down to wrap her arms around your neck. She kissed your lips lightly before speaking quietly, “You coming to the bar on Friday?”

You grinned, “Duh.”

She hummed and kissed you again. You cheesed slyly against her lips, “Can’t believe you made me a song.”

She pulled away, her arms untangling from around you as she rolled her eyes, “Oh my fucking god— “

You giggled, wrapping your arms around her neck to pull her back to you, “I cried so fucking hard! I listened to it a hundred times in one day!”

“Didn't I tell you not to tell me that,” her face was so red, her head thrown back as she stared at the ceiling.

You kissed her exposed neck again, and again before looking at her with sincerity, “I loved it so much, baby. Thank you.”

She smiled shyly and brushed her nose against yours, “Course. I love you.”

“Love you more,” and you kissed her again. She sighed through her nose, and you playfully licked her bottom lip as you giggled happily. You felt her squirm against you slightly at the gesture before grabbing the back of your neck to deepen the kiss. Your body felt hotter immediately, your tongues slowly sliding against each other, her arms wrapping around your hips to pull you closer.

She grinded into you, and you pushed into her just as eagerly. You slid your hands down her body and grabbed her hips to hold her still as you bucked into her harder. She was completely pushed against the edge of the counter.

You detached from her lips to suck on her neck, and you felt her slide the strap of your tank down to press eager kisses on your exposed shoulder, nipping the skin and making you jerk. You grabbed her sweatshirt and lifted it up, and she helped you pull it over her head, tossing it to the kitchen floor. You took her nipple into your mouth, and she released a shocked squeak. You swirled your tongue around the sensitive skin as she squirmed, arching her back to get close to your mouth. She was letting out small gasps and choked moans into the air around you. Her nipples were so sensitive!

She whined your name out, “Baby, fuck— “

You pulled away and checked on her, “Good?”

“Yes, fuck, keep touching me, m’—I’m getting so wet.”

She moaned aloud when you sucked the bud back into your mouth and tweaked her other, rolling it between your index finger and thumb.

You moved to suck on her other nipple, and your hand moved down to cup her cunt through her sweats. You pressed your palm into her clit, and she mewled out your name as she jerked into your hand.

You pulled away from her tits completely and dropped to your knees, her clothed pussy right in front of your face.

“Gonna… put you to bed?” you said shakily, looking up at her for approval and… fuck, she looks so sexy looking down at you like that—

She snickered quietly, “Yeah? Gonna tuck me in, too?”

You lightly slapped her thigh and sent her a glare, making her giggle before she leaned back against the counter and resting her hands on the edge.

She gawked at you before speaking, “You know what I noticed?”

“Hm?”

“I think you secretly love giving me head,” she whispered as she quirked a brow at you.

“W-What makes you say that?” you challenged unsteadily.

She smirked and licked her lips, “You just get so into it, like making me cum like that makes you happy.”

“… So what if it does.”

“That’s so fuckin’ hot,” she subtly moved her hips close to your face. You looked back up at her, and she brought her hand down to pat your cheek as she cooed at you. “Meant it when I said you’re good at it. M’so lucky.”

A shiver went down your spine, and she chuckled, “Take my pants off, baby.”

You tore them down her legs with her underwear and she laughed giddily at you, stepping out of them, and kicking them to the side. You were immediately met with her cunt, and your mouth watered at her glistening wetness. You squirmed from where you sat, and you gripped her scarred thighs for support.

The closer you got, the more you smelled her, and it made you drip in your panties; You want her to smother you! You looked up and held her eyes before leaning forward and lightly swiping her clit. She bit her lip and jerked above you.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute.” You heard her mutter, and you eagerly sucked her clit into your mouth.

You whined at her taste and her glossy eyes fluttered, her breath getting heavier. Your nails dug into her soft thighs, and her head fell back, her hand grabbing your shoulder for support.

Her unique taste flooded your tongue as you slurped her slick, flicking your tongue all over her twitchy nub. You traveled a bit lower, the tip of your tongue massaging the space right below her clit and you felt her nails dig into your shoulder when her hips jerked.

“Ffuck, baby, right there,” she gasped out as she spread her legs wider. “Feels s’fuckin’ good.”

You wrapped your arm around one of her legs when you felt her wobble to steady her, kissing her clit gently before pulling away. You ignored her whines of complaint and made sure she was pressed up against the counter, brought your hand to her pussy, and rubbed her clit gently. You watched her the whole time, her whole body twitching; she’s so cute!

You slid your hand down to her entrance, and she mindlessly spread her legs even wider. You slowly slid your pointer finger inside her, her plush walls swallowing you the deeper you slid. You curled up and nudged that patchy spot, and her grip on you tightened, the softness trapping you inside. Her breathing was heavy, but she squealed when you sucked her clit back into your mouth.

You hummed against her and slid your middle in, fucking into her harder, her moans of pleasure and squelchy sounds from her pussy shaking the walls.

You pulled back from her cunt and slurrily whispered, “Good, Ellie? Okay?”

“Yes, baby, yesyesyes, gonna make me cum s’fuckin’ fast— “

You licked deeply into her again, her clit jumping on your tongue as she clenched down on you. She lifted a leg and threw it over your shoulder so you could push in deeper.

You dazedly whispered against her, “Wan’ your cum, daddy, please? “

“M’right there, baby, keep fucking me like tha— “

Her words cut off when you shoved your ring finger in her pussy and fucked into her hard, making sure to prod where you know would get her there. She shouted, her body trembling against you and the counter. Her hand on your shoulder slammed back down on the counter as she desperately grabbed at its edge, and she came. Her walls milked your fingers as wetness leaked all over them and your tongue, and you happily drank it all.

She was fucking up into your face as she cried your name and curses and how much she loved you, and your heart pounded in your chest.

You fucked her until she was shaking, and her thighs squeezed around your hand. She slumped against the counter as you kissed her thighs, trying to catch her breath as the aftershocks ran through her. You pulled out as she released your hand from between her legs. She grabbed your arm and pulled you up to lick your fingers clean like she always did before kissing you.

Your tongue glided over hers as she sucked on it, tasting herself and moaning into your mouth. You smiled into the kiss before pulling away. She smirked and chased your mouth with hers, but you held her shoulders.

You smiled shyly, “Alright. You can go to bed now.”

She looked at you like you just spoke a different language before a strong arm wrapped around your hips and yanked you to her chest.

Her lips brushed against your ear as she spoke raspily, “You know how long it’s been since I made you squirt on my face? Go lay the fuck down.”

Your face burned with excitement as she nodded towards the couch. You gave her one more fiery kiss before you felt a smack on your ass. You squealed and bolted towards the couch as she followed close behind.

You were so glad she was home.

It was nine at night, and your sister was incredibly nervous.

Before she dropped you off at your mom’s, you forced her to unblock Ellie on all social media and instructed you to meet up with her as soon as possible.

It’s been dragged out enough! Make things right with her.

She received a text from you an hour ago, and her heart jerked in her chest when she read it.

shes back. do ur thing.

She’d unblocked Ellie months ago, and now she was staring at her unsent text of hey. r u busy tomorrow night? i was hoping we could talk if ur willing.

She nibbled at her lip nervously, her finger mindlessly tapping on the back of her phone. You were so sure in your claims that Ellie was ready to talk, but what if she suddenly started second guessing? What if she was too late?

She sighed and pressed the small, blue arrow on her screen before her nerves talked her out of it, the small, delivered message popping up under the blue text. She realized that Ellie probably never blocked her, and it made tears form in her eyes.

She babysat her phone for hours as she waited for a reply from her, trying to distract herself in any way she could. She retwisted her hair, painted her nails, and made dinner. She hasn’t touched her flute in years, letting it sit in the back of her dark closet in its case, but she impulsively pulled it out of its dusty corner to clean and polish it. She pounced with every ding! she heard from her phone, and released a sigh of disappointment when she saw that the texts weren’t from Ellie.

It was midnight when she threw her phone on her pillow with a sigh of fuck this, rolling over to go to cry herself to sleep for the third time this week. Tears of disappointment were pricking in her closed eyes as she resigned for the night.

Ding!

She almost flew into the air when she heard the last text alert ring through her phone. She flipped so fast, gripping her phone tightly and immediately unlocking it when she saw her best friend’s contact.

hi. i’m more than willing lol. can i come over?

Your sister didn't care if she seemed desperate and instantly replied with her consent and address, her mind racing, yes, yes, please, of course you can!

She cried herself to sleep as planned, but her heart was filled with relief. With hope for tomorrow.

Ellie put her phone down on her nightstand and turned to look at your sleeping form.

You looked so warm, so at peace, and her heart nearly burst in her chest with love for you. She gently brought her hand up to caress your cheek before leaning down to kiss it. You subconsciously moved closer to her in your rest, and she smiled to herself and nuzzled closer to you until you relaxed again. She could see Duchess adjusting her position by your feet out the corner of her eye.

She wasn’t shocked when your sister reached out to her due to the conversations that she had with you earlier that day, but she was still pleased when she did.

Ellie missed her greatly, and she couldn’t wait to see her.

Ellie got you breakfast before dropping you off at your mom’s the next morning. She kissed you so many times before you exited her car; You missed her already.

You ate the remainder of your bagel sandwich as you opened your laptop on your desk. You pulled up your YouTube channel and inspected your drafts.

You had a few videos saved that you never posted: you released the snort at the one of you and Arya drunkenly dancing as she blew into her clarinet completely out of tune last year. She really convinced you to title it #1 queefers, and you’re so happy you never posted it.

You finally looked at your untitled video of you playing your own composed work. You rewatched the draft twice to ensure it was the way you wanted it.

Your fingers tapped against your desk as you thought of a title for the clip.

You started typing as your heart pounded. You can’t ignore the nerves in your body, both from excitement and anxiety. But you promised to do this for yourself.

You pressed the publish button, and your video immediately started rendering.

Pines in Spring by me :) was posted ten minutes later.

You shut your computer and sighed in relief.

Your sister was pacing around her living room as she waited for Ellie to arrive.

The tension in her body had not eased up since she woke up.

She was trying to rehearse her apologies, trying to think of ways to express her emotions without coming in too strong, but her heart overridden all her attempts: I’m sorry for almost swinging on you, I never meant to hurt you(even though I did!), I miss you so much, I should’ve listened to you that day, I love you I love you I love you—

A knock came from the other side of her door, and she released a shaky sigh. She clenched and unclenched her fists and tried to shake the nerves out her hands before walking towards the door.

She unlocked her door and grabbed the handle, twisting it and pulling it open.

A just as antsy looking Ellie appeared in front of her, and all she could do was take her in.

She was dressed in a green hoodie and sweatpants, her hands in her pockets as she looked down at her dirty shoes nervously.

Ellie looked up into her eyes, and your sister nearly cried when she spoke.

“Hi.”

Your sister breathed in before exhaling a whisper, “Hi, Ellie.”

She saw Ellie’s shoulders relax when she spoke, pulling a small baggie of rolled blunts out of her jacket pocket as a peace offering. She couldn’t get over how alike you two were.

Your sister's eyes teared up at the gesture and she moved on autopilot, stepping out of her house and pulling Ellie into a bone-crushing hug.

Ellie tensed before she relaxed in her grasp, her arms immediately wrapping around your sister’s waist to hold her just as tightly.

Your sister released a choked sob into her shoulder, and Ellie did the same.

They both wept loudly in each other arms, whispering soft imsorrys and imissedyousomuchs to each other.

They didn’t let go of each other until an elderly woman walked past them awkwardly. It took everything in your sister’s power to not scream out a mind ya business at her judgmental stares.

They’d only let go of each for twenty seconds before Ellie started crying again, grabbing your sibling, and pulling her close. Your sister’s own sobs picked up again.

They missed each other terribly, and they were so glad to finally be in each other’s gentle holds again.

Ellie and your sister were both extremely high on her sofa.

After their bouts of snot-nosed apologies and heartfelt sobs, they calmed down, went inside, and talked about everything while they smoked down two blunts. Your sister expressed her immediate regret and embarrassment after that night at the bar, and even though Ellie accepted her expressions of regret and understood her reaction, she still felt awful about it.

That guilt ate her alive for months, and there were sometimes where she couldn’t even look at you without being reminded of the trainwreck she caused, and now she was sitting in front of a comforting Ellie with a heavy heart.

“Are we… d’you think everything’s gonna go back to how it was before?”

Your sister was nervous for Ellie’s answer: even though the tension had calmed immensely between them, she could tell that Ellie was still being careful around her, and it upset her greatly.

Ellie exhaled her puff of smoke before speaking in between light coughs, “I think so… maybe not immediately, but… yeah.”

She passed the blunt to your sister before continuing, “Dina misses you like fuckin’ crazy. Won't shut up about it.”

Your sister snorted a sad laugh before inhaling the blunt, “She’s too sweet for her own good, I avoided her like the plague for so long.”

Ellie teased with a small smile, “Yeah, she hates you for that.”

“Can’t blame her,” she whispered sadly before puffing again.

Ellie must’ve sensed the dejection in your sister’s voice because she immediately scooted closer, throwing an arm around her shoulder, “Sorry, that was fucked— “

“Don’t needa apologize, it’s true,” she passed the blunt to a consoling Ellie, shaking her head as she looked at the wall. “Like… I dunno, now that we’re here it… everything that happened feels so fucking stupid. We would’ve been… fine if I would’ve just listen—“

“Don’t beat yourself up about that shit anymore. I fucked up just as much as you did. It’s not all on you,” Ellie scolded her, bumping her leg against hers in soft punishment.

Your sister was still in her head, so Ellie changed the subject, “Guess who misses the fuck outta you.”

“Hm?”

Ellie puffed on the roach before stubbing it out on the ashtray on the table, and teasing grin spreading across her face, “Isaiaaah.”

Your sister giggled lightly as Ellie laughed, smoke leaving her nose, “He’s so corny. Tell him not to call me anymore.”

Ellie laughed harder, “Bro, he’s fucking obsessed with you, y’know that, right? Everyone got drunk one night’n all he could say was I miss my giiirl, I need my giiirl.”

Your sister laughed hard at her deep mimics, “He’s so fuckin’ stupid. I want his kids.”

Ellie moved away from your sister as she cringed. “Gross. What the fuck.”

“Shut the fuck up!” her eyebrows shot down in mock offense. “I didn’t say shit when my sister told me y’all were canoodling. Keep it cute.”

Ellie tsked as she blushed, scratching her head, “… C’mon, dude.”

She chuckled. “Exactly.”

They sat in comfortable silence before your sister spoke.

“Y’know she still loved you even after everything happened?”

“… She told me, yeah.”

Your sibling nodded stiffly. She turned to look at Ellie, her tone becoming more serious.

“Be… good to her, please. She’s fragile,” she demanded quietly.

“M’gonna. I’m in just as deep as her,” Ellie said without any hesitation, her tone just as sincere as yours had been a few days ago. It made your sister hopeful that everything would be fine.

“Alright, El.”

Your sister mumbled a c’mere and Ellie listened, grabbing another blunt and her lighter from the table before resting her head on your sister's lap. Ellie sparked it for both of them.

They shared it in silence, basking in each other’s forgiveness.

Friday came, and you were so excited.

Ellie invited everyone over to pregame after her rehearsal at the bar, and you, your best friends, and your sister were all getting ready.

The weather was incredible, and you were ready to slut it up!

Arya had no problem encouraging your whorish behavior, driving you and your friends almost an hour into the city to shop at the designated harlot boutique!

You and all your friends had their titties out, six-inch heels on, wigs laid. The whole nine yards! The five of you were already three shots in, and you were feeling fuzzy! You didn’t know how you were going to walk in these damn shoes.

Starr was putting her lashes on in your sister’s bathroom while Arya joyfully patted her ass to trademark usa, your sister was rolling her blunt, and Kris was pouring up… again.

“Girl, if you’re gonna be stumblin’ like that then you shouldn’t wear those. You’re gonna break your neck.”

You shut down your best friend’s warnings as you waddled past the bathroom and down the hallway, “Excuse you! I got it, thanks! I just needa… practice.”

“Bitch, we leave in half an hour!” Starr commented.

“I know! Stop talking to me so I can focus!”

You stumbled all the way to the kitchen where your sister was sitting at her table, sealing her and your girlfriend’s blunts and sticking them in a small baggie.

“You look good, twin.”

You looked up from your shoes at your sister, her soft eyes sparkling. You couldn’t help the smile that spread on your face as you walked closer to her, wrapping your arms around her frame and kissing her forehead.

“You look good, too,” you said with a content expression. “I love you.”

“Love you more.”

You were so, so happy.

The Uber pulled up in front of Ellie’s apartment building, and you nearly tripped and fell on the curb with how quickly you jumped out the car.

Thank god your sister brought shorter heels for you!

You could see your girlfriend’s… sexy ass in the glass door waiting for you all inside. She was posted up against the wall, clad in a tailored, silk, black button up, —her nipples were peeking through… you were going to die—her Cubans on her neck and wrist, and her black jeans and chucks on. She finally got a fresh pair!

You waved your arms around to get her attention through the glass, and she perked up the second she saw you. She ran over to open the doors for you all with a bright grin and flushed cheeks, making sure to give you a smacking kiss on the cheek before greeting your friends and sister in giant hugs.

She interlocked your fingers and guided you all to the elevator, your friends rambling about how much fun they were going to have as Ellie kissed your shoulder. You caught your sister staring fondly at you and your girlfriend before jumping into your friend's conversation. Your face burned red-hot.

When the doors opened, you and Ellie bolted down the hall and into Ellie’s place, your friends and sister following close behind. Her speaker was already blasting, your new friends, Dina, and Jesse were all around her apartment taking shots and blowing smoke out the window.

They all looked up when they heard the front door shut, and everything went still.

All their gazes were locked behind you, and you immediately stiffened, your hand tightening around Ellie’s. She squeezed yours tighter.

You turned to check on your sibling, and she looked so nervous. She locked eyes with you and shook her head quickly before looking forward again. You were too drunk to comprehend what that meant, but you were down to do whatever!

You’d been so focused on your sister’s reaction that you hadn’t heard a very drunk, sobbing Dina stomp over to engulf your sibling in the tightest hug you’d ever seen, Jesse following close behind to mimic his girlfriend. You could’ve cried then, but Arya spent too long on your makeup!

You could see Isaiah shifting on his feet out the corner of your eye, and you looked at him. You sent him a nod towards your sibling, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed a bit as he slowly walked towards her.

“Would I ruin the moment if I took a shot right now?” Kris asked from behind you. You turned and met her pulled down brows and pout. You and Arya chuckled before shaking your head no, gesturing towards the coffee table where all the liquor was—Casamigos, holy fuck.

Your three friends walked over towards the lively area, introducing themselves to Ellie's friends and filling their small glasses. You returned your gaze to your sibling; Isaiah had pulled your sister away from everyone, the two of them standing by the kitchen and talking softly. You felt Ellie release your hand to gently grab your face in her hands.

Your eyes locked with her sparkling ones, “Give ‘em a minute. They’ll be fine.”

You nodded softly.

“Wanna drink?”

You sighed heavily at the temptation, and she laughed, her head plopping onto your bare shoulder before kissing it. And kissing it. And kissed it again—

“Not again, El, please.”

Her tongue gave the sensitive skin a kitty-lick with a smirk, and you shivered and slapped her arm softly. She giggled before letting up.

She led you over to the coffee table, immediately handing you a small, filled glass.

You looked over to your sister again. Her and Isaiah were… smiling. Laughing! Your eyes swiftly shut in relief before you threw the liquid back.

Glee exploded in your heart.

Tonight was going to be great!

“Okay, okay! Just one more!”

You were all in the middle of… an incredibly raunchy game of Never Have I Ever, and you wanted it to end expeditiously! Why was your best friend enjoying this so much!

You rested tiredly against Ellies shoulder as she kissed your forehead, and everyone sighed at Arya’s demands for another round.

“Never have I ever…” she slurred. “had… had sex— “

Starr cut in with an eye roll, “Bro— “

“M’not done, thank you very much!”

Marcus laughed, “I'm kinda curious, not gon’ lie.”

“Pleeease don’t encourage her!” Kris defended as Dina and your sister laughed, Isaiah shaking his head. “We’ll never fuckin’ leave!”

“Y’all are some fu—hiccup—fuckin’ haters, wow.”

Everyone laughed at her grumbling before their playful banter took over. You shook your head as you poured another shot for yourself.

After Arya’s attempts to persuade everyone to cheer her on while she shot-gunned three beers in a row failed, Isaiah ordered the biggest Uber XL he could find, and you all made your way to the bar.

You were squished between Ellie and Starr in the backseat, your sister, Isaiah, and Jesse were in front of you, Dina propped on her boyfriend’s lap while Marcus talked the driver’s ear off.

The lights got brighter the later it got, the streets packed with people looking for entertainment.

You felt Ellie's fingers brush against the bare skin of your thigh, and you playfully glared at her and forced her hand back into her own lap by her wrist. She wasn’t getting you this time!

After twenty minutes of holding your girlfriend’s arms down so she wouldn’t touch you, the car parked in front of the bar, the line around the corner.

Everyone slurred out thank yous to the driver as you all exited the vehicle, and you were immediately hit when the bouts of excitement as Ellie walked behind you, her hand in yours. The people in line were screaming to get her attention, wailing out her name and pulling their phones out.

You turned to watch her interact with the clubgoers. Ellie waved at them goofily, jumping and swinging her free arm around like a squid. You smiled and gently pulled your girlfriend onto the sidewalk and up to the entrance. You felt her wrap her arms around your waist and rested her chin on your shoulder.

The security at the door dapped up Marcus and Isaiah, allowing access to your friends, fist-bumping Ellie as she passed by.

You were instantly hit with excitement as the energy of the bar hit you: people were dancing under the dim purple and blue lights, playing their instruments on the small stage, drinking, showing off their artwork. Your sister and friends dove into the active crowd, melding into the high-spiritedness of the space.

You missed this environment so much, and you were so glad that the people you loved most were here with you.

Ellie pulled away and spun you, connecting her lips to yours in a gentle kiss. She pulled away and brushed her nose against yours, and you couldn’t stop the wide smile from spreading across your face.

She led you to the bar, Elijah, and a few other tenders that you recognized from previous nights handing out drinks to the attendees.

The second he saw the two of you, he grinned widely, whispering to one of the tenders before running from behind the bar to smother you both in a hug.

“I missed y’all so much, what the fuck!” He shouted over the live music. You smiled, yelling the same back to him as you hugged him closer before he pulled back.

He looked at you with excitement, yelling something incoherently. Your brows furrowed in confusion.

“What?!”

He leaned in closer to you, “Dude, you went fucking viral! Did you not see?!”

You pulled away with a head shake and looked at Ellie, who seemed just as shocked as you were. Elijah pulled out his phone and scrolled wildly before turning the screen towards you and your girlfriend.

Your YouTube video was playing on the screen, your eyes searching the display, and you nearly passed out when you saw the view count.

How was it already at 734k?! And how were there so many likes?! You just posted it a few days ago, what the fuck!

Ellie’s jaw was wide open as Elijah jumped excitedly, shaking you by the shoulder. Your heart was pounding in your chest, but it wasn’t… what you were used to.

You didn’t feel anxious or uncomfortable. You felt… confused, but warm. Delight washed over you as tears jerked in your eyes. People actually… liked something you made! You almost didn’t believe it.

You felt Ellie’s calloused hands on your cheek, turning you to face her, a thrilled expression on her face as she caressed you. She was saying something, but you couldn’t hear as your heart thudded in your ears, a dazed smile on your face.

Elijah embraced you in another hug, and you felt Ellie press kisses your head.

You could see all your friends dancing and laughing over his shoulder; they looked so joyous and bright, shining like stars in the sky as they huddled close together.

You locked eyes with your sister in Isaiah’s grasp, and you smiled harder. You watched a light grin grow on her face as she mouthed I love you, and you did the same.

Later into the night, someone drunkenly asked you what key you played Pines in Spring in on your channel.

You just as drunkenly replied D minor!

You’d never hugged a stranger in your life, but that night you did.

FOUR MONTHS LATER

You were twenty and staring into an audience of three hundred people.

Everything around you moved in slow motion.

The lights of the stage you stood on shined upon you to an almost blinding degree. The people were smiling, clapping, and drunkenly waving their phone’s flashlights as they stared at you in anticipation as your professor introduced you. You would be getting your degree!

You weren’t anxious, your breathing was normal. Your heart was beating, but not at a restless, agonizing pace that you were used to growing up. It was steady, and you were… smiling. You felt excited!

You gazed at the audience, and locked eyes with your mother’s encouraging, watery ones, then your sister’s, your best friends’, then the love of your life. She grinned, and you could see the tears glistening in her eyes. She mouthed a swift I love you and sent you two thumbs up.

You only smiled brighter as your inspiration for your song happily spurred you on, and you waved the hand you held your bow in at her excitedly. She only smiled harder, and you saw her cheeks glisten.

You shut your eyes, adjusted the violin that rested on your shoulder, and brought your bow back to its correct positioning above the strings.

You’d been dreaming of this moment since you were three. You could almost see the pictures of your younger self giddily holding the small violin toy that you were gifted with years ago.

Every struggle you faced, every loss you’ve endured, and every relationship you gained was for this moment. All the support you had around you got you here. Your resilience got you here, and you were immensely proud of what you’ve become.

You took one last check at your fingers positioning, ensuring your chords were correct.

You took a deep breath and released it when you slid your utensil across the high-pitched strands.

The first notes of Pines in Spring played, and your future became brighter.

a/n: hello… i am very sad that this is over. lol

for anyone that cares, this is the first actual story that i’ve ever finished, and i am very crushed that its done. i planned this whole thing completely out of impulse and i’m very grateful that people like… cared enough to finish it. i wanted to test my writing chops and i kinda ate like a little bit ngl a lil nibble LOOOOOL i’m joking pls

but i can’t believe i had a fucking tag list for this like i cry everyday when i think about it i love yall @fandomshitpostingqueen , @elsivy , @nymphetkoo , @sawaagyapong , @amitycat , @nil-eena , @onallfoursforellie , @letsreadsomesins-shallwe , @gold-dustwomxn

if u read this story in any way i love u. if u liked it in any way i love u even more LOL

i needa proof reader tumblr editors aint cutting it rs

ceosdaughter!ellie coming soon i saw that poll🤭😜

bye

#ellie williams angst #ellie williams smut #ellie williams #ellie williams au #ellie williams x black!reader #black!oc #black!reader #lesbian #scent of the pine. ̥*ೃ #works 𖧧࣪#ellie williams x you #ellie williams x reader

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waddei · 6 months

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full story behind these images (6.5k words open at your own risk)

pacing back and forth in the damp grass roman bit his nails waiting for tomas to pick up the phone.

“cmon…cmon…”

his boots splashes on the muddy puddles, staining his soles.

“fuck..”

a small click from the phone made him jump.

“tom thank god-”

“what do you want” his friend whisper shouts. voice as always a strange mix between quiet but assertive.

“i need your help” he says with far too little shame for someone calling in the middle of the night.

the wind hit his back harsher than before now, dark clouds swerved above him and he could only pray that the night ended with a storm. He can imagine himself, staring through the window at the flooding street with a grin, watching the rushing mud and sand wash the town clean.

tom doesn't answer,but thats normal by now.

“its important” he begs, a ‘please’ goes unsaid for his own egos sake.

“lets meet at our spot shall we?” he sounds as frantic as his heartbeat feels, tom mooks him from the comfort of his home with an intentionally loud sip of his mug.

he doesnt let the distance stop him from feeling those hollow green eyes stare down at him

“what did you do” tom asks, impatient. for what though, roman doesn't know, that sense of hurry around him never faded.

he swallows as he looks down at his feet. resting next to them in the grass was the man's head, his nose had long stopped bleeding and lifeless eyes stared up at him in long ignored plea of mercy, they were starting to gloss over. roman bit back a sound of disgust.

“i cant tell you right now.just come here”

tom gave a long heavy sigh “my brother’s sleeping” he said, like it mattered at all.

“do i look like i care?" he snarled “bring your bike too if you're coming”

the body below him caught his eye again. it was fairly tall,only a few inches short of himself,which was impressive in its own right.

“two trash bags too if you happen to have any”

“two?”

“yes… two”

tom huffed and the call was cut with no goodbye, again ,not unusual but it never failed to annoy him.

with a groan he squats down in the grass, careful not to stain his jeans neither green nor red.

he feels unseeing eyes burn his back.the body had not moved, obviously, its mouth hanged open after having its last words die on his tongue.

He doubts he would have had anything of value to say anyways.

The bastard,miserable not unlike himself, chose to go down swearing until the very end when, after the reality of his situation dawned on him, he began pleading and bargaining like he was talking to the devil. which, if you where to ask anyone else, he was.

his last words where as nonsensical as they were a threat.

Roman doubts it'll amount to anything, after all the plan was to not get caught.

as for the rest of ‘the plan’ as he likes to call it: it didn't have any more steps for now. at least until tom got here, he'll figure it out from there.

He looks up at the moon,bright and unusually big. She sat in the sky directly above him like an otherworldly spotlight parting through the clouds with little struggle,he revels in it even if just for a moment. his childish fascination with her never quite faded.

the wind continued to ruin his moment, swaying tree branches dangerously close to his face, his jacket wasn't enough to keep out the cold, shamefully he wrapped his arms around himself.

a leaf smacks him in the face. He rips the small branch out.

‘tom should be on his way already’-he thinks to distract himself- ‘if he's even coming’.

he's sure he will, where else would he go?

man of habit he is,he’ll find his way here eventually even if roman hadn't called him, he's sure of that. hed make his rounds like he always does and, eventually, they'd meet again even if he didnt move an inch until then.

he doesn't want to move really,not at all. feeling like he's putting his life on the line if he leaves the corpse alone.

walking through the dense vegetation wasn't easy, he envies the ease tom seemed to have with it.

He makes it to a clearing in the bushes, a familiar checkpoint when traversing the landscape that tom had originally shown him.

he skips right through it this time, heading for a particular tall tree that stood out against the horizon.

at its base was everything he ever needed.

Tom, with his bike and two large trash bags pooling out of his cammo vests pockets.

his head snaps to look at him once he crosses the threshold to ‘their place’.

a nice, semi enclosed area by the base of a tree older than everyone they've ever meet where a fallen log made a makeshift bench. tom was sitting on it with his bike next to him.

wordlessly and shielding his shaking hands he motions for him to follow and Tom does so with a disinterested look.

roman begins leading him to the scene.

tom jumps over the bushes roman had gotten his pants caught on before. “what did you do?” he asks, verbatim as he had done so on the phone. roman ignores him and hops over a hole in the dirt, tom follows and he helps him haul his bike over it.

they reach the clearing, small drops of water already drizzling made each blade of grass sparkle.

tom stares at them as he always does,roman assumes a certain fascination with it might exist but the boy's eyes remain as painfully neutral as they always do.

he does not bother hurrying him up as he too takes a moment to stare, only he looks up at the moon instead, trying to steady his trembling hands.

they move on once tom grows bored of watching the ants or whatever. Roman leads him to the other semi cleared area where he knew the body was.

parting the bushes for tom like the gentleman he is, he lets him take a good look at the scene before saying anything. He takes note of how wide his eyes grow as he scans the ground in front of him. a horrified look begins to paint itself on his face.

it doesn't last much, the small flash of emotion was quickly drowned out by his usual apathetic look.

“what did you do?” he asks for the third time, carefully looking at him up and down with a hint of disgust showing through the ice.

“i think its obvious” roman jumps over closer to the body and further away from tom.

“i fucked up..” he sais with his hands on his hips in a vain attempt a showmanship. “went a bit too far this time”

tom crouches down near his foot and near the man's head, his eyes go wide again when he makes eye contact with it. he watches incredulously as roman, nonchalantly, nudges an arm with his foot.

“i think i might need some help” its a bold thing to admit for someone like him, tom doesn't fail to notice it.

greyish green eyes narrow on him like a hawk and with a single precise motion he throws the trash bags at his feet.

“im not touching it” he declares with a tone that leaves no room for argument.

that's fine, a sensible boundary even. all he needed was the bike and the bags. He opens up the folded bags and lays them in the ground next to the body while avoiding his friends stare.

“welp” he announces to no one, for he knows tom isn't paying attention. “lets get to work”

with more effort than expected he sits the man,dead as he was, against a short stump.

a phone falls out of his pockets in the meanwhile, tom immediately smashes it below his foot. roman jumped “whats your problem?”

“they can track that” he stomps on it again for good measure.

“i could have sold it-”

“tell me what happened”

tomas isn't someone he’d call intimidating. the boy was as thin as one can get and a full head shorter than him, but he was hard to read. impossible even. it scared roman in a very specific way he struggled to explain.

he sighs, with the stars as witnesses he pulls the man's legs closer to his chest.

“well we were just supposed to fight. fucker slipped me a note with a date and place and i just came-uhmp!” He struggled with folding the arms over the chest.

“and?” tom pressed.

“well i had a bad day! and He was pissing me off more than usual..” he takes one last look at the mans’s face, ridden with bruises and with an undeniably broken nose, his eyes couldn't glare at him anymore. “so once i had him down i just kept stomping on his head”

it felt strange to admit it so easily. tom winced and looked away back to the clearing.roman took this as a cue to finally fit the first bag over the corpse's head. it covered it all the way to his hips as he expected.

the legs turn out to be much harder to lift than anticipated but he makes due without help. Once the two bags meet he ties them both together at various points until the body is fully secured inside, clumsily wrapped like a home cooked meal.

he giggles at the thought,Tomas glares at him again.

"we have to get this out of sight somehow" he mumbles "do you still have that shovel in your garage?"

Tom doesn't answer, but he does not freeze either. He stares intently at him, watching him struggle to balance the body on the bike;he sets it with its legs between the front bar where he,while driving, could hold it still.

struggling to drive the bike through the bushes he almost misses Tom silently walking away.

"hey!" he almost loses hold of the handles. "where are you going?"

the boy jumps the bushes into the clearing. his hair sways violently with the wind but Tomas never seemed to mind the way it covered his eyes at random.

"you want the shovel right?" he spits,not bothering to look back at him.

A smile creeps up his face and he bares his teeth like a child;far too giddy even for his own comfort he watches his friend walk away.

in the meanwhile a thought emerges, unwanted and uncalled for, a little voice inside himself that trembled and stuttered at every word like he's sure he used to 'what if he tells on you' it whispers into his ear 'what if he tells his brother'

he groans, pushing the bike up another bush. tomas wouldn't, he barely fucking talks in the first place. that won't happen.

the bag slumps forward,too distracted to catch it he lets the corpse hit its head against the front wheel.

he snorts imagining how it's nose must have flattened against it. his shoulders immediately sag after, there's a dirty feeling that comes with laughing at a corpse,no less one you've killed.

He reaches a big rock, too big to jump over,too heavy to lift and too annoying to push the bike around.

scanning the skyline he sees nothing but short,spiky bushes and scattered trees in front of him. the already dim lights of the town were completely lost from sight. the wind lifted up the sandy ground into his eyes but aside from that? it was a perfect spot.

He sets the bag on the ground, letting the bike and himself rest.

now he waits.

He can do nothing without something to dig with. He can get as many rocks out the way as he wants but that in the end doesn't take too long.

he looks up, the moon hadn't moved much from when he last saw her,now without branches to bother him the ghostly light pools over him.The stars shine brighter here in the open field, they occasionally peek from behind the rapidly moving clouds. He lets himself relax,leaning over the hard rock. even with the cold freezing his face a sigh escapes him, carelessly he kicks the bag away and rests his legs over another rock. thunders threatens to make the sky fall on him,he cant bring himself to care.

the beating inside his chest slows down for the first time since the man's head hit the floor. leaves and sand fly at his face so his eyes shut on their own.

'hes taking too long' the meek voice whispers. Tom's house was not too far, but without his bike it's quite the trip. He's not taking detours, his brother was asleep.

‘shut the fuck up’ he mentally yells at it.

his head drifts and he slowly sinks down as he lets himself lay down more and more against the rock.

ignoring the way the cold bites at his skin he rests.

with his eyes closed he can't tell if hes asleep or not until he feels movement on the bushes.

before he can open his eyes to check he's smacked in the stomach with a blunt object.

roman jumps to his feet, hands balled up and ready to fight but before him stood tomas. with a shovel.

"thank God" his hands fall to his sides again.

Tom's hands extend, silently offering him the shovel.

he takes it with a quick remark."you scared me"

tomas ignores him again and sits down on a different rock a few steps away, staring at the floor he snaps a branch off one of the nearby bushes.

"well!" he dusts his pants off, mostly to amuse himself "I better get to work now!

the shovel was small, not meant for anything more than some mild garnering or playing in the sand. it stood to about his knee when he stuck it in the ground;still he had to make this work.

bit by bit he began shoveling the sandy dirt out of the way,he would have been sweating hadn't he already been freezing.

"y'know when you mentioned-" the shovel struck a rock, he struggled to lift it up again "having a shovel I wasn't expecting it to be so-" the rocks pops out the ground successfully "small"

he complains to the wind, because tom wasn't listening and even if he was he was not going to respond.

"should have told me it was more of a toy than anything-"

"there's blood in your hands now" tom cuts him off, fancying himself a cryptic bastard all of a sudden.

roman scoffs "no there isn't,I get any on me"

the conversation, if you could even call it that, dies there. buried with the other guy most likely.

dry grass swayed, some of it stuck to his hair, some brushed at his arms and legs.

most of it he ripped off.

Tom's wordless stare burned on his back, but at least he wasn't alone. his own heartbeat set a rhythm for the shovel going in and out the dirt. the mount behind him grew bigger as the stars moved closer to the Horizon.

"it's 4:36 already" the boy spoke up eventually.

roman took the last bit of dirt off the hole. "I'm almost done" carelessly he began pushing the bag into the it with his foot.

tomas waits for the wind to quit loudly howling on their ears to speak again . "my brother wakes up at 5:30"

he clicks his tongue, being a little meaner than he intended "I don't care-"

"he'll notice if I'm gone,give me the shovel back"

roman ignores him, instead hitting the bag with it, making it go down further into the dirt.

"give me 5 more minutes with it" he argues, not bothering to wait for a response.

quickly he covers the hole back up and, as soon as he dusts his hands and before he declares his work done, tom rips the shovel out of his hands. roman doesn't protest when their eyes lock for a second too long.

he stares at the ground where he knows the body is. only shooting a goodbye to Tom once he hears him pick his bike up.

he doesn't doubt the boy waved at him.

he always did.

He picked his bike up and drove through the terrain like it was nothing, roman knows he has been here before, but he doubts he'll come back.

confidently roman adds ‘corpses’ to his (mental and very short) list of things he knows tomas does not like.it sat comfortably next to some classics like: ‘talking’,‘strawberries’ and ‘staying still’

he giggles at it, although more concerning probably was that he couldn't name a single thing tom liked aside from walking and probably the color green, nor a single other person he knew aside from himself and his brother.

a brother that to this day remained unnamed.

He has fun imagining what he'd be like sometimes, there's plenty of time to kill during the day after all.

‘he probably wouldn't like to meet you’ a weaker version of himself comments, he ignores it.

a single drop soaking through his jacket was enough to drag him back to reality.

the clouds had grown darker, they obscured the moon completely now.

he fills his chest with the salty humid air one last time before turning his back on the burial and heading back the same way Tom had.

he avoids the kill site and prays to no god in particular that the rain was enough to wash it all clean. it was starting to pick up now so the world might be on his side after all.

He reaches the port before he does any roads, the rotten wooden docks left much to be desired but he was used to them now, as a child he had enjoyed watching the crabs that lived under it bury themselves in the sand. the river led directly to the sea. Fisher boats rested on the sand,some new and shiny, most rusted and abandoned for tourists to take pictures next to.

bright yellow street lamps made the raindrops much more evident.

taking the chance he looked at his reflection in a closed storefront, he looked as he always had,just a bit more wet. his mask was getting a bit uncomfortable but it stayed on.

the paved road was the longest way back but he takes it anyway,more mud on his shoes wouldn't be ideal. He blindly walks until he reaches one of the two main roads in the town with a stoplight in it. he turns right, avoiding walking by it for too long, the backstreets being even more empty if this was possible.

thunder roared above him and a smile tugged at his lips. almost immediately the light rain turned into a violent outpour,but that didn't matter, he could see his house from here already.

doing his best to not wake anyone up Roman limbs to his window like he always does though this time the heavy rain helps disguise the noise.

before he sets foot inside,still sitting on the windowsill, he take this shoes off and carries them to the bathroom.

the jacket lands in the floor and his pants on top of the toilet as he tears his soaked clothes off without much care and almost trips trying to plug the hairdryer on.

he sets it balanced against a shampoo bottle and pointing at his jacket, hoping to dry it while he, using a random brush his mom used to clean the ceramic, aggressive cleaned the mud off his shoes in the shower.

in the meantime the rain got worse-or better if you where to ask him. his mom's carefully pruned garden began to flood and soon so did the street. the dirt ones-he assumes-aren't doing much better.

he gets giddy at what that means for him tonight.

He dries his clothes, washes his hair and cleans his shoes. by the time he's done it's nearing 7am already.

he goes to sleep, the rain still falling above the house served well for white noise.

the trees outside slammed their branches into his window but his eyes remained shut.

the brewing storm outside promised flow but he didn't care.

his brother was snoring again, he could hear it even with the wind whistling louder and louder. javier was a heavy sleeper, tomas envied him for that.

deep breath after deep breath he failed to fall asleep for the third night in a row,though at least today he had more of an excuse. the branches scratching at his window are more than distracting.

he stares at the back of his eyelids for some time, he can feel the gears on his alarm clock ticking,the hands moving

every second.

every minute.

every hour.

it marked 2:30 am.

too tired to sleep, Tomas springs out of his bed in frustration.

his feet blindly find his slippers and he's off to the hallway in less than 3 steps.

he takes a practiced route to the kitchen, practically blind he feels the texture of the floor change From the more textured tiles of the hallway to the smooth, cream colored ones on the kitchen. he pries his eyes open but the darkness doesn't get any better until he hits the light switch next to the door.

the wind makes the windows shake and creak, it drowns over the sound of the cabinet opening perfectly.

the movement is near automatic when he fills a small pot with water and sets it on the stove. tomas opens the gas tank and lights the burner on.

from a small box his mother had left them behind he takes a teabag while the water boils.

the kitchen small window leaked the same way it had been leaking since they where kids, tomas stepped over the small puddle to grab his cup from the cabinet and brew himself something warm.

as he blows on it, the phone at the corner of the room lights up.

at this hour and with this climate there was only one person that could call.

so,at this hour and with this climate tom let's it ring for a minute or two while stirring his drink.

roman is persistent, and eventually he lets himm get his way.

"tom thank god-" wind came through the other end stronger than his voice.

"what do you want"

he hears roman swallow "I need your help"

aware of how those words burned his tongue yhe lets them sit in the air.

Uncaring, he waits for roman to get tired of waiting.

"it's important" he clarifies uselessly "let's meet at out spot shall we?" he rushed over his words, trembling slightly.

the cold must be getting to him-tomas thinks. he wraps his hand around the warm mug and takes a sip, loudly savoring it.

he can feel roman grow impatient.

"what did you do" he asks him, wary of the volume in his voice to not wake his brother up even with the incoming storm raging outside.

roman swallows, he hears the gears on his head turning even though the heavy winds. his tongue clicks a few times while he's lost in thought.

“i cant tell you right now.just come here”

tomascarefully eyes the hallway, still dark and with only javi's snores coming through.he gave a long sigh.

“my brother's sleeping” he said,more so as a comment than an excuse.

“do i look like i care?" roman growled at him, needlessly angry like always “bring your bike too if you're coming”

he went quiet again, tomas wished he could see his face at least. He hated talking through the phone.

he hears him take another deep breath, “two trash bags too if you happen to have any”

the wind filled the silence on both sides,his brother was still sleeping.

“two?” tomas eyes the drawer where javier keeps them.

“yes… two”

he hangs up,taking another sip in the meanwhile.

the dots are not hard to connect, it was going to happen eventually.

his fingers curled tightly around the cup.

with a deep breath tomas dumps the remaining tea down the drain and rushes to the hallway.

at the end of it was his brothers door, halfway open and with its handle poorly painted.

"javi" he calls out, quiet enough to not wake him up but loud enough that if he where to be awake he'd hear it.

the only answer he gets is a loud snore.

avoiding looking at himself in the hallway mirror like always he makes his way to his room.

the curtains where drawn, the orange fabric tinted gray by the dark sky behind it.

He closes the blinds like he should have before going to sleep.

his bedsheets were still in the mess he had left them in and they will stay like that for now.

tomas changes out of his old pajama shorts in favor of a pair of dark jeans, over his shirt he throws on a dark long sleeved one and then a puffy vest after hearing the wind seemingly pick up even more.

he doesn't take his phone with him, roman was an idiot for taking his.

He stands before the wooden door now, heavy and old it'll surely wake javier up if he opens it. the keys dangling were already too noisy for him to feel safe holding them. The 3 locks taunted him. not to mention the extra bar door outside with its extra two locks, he took his eyes away from it when the window creaked once again.

it led to the patio, right in front of the grill they never use.

he took off the teaspoon that had been acting as a lock for years now after the wooden hook had snapped on an storm not too dissimilar from this one.

the wind immediately threw the glass open and he fought to keep them from slapping against the wall.

tomas grinded his teeth, climbing on top of the couch and pilling on the cushions behind him to block the window he eventually took the small leap into the outside.

immediately he doubled over shivering. warm air form his mouth formed vapor clouds in front of him.

he rushed down the stairs to the street, taking a sharp turn to the garage he where fiddles for a minute with the lock. the gates draw sand with them when they open and next to javiers beat up sienna was his bike, slightly rusted from pedaling in the sand.

the fig tree swayed it's branches dangerously low to the ground and to his face, it slapped the back of his head as a goodbye when he jumps the front gate.

he braces himself under the yellow streetlight, getting on his bike the wind hits even harder.

knowing the dirt street like the back of his hands he swiftly dodges potholes and rocks. passing by the same houses he always did, Tomas takes the last street along to the beach all the way to the very back of the town.

his heart races when he spots the bushes he's about to go into.

the empty, wild terrain, was uninhabited.tainted only sometimes and near the road with attempts at building makeshift houses or old tent set ups abandoned. he never bothered fucking with any of them.

above the unfinished foundation and trash stood an unfinished two story house, all bare bricks except for it's roof which had surprisingly been finished but now was partially caving in.

he ignored it for now. he knew what it's inside looked like down to every graffiti painted, but it served as a nice checkpoint to know where he was going.

turning a sharp left from the front of the house where the bushes began to become trees one large one stood out, literally, above the rest.

his second checkpoint.

‘their spot'

he gets there with ease, and now he waits. thankfully not for long.

the cold humid air was soured when roman, panting and trembling, jumped over the bushes to meet him.

he doesn't say as much as a hello. only becoming him to follow.

so Tomas, against his better judgment and like he always does, follows.

looking from side to side every time a leaf swayed Roman led the way, clearly not comfortable having his back turned on him he looks back to meet green tired eyes multiple times. they narrow on him, and tomas is sure he can feel it.

“what did you do” he asks, just like he had before.

roman stutters in his step, almost tripping on the grass, but he doesn't respond. he silently offers help to haul his bike over a hole,tomas takes it.

they reach a clearing in the trees soon enough. the air became thick and uncomfortable almost immediately. it's an energy tomas can't describe, but he's sure he knows what it is deep inside.

he stops, bowing his head down to think.

roman gladly waits for him, spelling out that he, in a way, didn't want to continue either;he stares at the moon with silent guilt weighing his eyes.

they moved on eventually, when tomas wraps his head around the atmosphere and roman quits brooding the later parts the bushes for the former.

tom jumps without looking ahead.

previously blocked by Romans back he saw a man, unconscious, laying in the grass.

his eyes glazed over.

his mouth hanged open.

his face with no spot left unbruised.

he saw a man,dead, laying on the grass

“what did you do?” tomas asks for the third time. eyeing Roman up and down with barely disguised disgust showing I'm his eyes.

“i think its obvious” roman jumps over closer to the body and further away from himself. “i fucked up” he says with faux boredom coating his tongue “went a bit too far this time”

tomas crouches down near the man's head, inspecting with a heavy hearth it's expression twisted in a final scream of anguish.

he watches incredulously as roman, with needles fake casualty nudges an arm with his foot. “i think i might need some help”

tomas, understaiding, tosses the bags his way. “I'm not touching it”

roman huffs.

“welp” he announces, ignoring the way tomas burns his eyes into him “lets get to work”

tomas watches him struggle with the body, trying to make it sit.

the man's phone falls out his Pockets and he panics. He immediately smashes it below his foot.

roman jumped “whats your problem?”

“they can track that” he stomps on it again for good measure.

“i could have sold it-” roman whines.

“tell me what happened” he more or less barks at him, wincing at the volume of his own voice.

roman gives a shaky sigh, pleading to the sky for strength to help him pull the man's legs closer to his chest while he talks.

“well,we were just supposed to fight” his gaze drifted over the body, faltering for only one second before continuing.

“fucker slipped me a note with a date and place and i just came-uhmp!” he interrupted himself, struggling with the bodies limbs.

“and?” tom pressed.

“well i had a bad day! and He was pissing me off more than usual..” he splutters, throwing the dead man a Nasty look like he could see it. “so once i had him down i just kept stomping on his head”

his gut twists in disgust. roman, completely occupied with the task at hand, didn't notice.

he turns his eyes back to the clearing where the soft grass swayed in the strong wind.

tomas hears roman fitting the bags over the man. a soft giggle, tone-deaf if you where to ask him, leaves his lips when he finishes. he doesn't know what came first, if the head or the legs but when he turns his head to glare at roman the man is fully covered.

"we have to get this out of sight somehow”

roman talks to himself.

tomas bites his tongue.‘we is a strong word’

unaware roman keeps going "do you still have that shovel in your garage?”

not waiting for an answer roman grabs his bike like it belonged to him and,with little consideration for its owner standing behind him, balances the bags on it.

he hopes he can feels his eyes burning his back.

he watches, still struggling to believe it all, how his friend handled the corpse like it was no more than an inconvenience, cursing quietly to himself trying to thread the bike over a bush.

he'd love to be surprised to see the utter lack of care on the man's eyes.

he's grown accustomed to it,it always lingered whenever he talked about anything that wasn't himself,though tomas struggled to call him narcissistic; there's a slight difference between believing you're above everything and believing everything is below you.

a certain nihilism always accompanies the latter. he knew this to be true, roman wasn't particularly shy about it. pessimistic anger coated his every word when they pertained to the world outside their own bubble.

he watches the only person outside his own brother that he's directed as much as a word towards in the last 6 months struggle with the corpse of the man he’d just killed.

silently as always, he makes a choice and jumps into the clearing.

"hey!" his friend calls out "where are you going?"

"you want the shovel right?" He avoids romans eyes. not letting him see the guilt welling on his own.

As soon as he's out of sight he sprints through the trees, blindly jumping and dodging until he hits the road again. out of breath he pushes himself, filling his mind with every minute detail of the dirt road below his feet to black out any other thoughts.

his chest burns already when he reaches his own street. With Every step he took he could imagine his brother, arms crossed in the kitchen table, maybe drinking a coffee, maybe staring coldly at the door. waiting for him.

his voice, always weighed down with worry, would ask him where he went; and tomas, the weak man he is, would not be able to lie.

not to him.

he reaches the crossroad his house sat on, old and weathering with a certain charm that was lost in everyone but him.

the lights were all off still.

he jumps the first ,low, gate.going up the concrete stairs only to peek inside .he saw the kitchen empty. his legs give up in relief but his heart still pounds on his throat.

he went down the stairs again, letting his eyes linger on every leaf the tree besides it had to offer. in summer,it would blossom in beautiful pink but the wind didn't let him entertain that idea too much.

it didn't take him long to find the shovel. he gripped it in his hands like his life depended on it, but he didnt take off with it, not instantly as he’s sure roman would hope.

he could turn back. climb back up the stairs and go back to bed.

he could call the police too, but the thought of not seeing roman again didn't feel right.

only once did he consider himself behind bars too, it occurred to him in that moment that he cared very little where he got to spend the rest of his life, only his brother's imaginary disappointed-no- disgusted glare really moved him.

forcing himself to make a choice he again picks the worse one and takes off running again, now with the shovel clenched tightly to his chest

he gets to the crime scene and runs north from there, following the tracks of his own bike in what little dirt was left uncovered by vegetation.

roman;the man of the hour, sleep like a baby on a rock.he envied him really.

slowly he approached, stalking just above the grass like a predator about to pounce, he sees the man stir as he raises the shovel.

in an anger fuelled attempt at playfulness tomas hits roman in the stomach with non insignificant strength.

roman yells and jumps to his feet, fists clumsily balled up in mockery of what could be a fighting stance. his eyes focus soon enough tough and he lets his hands fall.

“thank god, you scared me” he lets the shovel be handed to him with no comment.tomas sits down on a different rock a few steps away, staring at the floor he snaps a branch off one of the nearby bushes.

"well!" roman dusts his pants off for show "I better get to work now!

blindly he hears him struggle and lift the dirt from off the ground, occasionally feeling specks of it fly into his face.

"y'know when you mentioned-" the shovel struck a rock, roman struggled to lift it up again "having a shovel I wasn't expecting it to be so-" he pops it out the ground "small"

he complains like always, not really waiting for a response. even now tomas appreciated it to some degree.

not enough to fully ignore everything sadly.

"should have told me it was more of a toy than anything-"

"there's blood in your hands now" tomas cuts his rambling off with a warning. a remainder he hopes will make it through that thick skull.

roman scoffs "no there isn't,I get any on me" he deflects, simple but effective it sent a very clear message.

‘i dont care’

silence,like always, is king between the both of them until tomas checks his watch.

"it's 4:36 already" he spoke up.

roman took the last bit of dirt off the hole. "I'm almost done" carelessly he began pushing the bag into the hole with his foot.

distantly the wind kept howling. tomas waited for it before he spoke again.

"my brother wakes up at 5:30"

javier still had work early in the morning on saturdays.

roman clicked his tongue "I don't care-"

"he'll notice if I'm gone,give me the shovel back"

tomas demanded,but roman didn't listen, instead hitting the bag with it, making it go down further into the dirt.

"give me 5 more minutes with it" he argues. Tomas doesn't even bother to look back to him, nodding a yes hes sure roman didnt turn around for.

quickly he covers the hole back up and, as soon as he dusts his hands and before he declares his work done, tom rips the shovel out of his hands. roman doesn't protest when their eyes lock.

he runs again for the fourth time that night, reluctantly waving on his way out, mostly out of habit.

hes only a couple of steps away from his house when the sky gives in.

making his way into the kitchen he can hear his brother still snoring loudly in his room.

He throws his clothes into the washer with the rest of the pile and starts the cycle, careful not to make too much noise, before going back to bed.

#wadds art #argieoc art #argieoc lore #tomas rossi oc #roman amado oc #THEYRE FRIENDS I SWEAR #this is just them at their worst

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