#*slams fists on table* cowboy au

[sounds-of-some-day]

both soulmate WIPs please !!

Reposted without all the typos and tense issues this time.

Soulmate AU #1 is the one I talked about here, where soulmates feel/share a portion of their soulmate’s pain

Soulmate AU #2 is the more traditional take on soulmates, where Tony and Steve live and share many many lives together. Also inspired by (the beginning) of a Capri fic.

The summary would go something like this-ish:

“Sometimes they are nothing more than a passing moment in one another’s lives. Sometimes they grow old together. Sometimes only Steve remembers. Other times it’s only Tony who remembers. Sometimes they both remember. Sometimes they die at the same time. Sometimes one dies long before the other. But one thing always remains constant.

I’ll find you in the next life. I always do.”

Basically it would go through a bunch of their lives together (cowboys in the wild west, Tony is Natasha, Steve is a famous Renaissance painter, Tony is a king and Steve his loyal knight, etc...), going through those scenarios and a few others, where the last one there, they are soldiers in WW1 and Steve dies in battle and is almost immediately reborn (in 1918) but Tony lives a lot longer and isn’t reborn until 1970, and... you know where this is going. 

Also, the idea is no one’s supposed to remember their former lives, but for some reason Stony (almost) always do. 

And I woke up this morning and wrote this way-longer-than-a-snippet of one of their lives for you. I hope you enjoy! (It is a VERY different style for me...)

~.~.~

I Always Do (Part One)

In the small seaside village of Brok’lyn, in the kingdom of N’york, long since forgotten by time, a small blond haired boy, at least twenty pounds underweight, gets caught trying to steal a fish. The boy had thought he had been so careful, waiting in the shadows until the merchant’s back was turned, but now, a strong hand, gripped tightly around his thin wrist, yanks him violently into the light, wrenching his shoulder painfully. The merchant glares at him with cruel eyes.

It is late in the evening, the sun rolling casually along the horizon before it sinks beneath the earth. The few remaining fish that are left in the barrel will soon be tossed in the gutters for the alley cats, but the callous merchant doesn’t care. No one dares to steal from Rumlow, and gets away with it – no matter how young and undernourished they may be.

“You dare try to steal from me, boy?” the man asks, causing a scene, for that’s exactly what he wants. He wants to cause a scene, so that everyone around knows that he’s not one to be trifled with. Eyes of those who are passing by meet the eyes of the boy and then quickly turn away. Everyone already knows they shouldn’t mess with Rumlow. Quick to anger, he’s known for both starting and finishing drunken brawls at the local pub.

The boy doesn’t answer. He knows there is nothing that he can say that can save him now. 

“Scrawny little thing, aren’t you?” the man says. “You’re probably diseased and now you’ve ruined all of my fish. I’ll have to toss them out.”

The boy’s eyes narrow, but he still doesn’t speak. 

Brok’lyn is a small village; what little importance it serves to the kingdom of N’york comes from its lone port on the village’s eastern shore. It is here, next to the port, that one finds the court. The court is staffed by only one guard, and one clerk, who generally pass their days peacefully playing cards together. It is here that Rumlow drags the boy, demanding recompense. 

But the boy has no money, that’s why he was stealing the fish in the first place. They turn out the pockets of his pants and his threadbare jacket, but nary a cent falls from within. 

The guard and the clerk convene, debating momentarily about just letting the boy go. After all, he’s only a child, and clearly in need of help more than punishment. But Rumlow slams his big, beefy fists on the table, and he yells in the clerk’s face, screaming that he deserves compensation.

The clerk turns to the guard, at a loss, but the guard has an idea. 

Didn’t The Iron Knave recently dock at the port? The captain is a bit eccentric, certainly, his crew little more than a band of ruffians, but he might be willing to purchase the boy’s debt. The boy’s a bit young to be a cabin boy, and he hasn’t got any training, but the captain of The Iron Knave has been known to adopt the odd wayward soul in the past. Half the man’s crew are former criminals. And, perhaps, more importantly, the captain is known to be kind.

And if not all of The Iron Knave’s business is entirely above board, well, most of it is above board, and the clerk is inclined to overlook the few illegal transactions that take place, given that the captain often smuggles desperately needed medicine into the poor coastal village.

And so it was decided. The captain purchased the boy’s debt, Rumlow received compensation for nearly five times the value of an entire day’s worth of fish, and the boy found himself kneeling on the wooden deck of The Iron Knave, the ship creaking slightly as the sails picked up the wind.

“Get up,” the captain orders, and the boy quickly complies. “What’s your name?”

For a moment the boy considers not answering. For a moment the boy considers attempting to jump overboard. They are still close enough to the shore that he could make the swim. He’d done it, once before, when the last captain that he’d come face to face with had found him stowed away in the ship’s cargo hold. 

His mother had snuck him aboard that ship, squeezing his hand tightly as she made him promise to stay hidden, to stay safe, to seek a better life in the United Kingdoms of Am’rica than she could provide for him in the Kingdom of Ir’land. She was going to die soon. She knew it, and though she tried to keep it hidden from him, the boy knew it, too. She’d been coughing up blood for weeks. 

He hadn’t meant to break his promise, hadn’t meant to let his mother down. But the old woman who had befriended him, who had offered him food, she’d been caught, and she had turned him in as a plea for mercy. 

That ship’s captain had been heartless, and he’d thrown the boy overboard in the hopes that he would drown. 

But this captain, this captain seems different. His eyes are deep pools of brown, and there is a kindness in them that the boy hasn’t seen in anyone since his mother. 

“Steve,” the boy says, and it’s only partially a lie. His real name is Stíofán, but the people of Am’rica always mangle it with their clumsy tongues.

As soon as he says his name, the captain stills, tilting his head to one side as he studies the boy, his brow furrowed. There’s a hint of something in his eyes, something like recognition, but the fleeting moment is gone in an instant, and Steve wonders if perhaps he imagined it. 

“Well, Steve,” the captain says, turning his face away, and his voice seems to be choked with emotion. “Are you prepared to serve aboard the The Iron Knave?”

“Yes,” Steve says quietly. 

“And are your hands just as quick for legal activities as they are for theft?” the captain asks. 

Of course the captain would have been made aware of his crime. Steve casts his eyes to the deck in shame. “Yes.”

“And what about for illegal activities?” the captain asks.

Steve’s eyes flash up to meet the captain’s, who gives him a wry sort of smirk. “Aye,” Steve says. “For those, too.”

“Then welcome to The Iron Knave,” the captain says, extending his hand to Steve. “I’m Captain Tony Stark.”

And so begins a long, adventurous life together.

Unfortunately, not all of their lives are so easy.

[pars-ley]

Fists and a Smart mouth

Pairing: Namjoon x female reader 

Summary: When a rich cowboy moves into town you can't stand him, more so when he attempts to make some drastic changes but with a secret of your own he soon finds out that you'll protect your town and your privacy by any means necessary.

Genre: Idiots to lovers / Enemies to lovers / Angst / Smut / Wild west au / Cowboy au / One shot

Rating: 18+ (NSFW)

Warnings: Abusive ex / Mentions of stabbing (not detailed description) / Guns / Talk of scars / Shooting (not described) / Oral (f receiving) / Sex / Minor character death

Word count: 8100

Project: Bts writers collective secret santa 2020

A/N: This is for my Secret Santa @joontopia​ I was not planning it to be anything like this but it took on a mind of it’s own as I wrote, so my apologies. It’s not the fluffiest thing I’ve written but I really, really hope you enjoy this. If you have an issue with any of the warnings, message me and I will try and edit it for you. It was really lovely getting to know you through asks and trolling your page for clues and info about yourself. Enjoy ❤

Thank you to @moccahobi​ for beta reading this and @birbdae​ also, your comments helped me a lot, it’s much appreciated. And thank you to @wheresmymoniat​ for being a general angel and reading along the way, with your endless encouragement when I’m unsure of my writing.

Two months since Namjoon moved to town.

"Have you heard?" one of your usual patrons, Hoseok, asked, leaning discreetly across the bar.

You look over with a questioning eyebrow. "Heard what?" you reply, half listening and half keeping an eye on Taehyung over on the piano. After one too many beers, you wanted to make sure he wasn't about to put a fist through the keys, with his wild playing; giving the room a personal concert.

"Namjoon's planning on building a mall." he whispers, glancing around suspiciously.

The empty glass you're drying slams against the counter as you turn and face him. 

"How do you know this?" you ask, voice low and uneven with anger.

"I heard him talking to Seokjin about it, he wants his help with planning."

Seokjin, the local and resident builder, he's also the best builder in the state. You knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't want to help with something like that. He wouldn't want to change this town...but maybe for the right price? We all know Namjoon has money, the way he flashes it around like a Hollywood star meant it was not a secret and he didn't want it to be. Even so, you highly doubt Seokjin would accept such an offer.

Doubt starts creeping in, an ugly voice whispering in the back of your mind.

"Hey, Jimin! Can you take over for me?" you call over to him. 

He nods, joining you behind the bar instantly, as you grab your brown fringe-jacket and head out to Seokjin's ranch. You had to know if there was substance to this and not just rumours whispered between the townsfolk.

As your truck raced along the dirt roads, the sound of the roaring engine doing nothing to calm your mind, with flashing images, slicing their way behind your eyes like projector slides. Big corporate buildings, a shopping mall, more city folk, modernisation...not that you were against it. You just didn't want it here. That's what drew you to this place in the beginning a few years ago, that's why you stayed and built a life for yourself, that's why a lot of people stay here, for the vintage, small town life.

You fling your door open before your truck had even come to a stop and you waltzed straight up to Seokjin's front door. Your knuckles making loud contact as they rapped furiously against it.

He opens it with a frown, his face softening when he sees it's you but quickly his expression turns weary from the tense expression you hold.

"What's-"

"Are you helping Namjoon build a mall?" you demand, in no mood to be messed around.

His jaw tenses and he nods for you to come inside.

Storming into his living room too infuriated  to sit, you stand and face him, arms folded, waiting for his response and dreading his answer.

"He did approach me about it but I said no. Did you really think I'd say anything but?" He shook his head at you, disappointment obvious on his face and immediate guilt rising inside you in response.

Your shoulders relax as you let out a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding. "I had to check before I assumed anything."

You slump down on the sofa, leaning your head back and staring up at his slacked ceiling. "Why is he doing this?"

He lets out a laugh as he joins you on the couch. "Now, you know the answer to that. Money. It's all he cares about. He saw an opportunity for something and he's taking it. End of."

You rub your eyes, trying to ease the tension created from your anger pounding inside your head, desperate to escape like some caged, wild animal. "If I went to see him with my gun, do you think it would change his mind?"

He laughs again. "I don't think he'd change his mind even if you shot him, sweetheart." A groan rumbles inside you, the idea of him being so stubborn, makes your fist want to connect with his jaw. "That's not deterring me from doing it."

"If he's going to do it, there's not much we can do." he shrugs and puts his feet up on his wooden coffee table, the wood dipping slightly on impact.

Fury lights your insides anew. You stand, striding across the room, "Like hell there isn't." you say, as you storm out and head off ready for a confrontation with the person you hate the most in this entire town.

You expect your wrath to have died down somewhat on your ride over but, to your pleasant surprise, it hasn't.

You come to a halt outside his ranch, looking over his land and the new building he spent ages preparing to become a hotel...an empty one at that.

After hammering on his door so hard the hinges rattled, he strangely and calmly invites you inside his house.

"You really should see someone about your anger issues. It's not healthy for one person to harbour so much...rage." he says, in such a condescending manner you clench your jaw to stop yourself from lashing out. You'd only be proving him right. 

Something about him got to you, you two have clashed since the moment he arrived in this town, and he knew exactly how to play it too.

"The only issue I have, Namjoon, is you."

He sighs. "I would very much like you on board with this. I don't want to have you fighting the inevitable."

"The inevitable." you gasp with angered amusement, "as long as I'm living in this town, this is anything but inevitable."

"Why do you hate this idea so much?" he asks perplexed, with simultaneous interest and bemusement.

"Someone like you would not understand." You fold your arms in an attempt to hold in the pointless angry words you feel boiling inside.

He shrugs. "I would like to try. Humour me."

You let out an exasperated sigh, tired of the anger, tired of being so closed off but you had no choice but to be exactly that. "Some people have come here to enjoy the small town life." you reply simply, not having the trust in him or yourself to say more.

"And maybe some people have come here to escape something?" 

You freeze, heart stopping before pounding so violently against your ribcage, you're sure it's echo fills the room.

He watches you carefully, searching your eyes and all you can do is stare back.

"You know, I did some research after our first encounter…"

You swallow, trying to ease the choking sensation in your throat.

"...I'm usually good at finding any useful information about people…"

He walks slowly around his kitchen island to you. You couldn't move even if you wanted to, your feet frozen to the spot but wanting to run, fighting for you to run.

"...But you...I couldn't find a single thing about you."

Your eyes connect with his as he towers above you, searching for your own answers, needing to find out what he knows.

"Don't you find that odd?" he asks.

Your mind races inside your frozen stature. You could not tell a man like Namjoon anything. You could not trust him. He will ruin this life you've made and turn it upside down.

"Well, I found it very odd. It's like you don't even exist...so that got me intrigued and asking some questions."

Your stomach drops as small beads of sweat break out across your forehead, the sudden heat under your flannel shirt almost unbearable.

"And do you know what I found out?" he taps his chin, drawing out the tension purposefully and making you want to headbutt the smug look off his face.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No one knows a personal thing about you."

The relief you feel inside makes you want to collapse to your knees and thank gods you don’t believe in.

"That is, if they're being honest. I know you like to protect your own in communities like this. But it definitely has me wondering…?"

He waits for a response this time.

"What?" your voice comes out a raspy whisper, his words leaving the taste of ash in your dry mouth.

"What are you hiding?"

You steel yourself, remembering just how pathetic of a man he is and let's face it, you've dealt with much scarier things than him. "Even if I was hiding something, I'd certainly never tell the likes of you."

You turn and head towards his door, when you hear his voice again. 

"I'm not stupid enough to believe we'll be friends, you know but I would like us to at least be civil."

You let out a bitter laugh. "You can keep dreaming, pretty boy." You storm out, slamming his door hard enough for the glass to rattle in it’s wooden frame.

Three and a half months since Namjoon moved to town.

He's wasted, completely inebriated. You watch from behind the bar, getting ready to close, as he fumbles for the keys to his truck.

He came quietly into the bar this afternoon, face like thunder, ordering drink, after drink, after drink, no other words spoken. Most unusual for the chatty Kathy he is.

You've never seen him so drunk - so vulnerable. You wonder if perhaps something has happened. But, honestly, do you really care?

The keys slam to the floor and he goes head first into the driver's side door as he bends to retrieve them, face down in the dirt.

You shouldn't let him drive home. Definitely not.

Quickly shrugging on your jacket and grabbing your keys, locking the bar doors behind you as you rush over to him.

"Hey, big guy, come on, let's get you up." you throw his arm around your shoulders and use all your strength to get him on his feet and on balance. 

"I don't...need...your help." he mumbles, leaning into you, almost ready to pass out.

You open his truck door and shove him in, sliding him over as you climb in beside him. He doesn't notice as you pry the keys from his weak grip and start the engine.

Driving to his ranch would be a mistake; the pretentious layout of it would mean you would have to walk him much further than you think you actually could. Not without dropping him a few times, although that's not a bad idea.

You sigh as you drive down the winding dirt road that led to your land. The idea of having this man in your house would usually have infuriated you. But after seeing the sadness that clouded his eyes this morning you...felt for him.

You once told him he must have a miserable existence, being surrounded by money and not love. You wince at the memory. You were no different, except you weren't surrounded by either, how miserable does that make you?

As you pull up to your ranch, you look over to him, passed out, face squashed against the glass of the window. You wonder what secrets he must have, what sadness he's known, what dreams he’s had. How does someone get to be the way he is? 

There are surely a few people who would ask that very question about you. Only, you had a reason...have a reason. One you will never be free from. You push the thoughts away, back down into the pit they're buried into. No time to dwell in self pity. You're in this position through no fault but you're own, you bought it on yourself and now you have to live with those choices. 

You practically carry him the few steps to the front door and over to the sofa. He stumbles and almost trips over your rug but you hoist him up, almost injuring yourself in the process. You practically throw him onto the couch, where he tries to hold himself up but fails and collapses into the pillow you shove under him.

"I wish…" he starts, slurring every word. "I wish I was more like you." 

"No, you don't." You reply into the thick silence that envelopes you in a inescapable cage.

His eyelids close and immediately a roar of snoring fills the room, vibrating not only your eardrums but you're sure the walls too.

You lift his legs and lay them flush with his body, his limbs are so long they hang off over the armrest.

Taking one last look at him and wondering exactly what he meant by that, before heading upstairs to bed.

Why would anyone want to be like you?

The day after you let Namjoon sleep on your couch.

You had taken longer than necessary in the shower this morning, pottered around upstairs, procrastinating, which is something you rarely do and all to avoid the man you'd left slumped unconscious on your couch.

You listen for any signs of movement down stairs and when you hear none, part of you hopes he's gone. That he woke up early and drove home, no awkward encounter, no questions, just peace.

You should be so lucky.

As you descend your wooden stairs, you hear the rattle of snoring and roll your eyes.

He lay on his stomach, face squashed on its side with limbs splayed out and hands sagged against your rug.

How were you going to get rid of him?

You prepare a few things in the kitchen before taking some pain killers and a glass of water over. 

You nudge him tentatively with your foot. Nothing. Nudging him again, harder this time, but still nothing.

"Hey." You call harshly into the heavy silence. Nothing.

Inspiration strikes, as your hand lashes out, flicking the glass forward and sending water cascading over him.

He jumps up with a gasp, bolt upright, shock contorting his face.

You bite back a laugh at the sight of his drenched form.

His eyes widen when he focuses on you and then dart around wildly searching for answers.

"I drove you home last night as you could hardly stand but you passed out so I brought you here." You explain in a blasé manner. 

Holding out the pills, he takes them mechanically. 

"I'll just refill your water for you." You skip off with a smirk. His wet hair clinging to his forehead, little water droplets dripping off the end of his nose. The sight deeply satisfying, in more ways than one. As much as you would never admit it, he looked good wet.

He swallows the pills and greedily downs the water you return with. Gasping for air, he finally meets your gaze. "We didn't…" he stumbles on his words and you laugh loudly.

"Trust me, you were in no condition for anything physical last night."

A hint of a smile plays around his mouth but he tries to fight it. "That doesn't sound like you're completely repulsed by the idea?" One of his eyebrows pulls up into a challenging arch.

"Ha! If you were the last man on earth and the human race was left depending on us to continue, only then would I possibly consider it."

A shy smile and a dimple creating an endearing crevice in his cheek. "Well that's not a complete no, so I'll take that."

You shake your head, amused, if not a little perplexed by him.

He sighs, wiping down his damp jeans. "Well, I suppose I better get out of your hair." He stands, seeming slightly unsteady and visibly in pain as he clutches his head. 

"Why don't you stay for breakfast, have some coffee then I'll drive you back to your place in the truck?"

He stares at you with his mouth popped open in a little 'o', the same expression you imagine looking at yourself with. Where in the fuck did that come from? Have you forgotten who he is? 

"If that's ok with you, that would be great...unless you're planning to poison me?" There's humour in his remark but a sincere worry too.

You chuckle as you head over to the stove, switching it on and cracking some eggs into the heated frying pan, the sizzle filling the silence. "I can assure you, I'm more of a 'violence is the answer' type person, in case that wasn't obvious already."

You smile to yourself at the memory of the very first day you met. 

He'd backed his truck into yours, denting the hood and completely knocking off the bumper before driving home. You had greeted him in his living room, not bothering to knock, just letting yourself in, backing him into a corner and threatening him with a wrench. The image of his wide eyed, frozen form brought you a fresh wave of satisfaction as he handed you a wad of cash and uttered frantic apologies. 

"Hmm, so I recall." He replies, brows furrow in thought as he takes a seat at your table, clearly his mind travelling to the same place yours is. You'd gotten off entirely on the wrong foot, and if you were honest, still continued to.

"How do you like your eggs?" 

He smirks. "I'm assuming, 'with a kiss' is pushing it."

You shoot him a glare, even though you feel amusement tug at your lips.

He holds his hands up. "Fair enough, as they come will be fine."

Once breakfast is done, you drive him home, smiling and laughing more than you thought possible with him, you realise he's actually quite humorous when he's not torturing you by his existence. 

You stand awkwardly by his truck waiting for him to say words that are clearly trying to escape from his mouth but he seems to be having trouble forming.

"Thank you...for last night...and this morning. You've been surprisingly kind, even if I really don't deserve it." He looks at his feet while clutching his hat tightly, looking utterly innocent and fragile, suddenly seeming like a much younger man standing in front of you. 

"Don't mention it. It won't happen again, don't worry." You smile playfully as you knock on his truck and leave, feeling his eyes watching you as you saunter off down the dirt road to work.

"I'm sorry, did I just hear that right?" Seokjin asks, his voice shrill, shock making his eyes bulge comically at you. "'He's not that bad' since when, please tell me!? A few days ago you thought he was the devil in disguise." 

You laugh at his reaction and poke him playfully on the chest. "Hey, listen, all I'm saying is we only show people what we want others to see, doesn't mean it's always real."

He thinks for a moment, eyes sparkling with amusement. "So what you're saying is, he acts like Mr big shot money bags but he isn't?" He gives you a quizzical look and checks your temperature with the back of his hand.

You laugh again and shove his hand away. "Yes, I am fine and yes in a way. Sure, he has money and he shows off but maybe he acts like that to hide something else. Maybe he thinks that's what people expect of him, maybe he's scared of something."

Seokjin's windshield wiper laugh shrieks in your ears. "Ok, now I've heard it all. Firstly, there’s nothing deep about this man, other than his cash flow and secondly, you think he's scared? The man is an arrogant moron, end of." 

"Everyone's scared of something, it's not that far fetched."

He leans in to you slightly. "That is a lie. You, my friend, are scared of nothing." He gets up from his bar stool, placing his hat on his head and downing the last of his drink. "The day I see you scared is the day the world ends. There's not a problem you can't get out of with your fists or your smart mouth." He laughs as he leaves the bar.

The irony is, there is one problem that would get infinitely worse with your fists and your smart mouth. Something that would have you terrified beyond imagination. Something you plan to hide from for the rest of your existence.

Five months since Namjoon moved to town.

You are back at his door, although this time you stand on the doorstep and pound angrily to be let in.

When he opens it, he looks hesitant. "You don't usually knock, just barging in is more you style rig-?"

"Why was there a man taking photos of me today?" The words leave your mouth in a furious rush, the need to be out and to hear another dreaded deal he's made. To prove yourself right about the type of man he is.

"What? You mean the photographer?"

You take a shaky breath to calm yourself. "That's usually what they do isn't it? Take photos?" You say between gritted teeth.

He frowns. "Well, yes, I don't understand why you're upset? I listened to you and told you I'm not building the mall, I've hired someone to take pictures of the town as it is, just to get business for my Hotel, and you're still upset with me!? Jesus, I can't win." He runs a frustrated hand through his swept back hair, forehead exposed - it suits him best that way. 

You melt slightly under his accusing stare and suddenly you feel embarrassed by your reaction, it's not all anger, it's fear clenching your heart in its iron grasp. You want to scream, to run from it but you can't, it follows you. It followed you here and to the town you were in before. It will follow you wherever you are. You know this, you've accepted it and this is why you can't afford to get attached to someone, not romantically. It would cause too much heartache on both sides, when you'd eventually have to leave again.

"No, I'm not upset about that." You sigh and rub a hand across your eyes, exhaustion and exasperation weighing you down like a ton of bricks. "I just….I can't have my picture taken. Do what you want, but please, I'm begging you, do not put me in them." You stare at him with desperation, flitting from one eye to the other. 

"Ok, ok." He says quickly, putting an arm on yours to reassure you. The touch soothes you for a moment and takes you by surprise. 

"I'll make sure they delete the ones of you, ok? You have my word."

You see the honesty radiate from him and you relax. You're on the verge of tears with relief and happiness, the fear deflating as you stand here.

"Thank you!" You plead.

There's a moment of silence between you and you're not quite sure why you're still standing here.

"You know, if there's anything you ever want to tell me or talk about, you can trust me. I know I've not been great but I'll always be here if you need someone to lean on." 

An odd warmth spreads through your chest, until you feel it's ready to burst. You can't help the smile that stretches across your lips.

"I know you can bear the brunt but sometimes it's nice to not have to." He adds, eyes wide and welcoming, enticing you with his earnest expression and the dimple that appears from his sideways smile.

You grab him by the collar and pull him to you, lips crashing against his with ferocious hunger. You feel him freeze against you before he returns it with feverish hands running down your back and cupping you under the buttocks, lifting your legs beneath you.

You wrap them tightly around his waist as he leads you quickly inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

He doesn't make it up the stairs, the plush living room rug against your back a suitable substitute for his bedroom. 

Your mouths dance, tongues interlacing all the while his hands are everywhere all at once, the heat from them setting your veins alight with fiery lust.

Your hands find his hair and your fingers run through his silky locks, using them to pull him even closer to you.

He moans into your mouth, the sound enticing you further.

"I want you so bad." he says in a breathless whisper.

You hook your leg over his and push him, flipping him on his back, straddling him.

You pull your button up off over your head and he groans when he discovers you aren't wearing a bra. His hands slide quickly up your waist to fondle your breasts, plunging his teeth into his generous bottom lip before he sits up and sucks a nipple into his mouth. A hiss escapes you as pleasure shoots straight to your core and has you grinding against his denim clad erection. 

He cups the side of your face and brings you back down to his mouth, your lips meeting once again in a hot, fervent kiss.

His lips find their way to your ear. "Stand up." 

There was no authority in his voice, just a soft pleading, one you could not resist. As you rise, his fingers were already undoing your jean buttons then pulling them down around your ankles and helping you step out of them. 

On his knees looking up at you with heavy lids, as he places a faint kiss against your clothed sex. The sight of it heavenly, you couldn't help but admire his beauty, the sheer amount of it having escaped your notice before.

He slips a finger under your panties and pulls them aside, lips instantly on you, hot and wet, causing your head to snap back with explicit language echoing past your lips.  

He chuckles against you, the vibration making you gasp as his tongue delves to your most sensitive parts, a venture no previous man has been. The sensation; mind blowing and you find yourself grinding against him. The relentless pace of his tongue against your swollen bud has you crying out, hands gripped into his hair as you come undone against his mouth. His arm snakes around your waist, supporting your trembling frame as your moans of ecstasy repeatedly fill the silence of the room.

As the spasms of pleasure subside, you're vaguely aware of Namjoon removing his trousers, his hand still in contact with your skin, as you drift back down from your euphoric cloud. 

You mount him before he's finished pulling his pants from his ankles, his hands find your buttocks and guide you onto him. You lower yourself, sliding him into you.

He lays back, a look of pure adoration as he watches you wind your hips round, back and forth and up and down, until he's a writhing, moaning mess underneath you. His lips constantly find your skin, leaving moist trails, cold from the air, all over you.

Your bodies crashing against each other as you eagerly chase your end. 

Feeling yourself tightening around him, coiled like a spring ready to bound into a new realm of elation.

"That's it baby, let go." He says softly, clinging onto your hips to keep you moving.

Your orgasm explodes, more intense than before, completely taking over you as you contract around him. He joins you, filling you with his warm seed, cradling you in his arms as you both ride out your spasms of bliss. 

When your mind has returned to your body, you slump onto the rug, your bare bodies beside each other, as he turns towards your back his fingers skate over the large scar on your back. You go rigid for a moment, preparing yourself for his questions, attempting to scramble up a lie in your mind. His lips find the puckered pink skin and place a chaste kiss on it. His questions don't come, instead he wraps you in his arms and holds you close enough you can feel his pounding heart against you.

No words are exchanged. There isn't anything to be said but you feel everything and more in that moment.

Two weeks since you had sex with Namjoon.

"Very nice. You've really captured the beauty of the town in these." you smile at him and lay a gentle hand on his knee. Something he chooses not to ignore, placing his hand over yours while he continues clicking through the various pictures on his hotel website.

"Yea, the photographer did a really good job." he looks over to you, with a raised eyebrow. "So you approve of these?" 

"Of course." you say, standing and grabbing your jacket draped across the stairway banister. 

"That's a first." he teases, a smirk playing across his full lips, calling out to you as usual.

You drape your arms around his shoulders and place a slow kiss on his neck, the moan you entice from him has your lips smiling against his skin.

"Stay." he says quietly.

"I can't, I have to work." It's regretful but true. "Besides, I've been holed up in here for nearly two weeks. Time for a change of scenery."

He pouts as he takes your hand, pulling it towards his chest. "There's nothing wrong with the scenery here...especially when you're upstairs...in my bed...naked."

His eyes hold burning heat, pupils blown with longing and it sends throbbing lust right between your legs.

"How about, you think about me naked and in your bed...until I finish work, then I'll make up for all that torture." you reply, winking at him before your lips meet in a passionate, fiery kiss. 

No one has ever kissed you like Namjoon. No one has given you this feeling...one you can't quite describe. For the first time in years, you feel completely yourself and...happy. Your chest swells when you look at him and you find it odd how someone you could hardly stand, now has such an effect on you.

"This evening is going to drag." he rolls his eyes. "I'll pick you up after work."

Your insides grin. Part of you wanted to keep him your dirty little secret and the other part wanted everyone to see you together.

You nod and plant one more kiss against his mouth, as you tear your body and your eyes away from him. 

That’s when you see it.

Your face. On his screen. Bold as a summer's day.

Your stomach drops, turning into a lump of concrete inside you, weighing you down. Rage alights in you but betrayal counters it, racing through your veins in your shaking limbs and spilling out of your eyes in hot tears.

Namjoon follows your eye line and freezes. Neither of you move. 

All you can do is stare at the smiling, care free photo of you, behind the bar. And all you can think of is, how many people have possibly seen this? Who has and what now? 

He turns back to you, eyes wide and encased with a frown, a pleading hand outstretched towards you, as you realise you're backing up and heading to his front door.

"I didn't know." he says quietly.

 "You promised me that I wouldn't be in any of them!" you yell, skin hot and your stomach churning. "I can't believe I let you fool me. I genuinely thought you were telling me the truth. How could you do this to me?" 

Something flickers across his face but it's gone before you realise what it is, as he takes another step towards you. "I didn't do this!"

Your heart pounds in your ears, every part of you throbbing with treachery. 

He drops his hand, sensing it's useless. 

"Clearly your word means as little as I do to you." you close the distance between you, a finger pointing in his face. "If I ever see you in my bar, so help me, I'll make you unable to ride your horse for a very long time."

He opens his mouth to speak. 

"I beg you, give me one reason." you spit, venom encasing every word. You storm out, feeling sick to your stomach. This is the man that you've been having the most amazing, passionate sex with for the last two weeks. You've been inseparable, opened yourself up to him in every way. Laid yourself bare and vulnerable for him.

You wanted to scrub yourself down, feeling like you've gone past enemy lines and turned against your own. He was a risk, you'd known that but had still let yourself get caught up in him. Believed in his lies. In him. You left him in the middle of the room, staring after you, getting in your truck and driving. After calling Jimin to cover you, you head to the next town, where you can be alone and drink until you forget.

Three months since Namjoon betrayed you. 

You've been a wreck. For three months you've been constantly looking over your shoulder, sick to your stomach. Your emergency bag packed and hidden in your truck, should you need to flee. Your life shoved in that small leather bag. You didn't have much, that was clear to you but it seemed sadder than ever to have your most important things in one tiny holder. No one that would care when you were gone. Maybe Seokjin, but he'd forget about you eventually, any friends you make always do.

Namjoon had not been back into the bar, not while you were working anyway, you're not sure he'd have the guts. You had seen him fleetingly on a few occasions, his hopeful glances towards you rebuked by your impassive, stony face. 

At some point Seokjin informed you, your photo had been removed from the website, Namjoon clearly trying to make amends for his deception - unsuccessful and useless attempts. You do not bend or yield to someone who has stabbed you in the back, you learnt that the hard way a long time ago...quite literally too.

You shrug into your jacket, noticing how much roomier it had become recently. Eating has not been high on the priority list when your stomach churns with anxiety and trepidation. You turn off the lights and head to the door of the bar, keys in hand.

A squeak from the hinges sounds into the silence, you look to see the doors wobbling slightly, the breeze catching it. 

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of your neck are on end, goose bumps leave a bumpy trail across your skin. You're just being paranoid. No one's here. It’s just the wind. 

Your feet move quickly to the doors, imagining you can hear following footsteps. Just as you reach your exit, a swift, sharp pull on your hair sends you slamming into the wooden boards.

A weight on top of you, pinning you down and unable to fight. A hand across your mouth to stop you from screaming and making it difficult to breathe.

His scent. It encases you, trapping you in another time and freezing you in those moments, those memories. The abusive days, the violent temper, the possessiveness, the cuts and bruises, the stabbing. Staring death in the face had been the final moment to give you the confidence to run, to escape but forever looking over your shoulder, forever living in fear.

Terror has taken over your body, not even trying to fight at this point.

"Did you miss me?" his sickly voice whispers in your ear.

Inside you're screaming, begging and pleading but nothing comes out into the silence, just the sound of his harsh, excited breathing.

"I knew I'd find you, knew it wouldn't be long until someone led me to you." 

You could feel your limbs shaking wildly underneath him.

"You knew I'd find you didn't you? You led me here with that photo, I knew you missed me, baby." he kisses your forehead, your skin crawling beneath his lips. 

"I'm going to take my hand away now, you're not going to scream, are you? You're going to be a good girl, aren't you?"

His words twist your insides in the most repulsive way as you nod your head.

His hand comes away, freeing your face and you gasp, desperately filling your lungs with air. 

"It's so good to see your face, baby." 

Your eyes, now adjusted to the dark, could make out his teeth, his lips pulled into a sinister smile.

"Will you at least let me sit up, Yoongi?" you ask, sounding much braver than you feel.

"You're not going to do anything stupid." he orders.

"No." your face is deadpan because it has to be, a slither of anything he deems untoward would make matters much worse for you.

Even as your brain frantically tries to find you a way out, any idea hitting an immediate dead-end, your face remains impassive.

He releases your wrists above your head and slowly climbs off of you, still crouched and ready to pounce should you run. 

You had to be smart about this if you were going to get away, you had to think. THINK! 

"You've been very bad, haven't you? Running from me like that. And I know you like playing games but I've not appreciated this hide and seek exchange between us. Four years I've been searching. That's a long time, baby." his menacing tone has you on edge, wondering just what he is going to do.

"You left me to die." you reply, recalling that night with a chill creeping up your spine. A knife in the back and for what, having said a few too many words to the corner shop owner, like 'how are you?'

You wonder what type of weapon he has on him tonight and you push the thought away.

He stares at you shocked, as if attempted murder is so far fetched from what he's capable of. 

"Who do you think called the ambulance? I would never let you die, I would never let you leave me."

Lies. You knew a passer-by had rung the ambulance, had stayed with you until they came and had waited to hear your prognosis at the hospital. You even met them a few weeks later, when they brought you flowers. But for now he had to think you believed him.

"Is that what they told you?" he leaned in stroking your face and you had to swallow the recoil that your body reacted with.

"Is that why you've been running from me? Oh baby, you should have said and we could have had this all straightened out, wouldn't we, hm?" 

He grips your chin, keeping it aimed directly at him, his fingers just forceful enough to leave bruises.

He watches your mouth, licking his lips. He wants to kiss you and you're preparing yourself for it.

"How many other men have been on these lips? How many have been inside them?" he sneers pushing his thumb, harshly inside your mouth, the taste bitter on your tongue. The Yoongi you know, well and truly here.

"No one."

"Don't lie to me." he squeezes your jaw, pain blazing underneath his fingertips  causing a whimper to escape your lips.

The satisfied look in his eyes has bile rising in your throat.

"I'm not lying. You think I'd want another man anywhere near me." 

He smiles, clearly not catching the bite in your words.

"If I find out different, there's going to be problems." he sing songs. "You understand?"

You nod and he releases your chin, harshly discarding you like a useless piece of meat.

He stands and offers a hand out to help you up. You want to spit at it and slap it out of your face but you shiver at the reaction that would bring.

You take it and he pulls you up, harsher than was necessary but you ignore it. He's on you, stalking towards you, backing you against the hard, wooden panels of the wall behind.

Your heart pounds violently, the sound all you can hear, you can hear your breathing spike as does his. He's excited, but you're trying to survive. 

He closes the small amount of distance between you, his body pressed firmly against yours. One hand grabs your waist, pinning you harshly in place, the other travels to your throat. He keeps it there pressed lightly against your windpipe, not doing any damage but enough to show you the threat that's there. You swallow involuntarily. 

The wind picks up outside and you hear the door wobbling, your attention back on it. How can you get to it? 

You can hit him with something, but it would have to be hard enough to take him down and give you enough of a chance to run. Every thought seemed risky.

"Are you going to be a good girl and come with me willingly?" he raises an eyebrow at you.

"Yoongi, I can't just pick up and leave."

He adds a pressure to throat, fear rising up in you hot and fast.

You put your palms up. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying, I have a job here, people know me. If I get up and leave without a word, they'll think something awful's happened and that'll create problems for us."

He watches you for a moment, eyes thin and suspicious, you can practically see the cogs turning in his mind. "What do you suggest then?" Before you can even open your mouth, he adds. "I'm not leaving you." 

"Why don't you stay here with me for a little while?" you can feel the sweat on the back of your neck, the idea of him being with you any longer than he has been already filling you with absolute horror.

"Then we can announce that I'm moving back with you."

"How can I trust you, after the way you've behaved?" his face is millimetres from yours suddenly, the tips of his noses touching. 

"W-what do you want me to do to prove it to you?" you stammer, losing your composure momentarily.

"Kiss me. Like you used to." he smirks, knowing that towards the end of your relationship, touching him in any way had repulsed you, you hadn't kept that a secret.

You take a breath to steel yourself, if this is what you had to do…

Namjoon's shadowed face captures your attention as it appears just behind Yoongi's head and directly in your line of sight, holding - what looks like - a metal crowbar in the air. He nods to you.

The relief you feel cascades around your body, washing waves of solace through you, your skin tingling as your adrenaline spikes even higher. Everything seems much more hopeful in this moment and you've never been so happy to see Kim Namjoon. 

Your eyes flash back to Yoongi, you could not lose it now, otherwise it's another person to be endangered by him.

You grab either side of his face, tilting your head, he closes his eyes as he prepares for your lips to touch his. He moans from anticipation, the sound bringing a fresh wave of nausea over you.

You meet Namjoon's eyes once more, watch him raise the crow bar higher, preparing to swing…

You push Yoongi's face as hard away from you as fast as you can muster and duck. Your eyes squeeze shut as you hear his gasp and then the noise of the metal connecting with his skull. 

"Run! Go now!" 

You do. Your legs charging forward before you even have a chance to process Namjoon's words to you. You push through the double doors, the cool night air hitting your skin and giving you added power to your legs. You race along the dirt path, hearing the ruckus ensue in the bar. You stop. Namjoon's face bloodied and bruised flashes in front of your eyes. An image you can't escape.

You couldn't leave him to deal with this man alone. You had to face your past. Face him, like you would face anyone else threating your life, or your town, or your friends. You yank out your phone and dial Seokjin's number.

"Do you know what time it is?" his voice thick with sleep sounds on the line.

'Jin, I need you to call the sheriff and come down to the bar! I'm in trouble. Bring your gun!" you hang up not giving him a chance to respond as you race back to Namjoon. 

You throw open the doors and see the two men throwing punches in and out of tight holds as they roll around on the floor. 

How could you get to Yoongi without hurting Namjoon?

You stand hesitating in the doorway.

But watching Yoongi take control and pin him down before connecting punch after punch, the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh, something inside you snaps. 

You charge at him, bringing your foot up to connect with his face, the impact sending him flying backwards. By the sound, you're pretty sure you've broken his nose.

You crouch down to Namjoon as he sits up, wiping his bloody mouth on the sleeve of his plaid shirt.

"You ok?" you ask, eyes wide as they skim over his face, assessing him.

"What are you doing here!?" he exclaims, desperate eyes pleading with you to leave. "I told you to get out of here!"

You want to say so many things in that moment, looking at him and realising; he's got a good heart, even if it is a little misguided at times. Looking at him and realising all the unspoken feelings between you. From the moment you met him, he's been a disaster and every time he tried to be nice and make an effort you violently pushed him away to protect yourself. But you couldn't do it anymore. You cupped his purple marked face in your hand,  wishing you could erase these marks, left because of you.

He leans into your hand, just for a moment before his attention is behind you. Grabbing your waist and pinning you to the floor before spinning on top of you, shielding you from the skull cracking snap of the gunshot. The deafening sound echoing in your ears, as pain sneaks through the hole in your left arm, the one underneath Namjoon's weighted, limp body.

Six months since the shooting, Christmas day.

Your first Christmas without the thought of Yoongi hanging over your head like a dark cloud, the kind that gives you headaches and makes your mind feel heavy and slow.

Seokjin had gotten there with Sheriff Jungkook just after the first shot rang out. 

You don't remember everything but you do remember hearing the second shot clap like thunder around you, a split second of light illuminating the thick darkness, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground. 

That was it, he was gone, no more looking over your shoulder, no more running and no more fear following you with every decision. The demise of Yoongi. You are free.

You feel lighter as you open the oven and baste the turkey once again.

"When is dinner going to be ready?" Seokjin whines from the sofa.

"Oh, have a little patience." you scold him.

You are more than grateful to have him with you at this time of year, seeing as neither of you have any family here, it's worked out nicely. 

"I see Jimin is doing well after taking over Namjoon's Hotel." he remarks.

You nod. "Yep, business is going well for him. I'm glad. I will miss him at the pub though." 

"What about Namjoon's house?"

Your hand stills, stopping stirring the vegetables bubbling away in the pan and a hard swallow slides down your throat. "What about it?"

"Is it going on the market?"

You glance over and notice him watching you from the corner of his eye.

"I'm not sure, it's not been discussed." 

He nods carefully.

Footsteps down your stairs have your head turning towards them. The sight of him, bare chested, hair swept back effortlessly almost takes your breath away.

"We can discuss it now, if you like?" Namjoon teases you and places a kiss on the side of your head. "Seeing as you keep ignoring my question."

Seokjin sits bolt upright. "What's this? What question?"

You laugh. "Not that question!"

The disappointment across Jin's face is obvious.

"I keep asking her to sell this place and move in with me but I haven't had an answer yet." Namjoon watches you, an arrogant look on his face as he turns towards your guest.

The wrinkled, pink scar on his back greets your view, a perfect circle from where the bullet entered. He was lucky. You'd almost lost him before you even had him, before you realised how much you wanted, needed him. 

You go toward him, wrapping your arms around his stomach. You go on tip-toes to kiss his scar. You match. Two scars in exactly the same place caused by the same person. In a sick way that connected you forever and the thought brought you comfort somehow. 

Namjoon had saved your life, endangering his in the process. Now it's you who would protect him from anything. 

"Yes." you say quietly against his back.

He turns, wrapping you in his arms.

"What?"

You look up at his bewildered face. "Yes, I'll move in with you."

His face blooms into the most beautiful smile, making your insides flutter. He brings his lips crashing down against yours, a kiss that takes your breath away and makes you giddy.

This is the true start to your life, after existing for many years you're now truly living, with the sound of Seokjin's cheers and hollas in the background.

[captainsolare]

Sol! May I request some William angst for your event please? Hm maybe Roll 4 times for AU, 1 time for dialogue, and 2 for trope please 🥺💕? Thank yoh in advance!

A/N: Lyra! Yes of course! I hope you enjoy it :) It was interesting to write a Western AU William 😂 The dice really made this an angsty one

Bonus: listen to 'jupiter' by Wrabel

Warning: Drunk man makes a gross comment and grabs your arm

William Angst + Western AU! + First Love Reunion + "Try that again, I dare you."

William’s chest felt heavy as he rode into town, he had known that coming back here might affect him, but he hadn’t thought it would be this much. The buildings looked like they hadn’t aged a day, but he knew that wasn’t true, it had been years since he had set foot here. His life as a bounty hunter didn’t lend well for settling down, and so he had left this place and a piece of his heart with it. However, a job was a job, and he had received reports that a notorious outlaw had been spotted in the area, and William wanted to be the one to catch him.

He half prayed that there was another option, somewhere else he could stay for the night, but the sun had long sunk over the horizon, and the only place open now would be the saloon and conjoined inn your family owned. He hopped off his horse, tying him off on a post. There was a water trough nearby, so that should be suitable for the time being.

You didn’t see him come in, his hat pulled low over his eyes; if you had, you most certainly would have dropped the glass in your hand, sending it tumbling to the wooden floor below. He grabbed a spot at a table in the corner, heart clenching at the familiar face behind the bar. You still looked as beautiful as the day he met you, but you looked happier than the day he left, the day he broke your heart. Something about the way your eyes crinkled as you chatted with a miner at the bar made his heart ache, you were so close to him yet so far at the same time.

One of the saloon girls interrupted his thoughts by asking for his order.

“Just water please.” He said hoarsely, trying to ignore how much he wanted to grab a seat at the bar and talk to you.

“Yes sir! That’ll be right out.”

She returned swiftly, a cool mug of water set upon the table. “Are you stayin’ here long cowboy?”

William looked up at her, a forced smile on his face, “No, just for the evening.”

As he looked up at her, the light happened to reveal his face to her, her expression changed, and she hurried away to tend to other customers. He sighed softly, taking a sip of his water. He was used to this happening, people had almost always reacted to his birthmark this way, some people were convinced he had some sort of plague. The woman’s reaction was another painful reminder of how much he missed you; you were the only person he’d ever met that had touched his face with tenderness.

-

You were at the bar, fulfilling orders and chatting with customers when a particularly unruly man sat at the stool in front of you.

“Hello sir, what can I get you?”

The man smiled wickedly, it was obvious he was already drunk, “Are you on the menu?”

The question made your skin crawl but you forced yourself to smile, “I’m afraid not sir.”

William narrowed his eyes, that was the man he was looking for; now was not the time to act though, there were too many people around to risk getting in a shootout inside the saloon.

The man wouldn’t take no for an answer though, and when you were turned for a split second he lunged to grab your arm.

William was over in a flash, grabbing the man’s arm with a vice-like grip.

The saloon went eerily silent as all eyes were fixed on the scene at the bar, “Try that again, I dare you.” The words were dripping with such venom that William surprised even himself.

The man let your arm go, but fixed William with a defiant grin, “Or what? Is this your lover or something?”

The corners of William’s mouth twitched, “Do you know who I am?”

His smile faltered, but the man’s voice was even as he spoke, “No, why does that matter?”

William smiled wickedly, knowing his prey was about to be caught. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.”

He tilted his hat up from his face and the man instantly paled.

“Y-you, you’re him. You’re the bounty hunter, William Vangeance, bringer of vengeance.” The man’s voice shook and he tried to squirm away from him.

William chuckled, “That’s right Slim, I am. And now I’ll be taking you to the sheriff.”

Slim didn’t put up much of a fight as William led him out the door.

-

You stood frozen in place, memories rushing back to you all at once. A cold December night, a letter slipped under your door, running after him, begging him to stay.

The buzz of the bar soon returned, and you took a deep breath, trying to recenter yourself after the shock of seeing William again. You had long given up on him returning, but lo and behold he had, at least for tonight. Would he leave in the morning? Probably. It seemed as if he had only come for his quarry, but some part of you hoped that it had been more, that he had come to see you as well.

-

Hours passed, and you were closing the saloon. You swept the floors, and wiped off the tables, now all that was left was to wipe down the bar.

There was a knock at the door and you opened it to find William standing there, an uncertain look on his face. You were tempted to yell at him, take out five years worth of frustration and anger and regret on him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so. When you searched your heart, there was only sadness left where William was concerned, he had been your first love and he had left you cold and alone, with only the silhouette of him on his horse receding into the distance and your memories.

“I didn’t think you’d come back.” You said, your voice just above a whisper.

William glanced down at his feet, regret filling his chest, “I didn’t either.”

You lingered in the doorway for a long moment, then stepped to the side.

“Want a drink?”

He nodded and walked in, and you locked the door behind him. He took a seat at the bar as you made what he asked for, pouring water for yourself.

“Thank you for earlier.”

William shifted on his stool, “Of course, I couldn’t stand to let you get hurt.”

That’s rich, coming from the person who broke my heart. You wanted to say, but instead you forced a smile, “Well, I appreciate it.”

You and William stared at each other, both unsure of what to say.

“You look well.” William spoke up after a while.

Your lips twitched from the irony, “I’m making do.”

Silence prevailed once more, and you stared at your water glass, trying to will the dam of emotions to stay intact. You took a deep breath, clenching your fists on the counter.

“Why did you leave me?”

The question was soft, but it was filled with pain so sharp William could feel it cut him.

“You know why.”

Your head whipped up, eyes alight with anger.

“No I don’t. You were here one day and we were happy, and the next day you were riding off on that damn horse.”

“I--”

You didn’t let him finish, “I could have come with you William!” Your voice began to break, tears threatened to fall.

“Being a bounty hunter is dangerous work.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Do you have any idea how I worried for you once I found out what you were doing?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” You sucked in a breath, chest heaving, “Are you sorry for the way you broke my heart into a million tiny pieces?”

William stood, hand slammed on the counter, his voice strained, “It broke my heart too! I never wanted to hurt you Y/N.”

You blinked at him, “Never wanted to hurt me. So why did you? I would have gone anywhere with you, followed you to the ends of the earth, left all of this behind. I wouldn’t care if it were dangerous or uncomfortable, because I would get to spend my days with you!”

“I know! And that’s the problem,” He took a pained breath, “You don’t deserve a life like that Y/N! You deserve to be safe and comfortable and happy and I can’t give that to you.”

“I don’t want that, I just wanted you.”

William blinked his tears away, “I wanted you too.”

“Then why?” Your voice was soft, all the bravado and tension from before quieted.

“I’m not good for you.”

You laughed darkly, “William, that’s crap and you know it.”

William pulled a few bills from his pocket, setting them on the counter.

“Think I could get a room for the night?”

“Talk to Tracy next door.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“This isn’t over William! Please don’t leave yet, are you leaving in the morning?”

“Goodbye Y/N.”

He walked away, heading for the door.

“Please don’t go.” You whispered, if he heard, he gave no indication he did so.

The door opened and closed, and you collapsed on the counter, for the first time that night, allowing yourself to cry.

William watched from the window, heart torn to shreds as he watched your shoulders shake.

“I’m sorry Y/N, I really am.”

[jmeelee]

Except at Waffle House

A Sterek AU inspired by that ridiculous Reddit post about the girl who’s BF keeps fighting the cook at Waffle House.

As far as boyfriend’s went, Braeden hit the jackpot when she met Derek Hale. She hadn’t been looking for a partner when she’d stepped into the first class of her Master’s program, but there he’d been, sitting dead-center of the third row in the cavernous lecture hall.  Derek was… different.  Intelligent, well-read, handsome, driven; he’d weathered tragedy and trauma with elegance, emerging on the other side with a soft-spoken grace.  He made Braeden laugh with a wit so dry it kindled a fire in her belly.  To other women, Derek’s obscene good looks—chiseled jawline, soft hair the color of midnight, ass you could bounce quarters off of—might have been his biggest draw, but for Braeden, it was Derek’s hard-won composure.  When she decided to drop out of the Federal Marshall program and pursue her own independent career, Derek never batted an eye.  When she came home from dangerous missions sporting cuts, scrapes and bruises, he didn’t rage over her playing fast and loose with her own welfare.  He simply said, “I’m glad you’re home safe.”  Derek never yelled, never lost his temper, never fought.  He was a dream come true.

Except at Waffle House.

Truth be told, Braeden didn’t love Waffle House, but food was food and a girl’s gotta eat. Derek, however, had some deep-seated appreciation of the greasy chain that stretched back into his childhood, before his parents and older sister died. So while she preferred to eat elsewhere, Braeden found herself at Waffle House a few times a week, feeding Derek’s desire to reconnect with fond adolescent memories.

“Service might be a bit slower today,” said their usual waitress, who’s bright yellow name tag read Erica.  She plopped an iced-tea in front of Braeden, and a steaming cup of black coffee before Derek.  Erica snapped her bubblegum, pulled a tiny notepad from the pocket of her black apron, and snatched a stubby pencil out of her perky blonde ponytail.  “Boyd’s training a new cook.  What’re y’all having?”

Sure enough Boyd, the owner of the franchise, stood at the grill, patiently pointing at burners and griddles while the long-fingered hands of the tall, thin guy next to him flew around like drunk hummingbirds.  Braeden figured the new cook was replacing Scott, who had quit the line to attend Veterinary school.  When you spent several days a week eating there, the Waffle House family became your family.

Braeden was known to make her way through the various menu items.  Some people had their tried and true staples, but she preferred to throw tradition to the wind. One day it was pecan waffles, the next, chili smothered hash browns.  Today, a cheese steak omelet.  Derek however was a creature of habit.  “I’ll have the--”

“Steak and eggs,” Erica interrupted, graphite scratching over the paper.  “Steak medium-rare and egg yolks slightly runny.  Whole wheat toast, well done.”

“You got it,” Derek said agreeably, handing over his flimsy laminated menu.  “Thanks, Erica.”

They filled the void between placing their order and receiving their food with anecdotes from work and a fast and furious game of hangman on the back of their paper placemats.  Waffle House may be lacking in sophistication, but it’s service was always speedy.        

“Here ya go.” Erica plunked plates in front of them and topped off Derek’s coffee.  “Let me know if you need anything else.” But the call bell rang in the kitchen and she bustled away, already half-way down the aisle.

Three forkfuls of cheesy goodness passed her lips before Braeden realized Derek was poking at yellow lumps on his platter with a stiff triangle of toast, watching the yolks crumble like a house of sand.  She finished chewing, swallowed.  “Derek?  Is something wrong?”

“It’s my eggs,” he lamented.  “They’re super hard.  Not runny at all.”

Had she known the repercussions of her next words, Braeden might have given them more thought.  But unbeknownst to her, she was about to score red on the Waffle House Index of how prepared she was to weather the coming shit storm.   

“Just call Erica back,” Braeden suggested, waving her fork in the air.  “The kitchen can whip up another batch. No big deal.”  

Famous last words.  

Erica flounced over, ponytail swinging behind her.  “Sorry about that, honey,” she chirped.  “The new cook is still finding his groove.  I’ll be right back with the correct order.”

Derek thanked her again but watched with hazel eagle eyes as she brought the plate back to the open kitchen, speaking to the mole-speckled guy at the grill whose bed head hair was barely contained under his dorky paper hat.  Derek squirmed in his seat.

Braeden’s eyebrows furrowed.  “That’s a really complex call-in system these employees need to learn.  And all that crazy code with the jelly and mayo packets?  They’re bound to make mistakes sometimes.”

Derek grunted, watching Erica return with a heaping plate of eggs.  This time they were scrambled.  “These are scrambled,” he said stupidly, blinking at the fluffy little clouds.

Looking down, Erica seemed to see them for the first time.  She rolled her eyes and groaned.  “Ugh.  Stiles.”

“Yeah, it’s a style of eggs, just not the one I ordered.”

“No,” Erica shook her head.  “S-T-I-L-E-S.  Stiles is our new cook.  I promise I’ll be back with the correct eggs in a few.”

But ten minutes later a plate of thinly sliced hard-boiled eggs laid out in a flower pattern was placed in front of Derek.  Braeden couldn’t help it, she threw back her head and laughed.  “At this point, I think the cook’s fucking with you,” she told him.

But Derek wasn’t in on the joke.  He pushed the plate away and threw money down on the table.  “Hopefully both his cooking and his comedy routine improves,” Derek grumbled, pulling on his leather jacket.

Maybe now they could finally eat at some different restaurants.

----------

Three days later, they were back at Waffle House.

“There are over 1,500 other Waffle Houses in America,” Braeden said for the millionth time, waving her map app in Derek’s face.  “Look, there’s one twelve miles away.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Derek scowled, sending his second plate of eggs back to the kitchen.  First, they were poached, then they were part of a bacon egg and cheese sandwich.

The third time a single slice of toast sat on a wide white plate, a perfect circle cut from the center.  Inside the circle was an egg.  Cooked over-hard.  

Braeden took a fortifying breath of humid maple-scented air.

“Okay I’ve had enough,” Derek yelled, standing up from the booth.  “You,” he pointed at Stiles the cook, who stared back with a wide insolent mouth and tricky amber eyes.  “Take this garbage back and cook my eggs the right way.” 

Stiles slowly pulled a dirty apron over his neck, dislodging his ridiculous hat, and sauntered around the counter on long legs to stand in front of Derek, crowding into his personal space.  Toe to toe, there was barely any difference in height between the two men, though their body types varied greatly.  Derek was built like a brick shithouse, Stiles like a twink.  

“Is there a problem, dude?” Stiles asked coolly, with the poker face of an Easter Island head. The only crack in his stone facade was the tiny quirk at the edge of his pert lips.    

“Yeah,” Derek growled, pushing a finger into Stiles’ thin chest, “my problem is you and your shitty egg cooking skills.”

“Shitty?” The quirk blossomed into a fully grown smirk.  “I’ve made you several plates of superb eggs, dude.  It’s not my fault you won’t even try them.”

“Quit calling me dude.”

“Sure thing, buddy.” Stiles winked and stared Derek down like a cowboy in a duel with nothing left to live for.  Where had Boyd found this sadist cook?

“My name is Derek. Not buddy. Not dude.  Derek.” The words leaked out between Derek’s clenched teeth. Braeden could slice American cheese off his jaw right now.

Stiles smiled like he’d won the lottery, angling his body slightly away from Derek, but never breaking eye contact.  “Hey Waffle House, Derek here thinks my eggs suck.  Do all of you fine, upstanding people think my eggs are good?”  Stiles got several thumbs-up, two enthusiastic whistles, and one wrinkled middle finger from a white-haired man hunched over at the service counter.  Stiles gave the guy a thumbs up. “Thanks for your honesty mister.  It’s much appreciated.”

“What the hell was that?  What are you trying to do?” Derek was snarling, and the look between both men was lethal. Eyes sparked.  Lips wetted.  Fingers twitched. Braeden held her breath, sure fists would start flying at any second.  Derek made muted sounds of rage worthy of an aspiring ventriloquist. They were too close, puffed out chests a hair's-breadth apart. 

Stiles shrugged.  “My Waffle House, my rules.  Rule number one, pull that stick out of your ass, Derek.”

Derek took Stiles by the surprisingly broad shoulders and backed him into the coat rack.  “Next time I’m here, you’re gonna make me my food the way I order it.”

As quick as it started, the altercation was over.  Derek backed out of the overcoats, and Stiles came stumbling after like two teenagers emerging from a closet after seven minutes in heaven.  Derek made a beeline for the exit.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles yelled at Derek’s retreating back.  “I'll show you sunny side up!”

The whole thing was made even more ridiculous by the merrily tinkling overhead bell as Derek slammed outside.

_______

“Feeling up for trying Schwarma tonight?” Braeden asked when they pulled into the lot and parked next to Stiles’ run down blue Jeep.

“Not a chance,” Derek replied, practically backflipping out of the Camaro.

----------

“Derek, NO!” she said.

DEREK, YES he heard, and Derek, her Derek, the pinnacle of poise, yeeted himself over the counter, grabbing the yellow crossover uniform tie around Stiles’ neck.

----------

“At least Stiles didn’t spike Derek’s drink with meth,” Erica shrugged.  Today the two men were rolling around on the greasy tile floor.  

“Are you being ironic?” Braeden asked, taken aback by the seriousness of Erica’s tone.

“Waffle House is an irony-free zone,” Boyd informed her with a straight face. “I’m just thankful there’s no AR-15s or nudity today.”

“Yet,” Erica leered.

What the hell happened at Waffle House?!

----------

“I’ll have an Angus patty melt, and a slice of Aunt Maggie’s Triple Chocolate pie, please,” Braeden ordered as chaos descended around her.  “It’s like when I have food in front of me, everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.”

“That’s the magic of Waffle House,” Erica said sagely.

“It’s something,” Braeden replied. 

----------

She was scattered, smothered, covered in food debris, collateral damage from Stiles and Derek’s ongoing war.

“Don’t worry, Hunny,” a friendly woman in the adjacent booth told her.  “Throw a tide pod in with that shirt and the stains will come right out!  Just don’t eat it like those crazy kids are doing these days.”

“Who in their right mind would eat a tide pod?” Braeden asked.

  The answer was a serious side-eye.  “Who in their right mind would keep returning to a restaurant to tussle with the cook?”

Touche.

----------

Waffle House had a special Valentine’s Day candlelight dinner, which Braeden could have happily gone her whole life not knowing about or participating in.  

Erica sat them right next to the fancy new digital touchscreen jukebox.  Stiles came out, fed the machine twenty dollars, and set it to play “I Touch Myself” by Divinyls two-hundred and forty times on repeat.

Braeden wasn’t sure if Derek touched himself that night, but any guy who took her on a Valentine date to Waffle House and proceeded to fist-fight the cook certainly wasn’t going to be touching her.

__________

Braeden parked down the road and walked to Waffle House, unsurprised to find Derek’s car in the parking lot.  She’d quit going with him two weeks ago. To so many hungry, lost, and seriously hammered people, Waffle House’s warm yellow glow was a beacon of salvation.  For Braeden, who watched from the peaceful vantage point of the parking lot as her boyfriend grappled the skinny cook into a headlock and proceeded to give him a vicious noogie, it would forever be a reminder that Derek was the perfect guy for her, except when it came to Stiles.  Once upon a time, Braeden appreciated the fact that women everywhere were always looking at her man. He turned heads, but none of them ever seemed to turn his.  Except at Waffle House, and it wasn’t a woman.

Derek walked out of the restaurant twenty minutes later to find her sitting on the hood of his black Camaro.  “You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” he asked, monotone. She wondered at Drek’s equanimity, which has always seemed so inviting to her before.  Maybe Braeden just didn’t inspire passion in Derek, the way Stiles obviously did.  

She nodded.

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind?”

She shook her head.  “Not unless you can tell me what this is really about. Not unless you can tell me who you are.  Because this person isn’t the Derek I thought I knew.”

Lately, she’d been thinking a lot about a proverb her mother used to recite when she was younger.  Briseann an dúchais trí shúile an chait. The true nature of someone’s character is revealed through their eyes.  Derek’s head swiveled between Braeden and the view through the glass window, where Erica was helping Stiles off the floor, and Boyd was mopping up spilled chocolate milk, and several patrons were still surreptitiously filming the whole ordeal on their cellphones. Derek’s eyes followed Stiles like a wolf stalking prey.  “Shit, I—”

“Derek,” she said, sliding down the hood and coming to stand before him, “you were an amazing boyfriend and a great guy.”  Braeden sighed. “Except at Waffle House.” 

Derek shoved his fists into the front pockets of his too-tight jeans, scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the brick facade of the restaurant.  “Yeah,” he relented.  “I’m really sorry.”

“Me too, Derek.”  She gently patted his stubbled cheek.  “Good luck with-” she gestured toward the golden fluorescent lights, the black and yellow signage, at Stiles standing stock still and Bambi-eyed behind the counter, holding a chunk of frozen bacon to the top of his head- “whatever the hell this is.  I’ll see you around.”

She waved good-bye to Stiles through the window, who raised a hesitant hand back to her, and walked out of the parking lot.

Roughly a year and a half later, Braeden thumbed through a used newspaper while she waited at her local coffee shop for the barista to call her name.  She flipped from business to sports, passing the society section on her way, when a pithy headline caught her attention.  

Waffle Brawls lead to Wedding Bells.

Huh.  So that’s what all the fighting was really about.

Underneath the catchy title was a byline: “Groom learned sixteen new ways to cook eggs during fearsome flirtation.”

“Caramel Macchiato for Braeden!” 

Braeden tossed the paper onto the tabletop, leaving it open to Stiles and Derek’s wedding announcement, and left the coffee shop with a laugh on her lips.  

You couldn’t make this shit up.  Except at Waffle House.

__________

As per usual tumblr won’t let me link to anything so the Reddit post that inspired this story so you can find that in the notes!  Thanks for reading hope it made you laugh.

[eeriekiri]

me, slamming fists on table: COWBOY AU COWBOY AU COWBOY AU COWB

(click for better quality!!)

[jksangelic]

defanged (m)

↳ rating: M

↳ genre: smut, fluff, werewolf!au, a/b/o au, pwp

↳ pairing: mates werewolf!reader x werewolf/alpha!hoseok

↳ warnings: explicit sexual content, dom themes, breathplay, knotting, rough play, impregnation kink, overall general ”werewolf” smut themes, personality change, probably an uncomfortable amount of squishy mate talk

↳ summary:  hoseok is an easy mate—as such that there are moments you question if he’s just human. so when his sudden spike of aggression emerges, you do your best to keep this unknown man at bay. or, alternatively: young alpha hoseok has started teething and he’s being a bratty puppy about it.

↳ note: ok so if you were with me a few months ago you would know that this is actually a collab fic with a couple other writers but life happens and here we are now *cowboy emoji*. this is really important to me bc they’re such *clench fist* great people and i’m happy i received such an opportunity to collab with them (’: pls make sure to rb/like/visit our collab masterlist if you want to be in-the-know of when they post their parts!

also i wanted to play around with the humorous sides of what werewolves might go thru (-: so, like, short attention spans and hating loud noises and typical big dog stuff. with the teething, just imagine that their growth stages are prolonged because they’re, idk, maybe immortal or something lol

(i…… i’m not used to writing fantasy can u tell)

((gif isn’t mine + his side profile ;-;))

↳ words: 9k+

You could hear every miniscule thread snap and unwind from themselves, a simple task such as painting your nails becoming less relaxing than it should be.

“Hobi,” you mumble once. You swipe down your thumb again, carmine red smoothing over brightly and with utmost delicacy. He doesn’t listen, another squeaking grind of his teeth against the material of his sweatshirt followed by a snapsnap.

“Hobi,” you say a little louder, flinching from annoyance and staining your cuticle with the polish. You curse your discontents, waiting for him to look at you but only meeting a turned neck and eyes still glued to his phone, an I’m listening portrayed by his demeanor but not really meaning it.

He chews hard on the neckline, a solid rip completely tearing several inches down his chest, eyes widening and attention finally caught when his chest is exposed hilariously.

“Hoseok!” you yell, slamming the closed bottle onto the coffee table and meeting his startled eyes, “I just bought that for you!”

He hopes to play it off and shrugs as you swipe it from his teeth, untwined fibers poking out sadly. You smooth your thumbs over the poor fabric, the third victim of his recent gnashing problem.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you ask sadly, a little more bummed about the beautiful sweatshirt than you should be.

He responds simply, “My gums itch.”

You roll your eyes at his childlike excuse, the full-sized man sitting cross-legged and distractedly in his corner of the couch with his phone paused on some game with horrendously annoying music. Was he really your alpha?

“Why don’t you do us some good and go hunting.” You offer, a lame excuse to get Hoseok out of your hair for a bit. It’s what you deserve. He rolls over with a harrumph, shoulder now bare from the growing tear in his clothing. It made you giggle slightly.

“I’m in pain and you’re laughing at me,” he deadpans, body static-still and stubborn more than ever.

Your breath fans his skin as you slither next to him, “I’m sorry, baby. Are you really hurting? Why don’t you go to the dentist?”

Hoseok pouts, taptaptapping away at his screen instead of looking at you, “I don’t want to go to the dentist. They just itch.” Even now, he licks over the burning sensation of his gums, clenching and grinding his teeth to ease the feeling in any way. You can hear the collisions of his canines, your own tingling uncomfortably from the sound.

You shake your head. “Maybe you’re teething,” you suggest in all seriousness. It wasn’t impossible; your kind’s lifespan certainly placing such life stages at seemingly unusual times. In any case, it would simply mean his canines were most likely growing longer and stronger.

He scoffs as if you’ve insulted him, “I’m well over my teething days, Y/N. They just itc—"

“Say that one more time and I’ll neuter you,” you huff. When he lacks a kinder response, you push yourself off the couch to tidy your bedroom instead. He clearly wasn’t in the mood to have a serious conversation with you at the moment, and despite its rarity, you could use your space.

Your mate was in no way irritable; in fact, Hoseok was one of the sunniest alpha’s you’ve ever encountered. His kindness differentiated him from others, bearing his mark (and one day, hopefully, his pups) certainly deeming you quite lucky. He was a soft lover above all, never making you feel as a subordinate or anything of the like.

Perhaps it’s why you two were clashing heads recently, his personality completely contradictory from his true self. Never does he ignore you, let alone snap at you.

Folding your clothes (and purposefully leaving his items in a pile on his side of the bed in spite), you exhale heavily and leave for the living room once again, disregarding your now smeared manicure.

Hoseok beams at the shoe aisle, producing more light than whatever was already lit in the store. Due to his “issue”, stopping by the mall was a given. Two more of his shirts and even one of your necklaces mangled and chewed up like he was the Tasmanian Devil.

Petting his hair fondly, you give him a nuzzle to his cheek, “I’ll be in the next store over, puppy. Come meet me when you’re done.” He nods happily, wide-frame glasses bobbing atop his pretty nose.

You beeline for the department store in hopes of purchasing a few extra things for yourself before Hoseok sniffs you out. It’s immediate heaven when you sift through the dresses, picking a few out and dangling them happily on your fingers before bouncing from rack to rack. By the time you reach the dressing rooms, your arm aches from the pile you’ve accumulated.

“Hey there, you can go ahead and take that first stall right there,” a man directs, tall and intimidating and rather fucking handsome, you think. “My name’s Jaebum. Let me know if you need anything and I’ll go grab it for you.”

You bat your lashes and mouth a Thanks before waltzing into your room, appreciating his kindness perhaps a little too much. Despite your complex and absolute relationship status, it didn’t hurt to peek at what’s on display. It was only right!

You try on more than what you even remembered picking out, velvets and satins and the softest of cottons all hugging you warmly with every piece, a bittersweet happiness when everything seemed to fit you perfectly. The last dress, though, is your only hiccup. Material skin-tight and ending just a little above your ankles; you harrumph. Almost a perfect streak.

Dress still on (at least it zipped), you peek through the door and spot handsome Bum at the front. “Psst, um, do you mind getting me a couple more sizes in this? I think it was near the wall to the right.”

He grins and nods, almost grateful of the fact that you asked him to do so. Why was he even in this section? Should it concern you?

You watch as he leaves, back muscles showcased quite lavishly in his pristinely pressed suit.

Should it be more concerning that it didn’t?

You take a moment to look at the dress once more, smoothing over the velvet that bunched snugly at your waist and checking out your own ass. The fabric might rip if you sneeze too hard but you look pretty damn splendid.

“Found a few more and got you another color as well,” Jaebum says upon return. You almost snap your neck away from the mirror, hoping he didn’t see you ogling your bum. What a speedy fellow.

You politely open the door wider and reach for the hangers, “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Jaebum doesn’t fully hand it to you though, briefly but noticeably skimming over your body, “I think that size is cute on you too. You have a really beautiful figure.”

Maybe it should concern you. You chuckle awkwardly and look elsewhere. Please just give me my dresses, you almost say, now self-conscious in your skin.

“It’s even better when she’s naked. I would know,” Hoseok near growls, appearing out of thin air. He swipes the hangers from behind Jaebum, who is surprised beyond all comprehension of the word, and pushes you back into the room. You’ve never seen him look so enraged, face serious and twitching as if he would shift at any given moment.

“Th-There aren’t allowed to be more than one person in a—,” Jaebum nervously starts from the other side before the door is slammed on his nose.

You didn’t even see Jaebum’s reaction, nor do you ponder it when Hoseok drops your beautiful dresses and thrusts your back against the mirror with his hand to your neck, deliberately making you yelp loud enough for others to hear. You recoil as he bares his fangs, sharp and taunting, threatening to devour you whole and you know this isn’t your Hobi.

He doesn’t get the chance for whatever else he had in store when pure vehemence engulfs you, daring to stand your ground with a low guttural snarl and shoving him off. Your strength is nothing to snicker at, his shoulders nearly hitting the other wall despite his stature.

“What’s wrong with you?” you didn’t even care if everyone in the damn store could hear you, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

Regret instantly arises in his eyes, his hands reaching out to comfort you in any way but hesitant in the warning. He would rather die than hurt you, he was sorry, he was so sorry.

Your body can feel his sorrow and want, itching to touch him in any way but you push it down. The little she-wolf in you whimpers as you struggle out of the dress and leave him alone in the stall, begging for you to go back and forgive him.

Jaebum stands, bewildered, outside of the rooms. He sure did rue the moment he ever made advances on you. Not a word is spoken as you pass by and exit the store.

It doesn’t make it any easier when Hoseok follows you closely. “Baby, I’m sorry. Please.”

“You were going to shift because of some stupid sales clerk! You could’ve gotten us in some deep shit with the order,” you scold, “We’re going home. Right now.” This was a double-edged sword, you didn’t even get to purchase anything. Though your mood is far too foul to continue.

“But I didn’t! No one saw anything. I just lost my cool for a second, I promise. I know better.” Even Hoseok strains to keep up your pace, car already in view and goddamn you walk fast.

“Do you? Are you seriously justifying your actions? You need to uphold your responsibilities, Hoseok. You’re not new to this.” He finds that he despises when you lecture him this way, gums and skin and everything prickly and he wish he could gnaw on something right about now.

It was odd to tell him these things, taking into consideration that his role is considerably higher than yours and that he hardly ever faults as an alpha. If there wasn’t something going on biologically, what else could it be?

He’s obviously straining to keep his composure now, jaw slacked and knuckles cracking in his fist, “How am I supposed to do that now? It won’t happen again. It’s over.”

“Then what about your shitty mood swings? We don’t argue, Hoseok. You’re not mean, you’re not easily agitated, and you’re not a fucking paper  shredder. Neither are you aggressive to your own mate,” you throw in his face, unsurprised when he cowers again at the thought. It’s like the man was on his period.

Now that you recall, the last time you’ve ever seen him so angry at you is when you watched Endgame without him, and that should say enough. This was just all so new and unbecoming of someone with his level of reputation.

“You know I didn’t mean to do that. I never want to hurt you…” he leads as you beat him to the driver’s side of the car, watching him over the hood for him to finish his sentence, “I’m just—”

“You what, Hoseok?”

He jostles the door handle a few times, a rep of unsettling clacks making him uneasy.  

“Can you unlock the car?”

“You what?” you say a little louder, entirely avoiding his question.

“Goddammit,” he hisses, “Just let me in and we can talk about it when we get home.” You scan his face in search of anything. For the truth. For him to own up to what it is. What you get is nothing.

So you smile, “No.”

He stands cluelessly as you unlock your door and hop in, starting the car with a satisfying roll and opening his window just enough to see his addled facial expression.

“What are you doing?” he deadpans.

“If you won’t admit it then you obviously don’t take me seriously, and if you won’t take me seriously then I’ll take my car home by myself. So, toodles!”

He smirks nervously, slender fingers sifting through his hair, “Y/N, c’mon. Just let me in.” He’s even more staggered when you start reversing out of your spot. Eyes widening hilariously, he cusses under his breath as he walks cautiously towards the door.

“Have a fun run, baby. Better get home soon,” you feign pity, “looks like it’s going to start raining pretty soon.”

“We live an hour away!”

You drive down the row, turning on your signal just in case someone needed to know. Shucks, you were such a good driver, even in the parking lot.

Hoseok thinks otherwise, anger and panic so vivid that you can feel it from this distance. Walking Time Bomb even begins to jog, not willing to risk your bluff.

“Okay! Okay, I admit it. I may be going through something…” his wavering voice trickles into your head. “You’re right.’

You let him catch up to you, eyes shifty and fingers fiddling. “Hi, darling. Can you say that one more time? In person?” His chest puffs.

“I already said it once,” he begs.

Was his pride this important? Did the strangled mutt deep down change your Hoseok for the worst? An impatient car behind you honks and you shrug.

“You’re making people wait. I’m going to leave.”

“Jesus fucking—okay. I think I’m teething. Or something involving my dental state. It’s making me fucking grumpy and it’s painful and I want to punch a fucking wall because it’s stupid that this phase is so late.” You unlock his door mid-sentence, his body falling into his seat before he continues to blabber on.

“Oh, little puppy,” you slide your sunglasses from atop your head down to the bridge of your nose, “Don’t be so sensitive. ‘S like a human adult getting braces.”

The week passes by agonizingly slow. And that wasn't necessarily because Hoseok bitched and complained, throwing temper tantrums when the remote had fallen between the couch cushions or throwing his pants stormily when they would catch on his ankles and make him hobble about like a disabled chicken.

Or maybe it was because of that.

You dare to creak the door to his den (pun intended), having locked himself in such confinement to work through the paperwork that's been piling on his mahogany desk for days. He looks worn around the eyes, long brown hair pushed back with his fake reading glasses. You knock three times as if he couldn't already sense your presence. When he looks at you through his lashes, he nods for you to proceed.

"Hi, baby. How's the work going?" you ask with a honey-dipped edge.

He shrugs, "A lot of affairs from other packs that I have to go over. I should be done soon."

You slink behind his office chair and wrap your arms around his shoulders, "Mm, why don't you take a break and have a nice little bath with me?" He doesn't budge one inch, straightening out a stack of papers before stapling them neatly and tucking them into one of his drawers.

"I need to finish this. I've been pushing it back until the last minute."

Rolling him out a bit, you slide onto his lap and rest on his chest. Your touch always lulls a serene sensitivity from his skin, a natural effect that only you are capable of. But his muscles remain taut. Bones stiff and budging none whatsoever. Stuttering, you try again, "You've been working for hours. I'm lonely. Just an hour--,"

"Y/N. I'm warning you. Get off."

She-wolf unconsciously warns you to stand down upon this statement. Was he being serious? He's warning you? You search his blank face, waiting for him to crack a smile or lift you up and attack you with kisses. When he doesn't, you test the waters.

Your nails scratch the bare skin under his shirt, "H-Hoseokie, we haven't had sex in so long," you whine. Invading his space, however, only sets him off more.

He growls, deep and meant to be menacing. It takes brutal force to push yourself to move, a weight halting your ministrations. His word, no matter how rare it be, was your law. Do you dare defy that?

You unbutton his pants the same time he threatens, "Continue any further and see what happens." He's breathier than normal and that gives you some satisfaction. He was your mate, after all. Eternal fulfillment was your duty.

The feeling of his heavy and growing bulge, nestling in the crook of his thigh, is a success all in its own. You purr and rub your legs together, licking at Hoseok's neck lovingly and waiting for him to give in. "Hobi, you're already--ah!"

Your view spins as Hoseok scruffs you to his desk, cold wood pressed to your cheek and wrists somehow pinned behind you. Yiping in fear, you struggle in his harsh imprisonment.

"You don't fucking listen," he complains, voice balancing on the line between speaking and yelling.

"Hoseok! L-Let me g-go--," you start before he grinds himself into your ass, boner prominent and angry as it prods. He replaces the hand to your neck with his mouth, laving and suckling all the way down your shoulder.

"Can't do that. I warned you and you disobeyed me. You disobey your alpha, Y/N?"

"No, I'm sorry--," you squeak before your dress is thrown over your back and a sharp slap comes down onto your ass.

You don’t believe the sound that comes out of your throat, pressing your thighs together and wiggling the pain away. “J-Jung Hoseok! What is—” Another slap, harder than the first.

The nerves tingle all the way down to your toes as your eyes roll back. You moan once more, unsolicited and without restraint. Hoseok is content with your reaction, not expecting you to squirm so nicely because of your punishment.

"You like this, don't you? I can smell you leaking like some submissive whore," he snarls with an edge of disappointment. You're beyond mortified of how he speaks to you, although not inclined to deny his words. Not when he spanks you once more, with such force that a scream is rewarded and your back arches in euphoric pain.

"Hoseok, no more, please. I'll--I'll cum if you keep, ugh," you blabber over yourself. He thinks you look prettily pathetic drooling on his desk, so close to spilling over the edge from being physically humiliated.

"Tch, so weak," he comments before releasing your wrist and letting you collapse to the floor. "Are you done?" The question both turns you on and pisses you off, emotions swirling into something self-destructive.

Crawling on the carpet and up his leg, you nuzzle into his bulge, "But I still didn't get what I want." You don’t even ponder where this behavior is coming from; slinking out of you like a dog with its tail between its legs. Perhaps his own change of manner influenced one in you.

He could laugh at how easy you were being, wondering when he ever mated with someone who acts like such a sexually-obsessed brat. "Oh?" he prompts, "So you think you get to make the calls here?"

Licking the hem of his boxers in response, he doesn't feel pleased with your lack of words. You perk up when he shuffles his cock out from the confines of his layers. It’s almost instinctual, not wasting any time to pepper kisses and kitten licks to his tip. God, he even smells amazing. You don't care if you look ridiculous, feverish with your actions like he'd take away your precious treat if you weren't cautious.

He snickers at you, petting your hair with an unexpectedly soft touch. Your heart-shaped irises peer up, knowing he loves your eye contact when you suck him off. Watching the blush spread on his face means that you must be doing your job correctly. Besides, not even the Big Bad Wolf can deny when he feels his pleasure.

He almost can’t stand the self-righteousness that oozes off you. If you thought you were in control, you were dead-wrong. "You want my cock that bad, huh, baby?" your love bunches as much of your hair as he can with his fist, "Then fucking take it."

Then his girthy dick shoves to the back of your throat without warning, hips to your nose and thrustingthrustingthrusting as far as he can.

You'd sputter if your mouth wasn't so full, eyes overflowing with tears and throat constricting in hopes that he'll let you go. When he doesn't and continues to grind himself down your mouth, you dig your nails into his thighs and whine on his persistent cock. It doesn’t matter, the digging crescents in his thighs rousing him even further and even hoping those pretty nails of yours leave marks for him. He’d accept no less.

Hoseok thrusts twice more before pulling you off and watching you cough maniacally. The tears that gathered were now running down your face, accompanied with your saliva that leaks from your chin and onto the floor.

You couldn't breathe, you couldn't ask him to stop, and you loved it.

He cocks a brow as you struggle to catch up, "We'll stop here. You're obviously not made for this."

Pitiful is the only word he can use to describe how quickly you paw and beg for him, desperately wrapping your fingers around the base of his member and pumping him just the way he likes it, "No! I can take it, please use me." Your unstable hand massages the cum-saliva mix as well as it can, a small victory celebrated when he bucks into you.

"Mm," his thumb wipes a stray tear from your lip, "You're so beautiful when you cry. Will you sit on the desk for me?"

You don't hesitate to obey, being careful to hop up when your bum is so sore but otherwise eager for him to touch you again. When he places himself between your legs, your body hums.

"I'm... I'm not well, Y/N. I don't want to hurt you," he says, voicing his first concern after what's already happened. With his brows knit in concern and his slender fingers rubbing calmly at your sides, it's almost as if the Hoseok you know has returned. The Hobi that makes your pancakes just a little overcooked like you prefer. Who makes you a blanket nest when you’re feeling down. And will gladly give up his last bite of anything to watch you munch happily even after you’ve finished your own portion.

In some way, this was your same Hobi. Maybe not so sweet and innocent but more on the receiving end. Spending his days tending to you out of pure love and pleasure to see you bloom; it was just your turn to return the favor.

So you kiss him with fervor and mold your chest to his, feeling the scorching heat that emanates from him. He must seriously be straining himself, you think. His canines graze your lips and you know he's trying his best to hold back; to not completely obliterate you.

"I want to help you," you whisper against his mouth. You implore him and he doesn’t hesitate to take your offer.

You extend your legs as he rushes to pull down your thong, throwing it to the side, and embracing you with another kiss, all tongue and pants. Some of his documents get ruffled under your steadying hands and he shoves them off altogether, a rain of really important paper littering the room. He comes in a little too excitedly, slamming a drawer closed with his thigh and even scooting his desk across the floor.

“God fucking dammit,” he swears, your chuckles covering his wet lips. “I’m… a mess… not thinking straight. Need to cum inside you.”

You purr when his head rubs against your sex, an electric sensation tearing through you. “Want you to knot me,” you whisper. A mistake in its own because he’s practically moaning into your mouth when you say such things.

“Yeah, baby? Want your cunt pumped full? Hm?” he asks into your jaw, all the while spreading your legs as far as they can split with his strong hands. His hips begin to circle like he’s stalling as long as possible and that rouses you up in a way.

You nod with sultry eyes and chant, “Yes. Yes, yes.” By the second yes does he all but slam into you, your final confirmation his endgame.

Hoseok was truly blessed in size, something no mere human could ever match. His length alone would make you double over in ecstasy if he allowed you the space to. Squeezing around him only makes him fuck you deeper, both wanting and needing more of each other than you already have. You were made for him, and him you.

You whimper as he pulls out, his head tantalizing your g-spot before ramming back inside and forcing an angelic cry. “H-Hoseokie… Please, your pups. I want to have your pups”

The sounds of his hips against your skin with your moans and the subtle creak of his desk is almost humorous, you were fucking like dogs. Even more so when he pushes you flat against the wood by the front of your throat, his thumb tucked gently on an airway as your tongue flops out in simple bliss.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it,” he snarls with a particularly evil drill to your core that curls your toes. “Nothing to me would be more satisfying than to breed you.”

Your throat constricts and you cough, your tiny hands tugging at his fingers while barely being able to pry his grip. You can’t resist moaning through clenched teeth still, even when the prettiest wine red pours into his irises. Hoseok holds back incredibly well, despite having shifting eyes, his total control never fails to astonish you. It was years worth of training and you thank the stars that it was useful in a time where you were literally stuffed with his cock.

“And you’re so willing; so obedient now. You like when I fuck you like this. Just want that beautiful pussy bred until you’re spilling, right?” he chuckles with means to humiliate when your eyes flutter and drool spills from your swollen lips, “What a mate.”

You tighten, an embarrassing amount of arousal spilling and sticking to your love. He doesn’t mind one bit, rather, losing composure for a brief moment, “Ugh, so good.”

His hand suddenly withdraws from your tender neck and you sputter an attempt to catch your breath, a fleeting moment before he wraps his arms under your knees and prompts you to hang onto him when he stands. How quickly he’s able to switch positions is hot in itself, but the thought is also lost when you sink down even further on his dick.

“Oh, oh my god,” you wail pathetically, wrapping yourself around him and trying to lift your trembling body to ease how full you feel, even for just a moment.

“Hm? I thought you wanted this, baby. Wanted my complete, unforgiving love for you. Isn’t that why you walked into my office?” he smirks similarly to how you imagine the devil would. His hands find leverage against the closest wall, also shoving you against it and resuming his pace into you.

This, to whichever persona was hiding deep down in Hoseok, was divine. Incredible. You would die for this man even without the bond. He was literally screwing you braindead.

He pants, warm and sweaty and shirt somehow unbuttoned halfway down (when did you do that?), “I thought you wanted my knot? Not anymore?”

Your pupils blow out as you shake your head, you were so close.

“Ah, then I’ll knot you. I’ll knot you but you have to beg,” he says with a wink. Bastard.

“Please, please knot me, baby. Breed me and let me have your pups,” you sob, “Fill me up until I can’t take it anymore, Alpha, please—”

He jabs incessantly until you’re entirely maxed out, sloppy smacks echoing out further than the den and his growls emanating when you drag your sharp nails down his back, the fabric tearing under your fingers. Hoseok grinds his full length into you, reaching beyond the end of your walls.

“S-Stay,” he orders. He slows as the base of his cock swells and even though you asked for it, it’s always a little uncomfortable. You can’t even fathom how it feels for your mate, his sudden groans and the absolute necessity to lave at your neck only scraping at the surface of any real indication.

Hoseok told you once that it was similar to both being overstimulated and having a sudden spike of energy, which could explain his touchiness. It was cute though, and kinda hot.

Nestled deep inside, you can subtly feel the ropes of semen beginning to pool. You rest your head over his shoulder, buzzing from the intensity of it all and watching as the walls move and shift into the ones of your bedroom.

Hoseok’s hoarse voice surprises you, “Fuck, I’m so dizzy.”

The bed is a heavenly difference from the den’s desk and wall, your heart pounding a little too hardly when he places one of his pillows lengthwise under your back for extra squish. He was so cute.

But then he collapses on you.

“Oof—I’ve never seen you like that before. My ass hurts,” you state dreamily.

“Oh, love. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he asks seriously, lifting his head to study your face in case you lie. The red dissipated long before, his deep brown eyes twinkling down at you like they always do.

“You were a little rough,” you feign, pouting and pushing around his face with paw-folded fists. He thinks you look like an idiot, a cute idiot.

“I’m sorryyyy,” he whines, burying his face into your chest and wiggling around like a fish. His knot moves with him and you wince.

“Hoseok, stay still.”

Being showered in a sudden attack of kisses is what he responds with, not even aware of the task at hand and fake crying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t ever want to hurt you—I—oh no.”

You yipe as semen sloshes down your leg, shoving your palm into Hobi’s (who is undoubtedly back to his usual self) cheek and trying your best to not panic.

“Goddammit, Jung Hoseok! Stay still!”

beep boop hope you liked, leave some feedback if you did!

[mcchipisfried]

DEArtfest Day 5 - Western AU

*slams fist on table* Nines and Gavin are horses that wear cowboy hats and Tina is a sheriff in town on a mission to stop the notorious Ada from continuing her evil plans...

Very kid oriented this one. Shenanigans happen. Tina gets a girlfriend. She is joined by Chris along the way. Happy ending.

Also please look up horses with cowboy hats. They are very cute.

[bellsybuilds]

[Part 1 of the Truck Stops and Tribulations series (link)]

next part >>

Three men and a baby (T)

Din Djarin, Paz Viz(s)la, Baby Yoda, Jack “Agent Whiskey” Daniels (modern AU, all human, road trips, found family, family reunions)

Wherein Din Djarin is out of options and has to call on his twin for a favour.

The call picks up on the third ring.

“As I live and breathe.” He can hear the smirk of the one who answers; sleek drawl still the same as the day Din left its speaker with a crooked jaw, his own knuckles cut and bruised. Once upon a time, that man’s voice would have soothed him. Today, his gut is churning. “To what do I owe the honour?”

The semi-trailer flies over a speed hump, shuddering hard on its landing, and Din braces himself with a hand against the dashboard.

Beside him, the kid mewls in its booster seat, startled awake, dark eyes blinking large and wide.

Din takes the small hand that reaches for him from within that nest of blankets, and he throws their driver a dirty look.

“Sorry,” Paz rumbles, mouth tense, eyes ahead on the road and hands gripped tight to the wheel.

Din bites back the growl of annoyance.

Paz is just trying to get them as far away as fast as possible. It’s his semi taking them to safety. He’s doing Din and this child a kindness. To think the large man had only met them a few days ago, and now Din owes this trucker more than he thinks he’ll ever be able to repay.

To pile onto that, he needs to ask for one more favour.

“Don’t mean to call out of the blue like this,” he murmurs, phone tight against his cheek. He rubs the kid’s belly to soothe its whimpers, encourage it to burrow back down into the nest of blankets. The kid’s eyelids grow heavy and it wraps small hands around his fingers, keeping him close. He feels a small smile of relief tuck at the corner of his mouth.

“So, what is it?” The audio crackles, but no patchy phone reception can hide the smugness in that tone. “Finally punch the wrong man, Din? Is it money?” A bark of laughter.  “A woman?”

The jibe is good-natured, but his chest draws in tight, palms sweaty, and his jaw is grinding before he reminds himself to stop because he doesn’t need a headache on top of everything else right now.

“I--” Din’s throat catches and he ignores the narrowed look from Paz, swallowing moisture down so the words don’t stick. “I m-might have… killed a man.”

He feels the weight of Paz’s silence and stares hard instead at the snow blurring past in the semi’s wake. It feels unreal to say it aloud.

Finally, he expects to hear. All this time I told you; your talent’s been wasted.

Instead, he doesn’t even earn a laugh: “... And? Did he deserve it?”

Din winces gently, steadying himself with an arm against the door. The window’s glass is cold against his forehead. “Well yeah-- but--”

“Then you did fine,” the interruption is firm, almost kind, and it cleaves through his panic like the rich note of a tuning fork. It strikes Din with a pang in his chest at the rarity of it. “You close by?”

“Yeah,” his voice croaks a little, and it’s too much to hope the other man doesn’t hear it, but there’s grace for him today because he isn’t called on it. 

“Come round. The usual place.”

“Okay.” Din reaches over and checks Paz’s watch. The other man lets him turn his wrist without resistance and the face lights up the dark cabin with the time. “Forty-five.”

“You are close.” The man chuckles gently. “You bringing me trouble, boy?”

“Nothing we can’t handle.”

‘We’. Just one more time.

“Okay,” a concession, he’s still on the fence, but he’s willing to hear Din out. “Forty-five.”

///

“Can you trust this guy?” Paz asks, stealing concerned glances at him from the black road twisting ahead. 

It's a grey day, the clouds hang low and thick, but at least it's not threatening to drop another layer of snow on them. The chill in the cab is cold and wet, the ice melting from their boots to puddle in the footwell.

Din stares at the phone in his hands, screen dark and cracked.

Paz glances at the child dozing between them, buckled low and snug, chest rising with its soft, small snores. Holding the lower lip of the booster seat, Din gazes into the small face relaxed in sleep. It’s been too long since the little one has been able to rest soundly for more than a few hours, and he’s been achingly grateful for the refuge of this truck since Paz materialised into their lives with his small tank of a shotgun for the pack of hunters that found them outside that Waffle House in West Virginia.

The child is exhausted. They all are.

Time to swallow some pride and face whatever tune fate plays for him-- ‘cause he’ll do whatever it takes to keep them ahead of the ones on their tail. 

"I hope so,” he murmurs, and Paz hums in acceptance.

///

The diner door has barely swung shut behind them when a bright voice rings clear above the patrons' murmurs, uncaring of the disruption:

"There he is!"

A lifetime of instinct freezes Din on the spot with a suppressed wince.

Jack Daniels is impossible to miss at the subtlest of times, and today he is not trying in the slightest: he weaves around the booths with all the grandeur like he’s the second coming, arms outstretched in expectation, smile wide but... genuinely pleased?

Paz pulls up short, expression tightly reined and he cuts Din with a sharp look, jaw cording with tension. 

"You forgot to mention 'twin'," the larger man grits out.

Adjusting the kid sucking on its fist against his hip, Din tilts his head. He blinks. "Oh." He’d said ‘brother’, but the twin part-- did it matter?

A huffed exhale. "Some warning would have been nice," Paz mutters with all the sincerity of a man who's never had to learn to lie, lifting his worn cap to push back his dark curls.

Before he has the chance to wonder why, a body slams into Din and strong arms close around his shoulders, he grunts as the air is squeezed from his lungs in a rough hug. 

Jack laughs in his ear, rich and unrepentant.

"It's been too long. You don't call, you don't write." His brother thumps him warmly between the shoulders and steps back to take his fill of his last living family.

Not that four minutes of age difference count for much. Jack Daniels has never been the signpost for a life responsibly lived.

For all the lives he’s entangled or hearts he’s crushed underfoot, Jack has never learned to course correct, always steering by his own compass. It’s kept Din up at night. He used to wish his brother had stronger morals, less swagger, and more remorse. He gave up when Jack was rewarded for his misbehaviour with job security, too much money, and a clean slate.

He doubts Jack learned anything from the broken jaw Din left him.

“Had to lie low,” Din says, struggling to meet his brother’s eye. He looks at the kid instead and brushes the small tufts of hair on its head. It coos back at him quietly, soothing. “You know how it is.”

Growing up can also mean accepting that growing apart is sometimes the only way you’ll ever come back together.

"Well," Jack’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline taking in the child on his hip. Big, dark eyes blink back at him, and his smile warms, endeared. It’s a rare look for him. “Ain’t you just the most precious thing!” The child wraps its tiny fist around the thumb Jack offers, and Din feels that dull tug in his chest again.

His brother turns that assessing look on Din's other companion towering beside them, and Din does not like the eyebrow Paz earns, nor the amusement that colours his smile. 

"Well well."  Jack’s smile spreads into the insufferably familiar smirk that makes Din want to smack that pure beaver blend hat off his big head. Jack looks from Paz to Din to the child, and laughs. "You’ve been busy!"

Or maybe Din will just punch him again.

At that moment, Paz does what he does best, materialising just when Din needs him and Jack cranes his neck back, looking up and up as Paz steps in, gesturing to the tables with their high seats and privacy.

“It’s been a long drive,” Paz says, voice low and a little impatient. “Could we--?”

But because Jack is Jack, he just thrusts his hand forth with that customary charm. "Hi, I'm Jack Daniels. And you must be….?"

The trucker takes his hand, slow and considering. “‘Jack Daniels’.” The glance slanted at Din is pinched with disbelief. “Really?”

Like the drink? Yes, his brother really did all the legal paperwork and went there.

Din shrugs, the only apology he can muster for the spectacle that is his twin. He couldn’t make him up if he tried.

Jack’s smile doesn’t falter, drawing Paz’s attention back with a gentle draw on the hand in his hold. “And you are?”

"Vizla. Paz Vizla," he says, and Din rolls his eyes at the exaggerated way his brother startles at the strength of Paz's handshake, laughing.

Jack always thought he was so funny. Unfortunately, so did many others, and all that charm had opened doors that Din could only dream of, and preferred not to consider.

“Vizla… you know, that name,” Jack hums thoughtfully, wheels spinning. “It’s familiar.”

"Can we sit?" Paz gestures to their waiting table, because more and more patrons are starting to stare, wondering at this extended reunion blocking all traffic at the front door, and finally Jack steps back.

Slinging an arm around his brother’s shoulder, Jack nods indulgently at the kid. “I want to hear everything.”

///

Jack may be a lot of things, but his discomfort with their predicament is a relief.

“A bounty? On a kid?”  Jack blinks at the child bouncing on his knee. Babbling intently, the kid waves its short, stubby arms at the rhinestone dangling from the cowboy’s collar, eyes set on their prize. “Who’s he belong to?”

Din sighs, shaking his head, short of answers. “You know the Code. We don’t ask.”

Jack groans under his breath. “Still working for that stuffy guild, brother?”

“No. They cut me off when I took the kid.”

The corners of Jack’s mouth pull down, and he nods, pleased. “Good.”

No, not  good,  that means Din is persona non grata; nobody will offer him refuge, he’s a walking payday, and he is short on resources.

Which is why he’s found himself right back here.

“This mean you’re finally ready to join a real agency?” Jack smiles broadly, lifting the child to his chest, and Din feels a flush of annoyance at the smugness in his tone. And at how willingly the child wraps its pudgy hands around his brother’s jaw, curling into his short stubble. “You come with us--” Jack snuggles in to smother his cheek to the kid’s temple, and Din has to stifle a possessive growl when the kid giggles. “You’ll have everything you need to protect this little one. Nobody’ll be able to touch him.”

Paz has stopped where he’s hunched over his pancakes and is frowning at Din. “Agency?”

Din flexes what calm he has left to keep his expression still and blank, and not betray how much he wants to reach over the table to snatch his kid back.

“I’m not joining Statesman. I haven’t changed my mind.”

Jack rolls his eyes, his whole body, and plops the kid on the table before him. The kid burbles with delight at the plate of mostly untouched roast now beside his leg.

“Then what the hell are you doing here, huh? I know you don’t need help hiding no bodies when you got--” He gestures significantly at Paz beside him. “This,” he finishes, lamely.

“They stuck the kid with a tracker. It’s in his blood. Too sophisticated and dangerous for me to get out. With the tech you can access, you could do it.”

“Ah, so don’t want to join us, but still want to play with our toys.”

He says it like Din is waltzing up to a boutique and not trying to keep a small, vulnerable child alive.

“This is not a game.” Din clenches his jaw, flushing hotly. “The kid will never be safe until we do.”

“Maybe. Maybe.” Jack’s sing-song tone is infuriating. He nudges the kid gently on its belly where it’s swaddled thick in winter layers. His voice is low and careful, but not uncaring. “What’s so special about you, huh?”

Paz and Din exchange a careful look. Paz’s hands are clenched tight on his cutlery.

The child laughs, a bubble of light among their tense gloom, and smears a meal’s worth of green peas across itself and Jack’s cheek.

Din stares, stunned, and Jack blinks-- then bursts into laughter, swiping the mess up with two fingers and sucking them into his mouth. “Mmm, not bad!”

The kid laughs and reaches back down to the plate.

All three men dive in to block him, plates clattering, cutlery tinkling, drinks are precariously jostled, and the kid’s little round face is pure glee, stuck in a giggling loop as his hands are caught in thick napkins and wiped clean.

“All right, Green Bean, all right,” Jack is smiling, and swipes the napkin across the child’s nose. He leans in, bringing them almost nose-to-nose. His eyes soften. “You know, if my kid had lived, he’d be about your age.”

That pang in Din’s chest morphs into a vice pinching his lungs with guilt. That might be the one wound that could have truly humbled his brother, the one that will never truly heal.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Paz rumbles, moving that plate of trouble away from the kid’s sphere of mischief. “Can you help?”

Jack squints at him, head tilted. "What's in it for you?"

"I used to be him," Paz nods at the child, declared so plainly that Din blinks at him, forgetting to mask his surprise. "Running. Guns. That's no way for a kid to live."

Jack’s mouth shrugs, considering. Those dark eyes return to his brother, and then Din is looking into his mirror, being asked a familiar question. Jack nods at Paz, not bothering to lower his voice, “You trust him?”

They’re both watching him and, initially, Din thinks about lying. But this kid is counting on him, it has nobody else, and he can’t afford to disrespect his brother’s intelligence.

“I don’t trust anyone,” he says, holding Jack’s eye.

In his periphery, he sees Paz sit back from his plate, spine straight and stiff.

Across from him, Jack smiles with approval. “Well, at least we’re all starting from the same square. So, how about it, Green Bean? You up for one more trip?” He nudges the child under the chin and winks. “I hope you like ginger ale.”

next part >>

[darkangeldesignstudio]

Dark Horse

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Death, Attempted Rape, Strong Language, Mentions of Animal Abuse, and Eventual Smut and Fluff

Setting: Post Civil War era USA. Marvel Cowboy AU

Song: Amazing by Aerosmith

Previous / Next

Chapter Two: Damsel in Distress

Steve and Bucky had just settled into their hiding spot at the rear of the house when they heard the vulgar voices of the guys inside. One voice in particular stood out. It bellowed above the rest as he ordered the surrounding men, the sounds of the woman’s struggling was drowned out by his gruff tone.

When the initial thud reached their ears, accompanied by the order to tie the young woman down, Steve had to grip Bucky’s arm to stop him from storming in alone.

“They are hurting her, Steve.” Bucky whisper-shouted as his friend held him back from saving the woman inside. “I can’t take this.”

Steve loosened his grasp on Bucky’s arm, but he dared not release him as he tried his best to calm the man. “We can’t run in, guns blazing. What if she became caught in the crossfire? What if they execute her? We need to wait until a few come outside.”

Bucky knew Steve was right, but it still ached to hear the woman battling against the guys inside and, and from the grip that was gradually tightening on his arm again, Steve was just as affected. Bucky was thankful for the touch; without it grounding him, he would surely have panicked.

The gruff voice came again, ordering four of the men outside to stand guard. Bucky and Steve looked between one another and nodded in unison. This was what they were waiting for.

As two of the thugs exited through the back door, Bucky and Steve split to approach from opposite sides of the house. Meeting in the middle, they took out each guard silently and posted up by either side of the door.

“Okay, assuming that Tony and Nat had the same plan, there are only four more men inside.” Steve nodded, agreeing with Bucky’s assessment of the situation. “What do yo-”

All plans flew out the window as a hard crack was heard, the gruff voice roaring a command in the bitter night air. “Be still, bitch.”

The growl that left Bucky’s throat was so vicious, one would have thought Soldat had joined them instead of staying at camp with Bruce, and Steve’s anger wasn’t far behind. When the scream came, there was no stopping either man from entering the house.

Fully intent on killing the men responsible for hurting the woman inside, they pulled their weapons from their belts and crept through the house and towards the front room where the voices were emanating from. Making it, just in time, to see the horrible display before them.

They had tied the woman down to a large dining table, legs exposed and dangling where her trousers had been pulled down. The man behind her had his fist buried in her beautiful Y/H/C hair as he sought to divest himself of his own pants with his other hand. Her back was arched at an unnatural angle, eyes closed and tears running down her cheeks.

Bucky’s fist clenched around the hilt of his dagger, prepared to lunge at the closest threat and rip their throat out. Steve began to draw his own weapon, a military saber equipped with a wickedly jagged edge, and readied himself to act.

They were inclined to make the first move, a risky play when outnumbered and inside an enclosed space, but they never got the chance.

Natasha’s slender form stormed through the door with a wickedly evil smile plastered on her face, effectively distracting the men in the place long enough for Steve and Bucky to jump into action.

_______________________________________________________________________

The sound of a door slamming open cracked through the room like a shot. A woman’s voice hit your ears a second later and a sense of relief washed over you when the man at your back released your hair.

“Hello, boys.” The sickly sweet voice said. “I think it’s about time you let my friend go.” Her voice held a distinct edge to it, a demanding tone that spoke of violent consequences if her request wasn’t adhered to. The fools around her didn’t notice.

The leader scoffed at the woman as his men began to laugh and taunt her. “And who’s going to make us? You?”

More taunting, this time from the leader who had been at your back only a moment ago, followed another round of laughter. “Why don’t you go cook us some dinner, little lady. A good fucking always leaves me famished. My men will keep you company, of course.”

You clenched your eyes shut as the leader moved behind you again, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. The woman’s voice dropped an octave, sending a shiver down your spine. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, bastard? ”

“And who would that be? All I see are two little whores begging for a beating.”

“I’m your huckleberry,” said a deep voice from the back room. You whipped your head up, just as two men walked through the door that separated the common room from the rear of the house.

Your breath caught at the sight of them. They were handsome as sin. So beautiful, you began to believe that actual gods had answered your prayer.

The taller of the two had dark blond hair, just covered by a tan cowboy hat. His eyes were the color of the bluest summer sky, accentuated by his deep blue winter jacket, jean trousers, tan riding gloves and chaps. His eyes were anything but friendly as he looked at the enemies surrounding them, but when he shifted his gaze to you, they were filled with a deep remorse that made tears form in your own.

The man next to him spoke, drawing your attention from his partner. “Let the girl go, Hydra scum. Or I’ll rip you apart before you can draw breath.”

His ice-blue eyes seemed to darken with his threat. He was shorter than his companion, but he held a power that one can only gain through hardship. A black cowboy hat partially hid his dark, shoulder length hair. In fact, practically all of his clothes were black, from his jacket to his worn-out boots, except for a hint of bright red that you could see at his collar. Face splattered in blood, he was breathtaking in a primal sort of way, his hands gripping a long dagger crusted with blood, presumably from the guards that had been outside.

“Wow! That was downright animalistic, Tin Man. How long did it take you to come up with that one?” The new voice startled you, but the camaraderie and light teasing in his words put you at ease. It was now a four on four fight and you liked those odds.

Glancing back to the blond fellow, you watched as he rolled his eyes and a small smile graced your lips for the first time in, what seemed like, hours. He saw your smile and grinned back before motioning for you to lay your head down. With a nod, you obliged him and the group lunged into action.

_______________________________________________________________________

When the girl lowered her head back to the table, Steve gave a slight nod to the rest of the group and they all went for a man in the room.

Tony, having walked in at the Hydra thugs’ backs with his gun previously drawn, flipped his heavy volcanic pistol and whacked the one man across the cheek. He fell to the floor unconscious and Tony smiled with satisfaction before going to help the woman on the table.

Natasha simply pulled two throwing knives from the sheath at her hip and whipped them into the second man’s chest, killing him with deadly efficiency. She could have easily taken all four of the men in the room down single handedly, but she hadn’t been willing to give them a chance to kill the woman as retaliation. Preferring to distract them, long enough for the others to step in. It wasn’t her usual style to be cautious, but she didn’t want another woman to be hurt because of her recklessness. With a slight huff and an eye roll, she yanked her blades from the dead body at her feet and walked over to where Tony was untying the woman.

Bucky and Steve fought in unison, keeping the last two men distracted while Nat and Tony freed the woman from her restraints. Exchanging insults to piss off the ring leader and put him off his game. It was exhilarating to fight like this again. With hand and blade, back to back like the best of friends that they were, they would attack and retreat. Like a pair of wolves, exhausting their prey, toying with it before the killing blow.

“I feel sorry for these guys, Buck.” Steve lunged, cutting the first man across the shoulder. His coat had become soaked with blood and sweat beaded on his brow. He stumbled, struggling to land any strikes on Steve, and missed him by a mile.

“Me too. What kind of sorry men they must be to have to rape and pillage to enjoy life.” Bucky countered the Hydra leader’s attacks, blow for blow. He may have been strong enough against a restrained woman, but he was no match for a trained assassin. One of the leader’s attacks faltered, giving Bucky an opening to cut across the man’s thigh. He fell to one knee, struggling to stand again as blood spilled onto the floor beneath him.

“What’s wrong boys? Can’t get it up like a real man?” Steve, having cut the Hydra underling a few more times, parried a weak strike with his sword. He then, stepped into the man’s space and threw a hard uppercut into the man’s jaw, knocking him unconscious and bleeding onto the floor. He wouldn’t last long bleeding as he was, so Steve left him there and joined his partner in finishing off the leader of the group.

Bucky felt a hand brush his shoulder, Steve’s touch pulled him back from the killing edge just enough to see that the woman across the room was safe and sound in Nat’s arms, though the bruise along her jaw almost made him go into another rage. She had the most ferocious look on her face as she stared at the man, on his knees at Bucky and Steve’s feet. Her gaze spoke volumes. It said, “finish him off.” With all the things she had gone through on this night, neither of the men were surprised at her silent request.

With a nod, both men drew back their blades and plunged them into the man’s chest. Blood gurgled in his throat, spilling from his mouth as Steve and Bucky withdrew their weapons, wiped them clean and walked away.

_______________________________________________________________________

You stood there for a moment, watching as the two men killed the leader. The woman at your side held you steady as you glanced back towards the front door and a fresh wash of tears cascaded down your cheeks. “They killed him.”

Looking towards the door with you, the group saw the body that lied there, free of Hydra insignia, it was evident that the man hadn’t been one of the enemy.

“Who was he,” the dark haired man asked. He looked so lost, guilt filled his gaze. As if the attack on your home had been entirely his fault.

You turned back to the group, meeting two sets of sad blue eyes. “He was my brother. The only family I had left after my father died in the war.” The woman’s arms squeezed you a bit tighter as a hand descended upon your shoulder. You looked to the man standing slightly behind you and smiled a watery grin. It was so like something your brother would have done and you were grateful for the kindness in his eyes.

“He took me in when the government took my father’s ranch. They said a woman had no business owning so much land and sent me on my way with just the clothes on my back and my horse.” You chuckled darkly at the memory. “They would have taken my horse too if he wasn’t such a handful.”

The group around you smiled with your admission. “Well, we all have a bit of a thing for difficult horses. My name is Steve Rogers,” he said.

You shook his outstretched hand. “I’m Y/N.”

Pointing to the others in the room, Steve introduced them as well.

“This fiery red head is Natasha Romanov.” The woman in black nodded her head, adding an innocent little wave for good measure, but her eyes spoke of things you could never imagine. You liked her immediately.

“The smart mouthed jokester is Tony Stark. He has a thing for explosives and whining about everything.” You giggled as Tony bowed like a fancy gentleman. He certainly was finely dressed for a cowboy, but who were you to judge a man for his tastes? To each his own, you always said.

“My broody partner here…” Steve continued, throwing his arm around the dark haired man’s shoulders “… is James Buchanan Barnes.”

“James,” you replied, taking his outstretched hand in your own as a blush crept into his cheeks.

“Bucky is just fine with me, Miss.” He smiled at you then, causing your heart to skip a beat. This one was all trouble.

Peering around the room, Steve noticed the snow that had begun to fall outside. “I doubt you will want to stay here tonight, Y/N. Why don’t you pack up some supplies and come back to our camp? We can return in the morning and help you clean the place up.”

“I would like that, Steve. Thank you kindly. I’ll just go grab my things.” Turning towards the bedrooms, you looked over your shoulder at the group of brave souls. “Thank you for saving my life as well. I doubt I would have made it out alive without you all coming to my rescue.”

[outlawnurse]

He Insists - Chapter IV

A RDR2 Modern AU Written by: @ninja-nurse, Inspired by: @heart-of-gold-outlaw and with Special Thanks to: @ceruleanchillin @teumessianfox and @letsloveimagines

Warning: Language, Spoilers

Introduction | Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Chapter IV | Chapter V

Dutch sat in the tent with Hosea and Arthur. "Those Pinkertons were looking for me.  They had my wanted poster.  How did they know where to find me, Dutch?"  Arthur asked, angrily. "I don't know."  He sighed. "Cait said they were going to offer me a deal." The two men looked at him. "Freedom for us," he hesitated, "if I gave him you." Dutch rubbed his forehead, "Would you have taken it?" "Of course not, Dutch."  His brow furrowed. Dutch sighed. Hosea shook his head, "What are we going to do, Dutch?  They're obviously on to us, and this little visit was a little too close for comfort." "We just need to lay low.  We can't have anymore attention brought down on us."

"I think there's a rat."  Arthur blurt out. "Arthur."  Hosea said with caution in his voice. "How else would they have known about the Blackwater job?  How would they have known where to find us all the way out here, huh?" "....and who do you think it is?"  Dutch asking, knowing the answer. "Micah has been nothing but...." "Son," Dutch started. "No."  Arthur snapped, "Don't 'son' me.  There is something about that man that is rotten, and if you don't trust me, trust Cait." He looked at the man. "She's terrified of him.  She doesn't trust him.  She jumps out of her skin if he so much as looks in her general direction."  Arthur kept his voice low, "The girl knows every goddamn thing that happens to us.  What does she know about him?" Dutch sighed, rubbing his forehead, "I don't know, Arthur, but..." "Can you just.... Can you at least keep a closer eye on him?"  Arthur asked, sounding exasperated.   Dutch nodded, sighing.

Arthur kept his eye on the woman, worried about her after the ordeal. "What are you doing?"  Abigail asked, walking over to the girls, who were working behind Pearson's wagon, "Where's Mr. Pearson?" "We're making dinner tonight."  Sophia looked up, "We're going to celebrate my sister's stupidity." "Stop."  Cait shook her head. Sophia laughed, "You got arrested for pulling a gun on a federal agent... in eighteen ninty nine...  Why don't you just try robbing a bank while you're at it?" Caitlin looked at her for a minute, before bursting into laughter, "Maybe tomorrow me and you can go hit a stage coach!" Abigail shook her head at the two, laughing, glad to see the two getting along again. Arthur smiled to himself, seeing the girl enjoying herself.  His smile faded, as he saw Micah lean on the table, as Sophia stepped away.

"How're you doing, jailbird?" Caitlin's eyes shifted up, meeting with Arthur's first, then looked to Micah, "What do you want, Mr. Bell?" "I want to know why you hate me so much." She didn't answer. "Your lovely sister doesn't hate me." "My sister doesn't know you like I do, Mr. Bell, and I'll thank you to stay away from her." "There has to be a reason." "There is." "...and what would it be?" She looked at him, holding the butcher's knife in her hand, tightly, "I can't tell you why, but I can tell you this...  Be fucking nicer.  Help out a little around here.  Would it kill you to maybe go hunting once and a while?  Do a couple of chores?  The horses could use a good grooming and feeding." "That's Kieran's job." "It's everyone's job." "I don't need to worry myself with chores, Miss Marston, I am a stone cold killer." "You, Mr. Bell," she leaned into him, "are not intimidating." He looked at her, standing tall, "I've been nothing but nice to you and Sophia." "You tried to choke me to death when I first got here." "...but I didn't." "Because Arthur threatened to shoot you!"  She gasped. "Why are you so protective of him?" "Because he deserves to be protected."  She grumbled, returning to her food preparations. "...and I don't." "No, Mr. Bell."  She slammed the knife down on to the table, "You do not.  You don't deserve to be protected.  You don't deserve to be liked.  You don't even deserve to be breathing the same air as the rest of this camp.  I know who you are.  I know what you've done, and I know what you're going to do.  You are not a good man, Mr. Bell." "Because your little lover boy, Arthur Morgan is?"  He scoffed, angrily, "He's robbed just as many banks and trains and stages as I have.  He's killed just as many men as I have.  He's got a mean streak in him that sends shivers down my spine.  You're precious cowboy isn't the saint you paint him to be." "I know who he is." "Well, what's he got that I don't?" "Besides my attention?"  She hissed, pointing the knife at him, "He's not a fucking rat.  I know what you did, Micah." He stared at her, not knowing what to say. "There is still time for redemption though."  She glared at him. He swallowed hard, clenching his teeth. "Stop feeding them information."   "How did you..." "How did I know?"  She scoffed, "I'm from the goddamn future, Micah.  I know everything." "How?" "Oh, my God.  I can't with you anymore.  Just stop being a fucking asshole all the time."  She yelled at him. He balled his hands in fists, walking away. Caitlin slammed the knife down on the piece of meat on the table in front of her, "God, I fucking hate him." Arthur smirked, proud of the girl, who seemed to be toughening up in her time with the group.

"What was that all about?"  Sophia returned. Caitlin rolled her eyes, "Nothing." "You know...  He's not so bad once you get to know him?" "I'm sure Hitler had a good side too, but that doesn't mean I want to spend time with him." "You're being dramatic." Caitlin stepped closer to her sister, whispering, "He killed Arthur." Sophia just looked at her. "Yeah."  Caitlin turned back to the food in front of her, "You know, the deliciously angry looking cowboy standing against the tree that has the most gentle kisses.  The man who is the reason that we had a family to come from.  Him.  Micah is going to kill him." "What does that even mean?" "Arthur sacrificed everything to save John.  He is the reason John, Abigail, and Jack got away from Dutch when he lost his shit.  He is the reason they were able to have a life and a family." "I thought John was killed by Pinkertons." "He was, but... not until years from now, and Jack survived.  Jack did his thing and he started his family, and here we the fuck are, so maybe stop hating him for two minutes just because I fell for him, and thank him, but don't actually, because we shouldn't really tell him what the future is.  If you want to hate someone, hate Micah Bell.  He deserves to be hated." "Honestly, he's not really that bad." Caitlin just looked at her. "Wait, did you just say you kissed Arthur?" "No."  She turned back to preparing dinner. "Goddamn it, Caitlin."  Sophia rolled her eyes.

"Goddamn it, John Marston!"  Abigail yelled. The girls looked up, as the man stormed off, they looked at each other, then back at the man.

"You're just like him, do you know that?" Caitlin shrugged, "The apple doesn't fall that far, I suppose." "What's with you?"  Sophia glanced at her, before returning to making food, "You're... different." "Prison changes a person."  She said, dramatically. She laughed, "Oh, my God, you're so fucking weird."

***

"I need to get out of here for a while."  John looked at Arthur. "Do you want to go swimming?"  Arthur chuckled, "Oh, wait..." "You're not funny." "I am."  Arthur nodded, "Come on.  We can go fishing.  Do you want to bring Jack?" "No." "John." "Arthur, please.  Can't you just be a friend for once?" Arthur looked hurt. "I'm sorry.  I just..." "It's fine."  He pat the man on the back, "Come on."

***

They stood on the river back, "I just don't get Abigail.  Things have been really good between us, you know?  I mean, sure... It was a shock when those girls got here, but...  It's been good.  She's always got to find something to nit pick about." Arthur snickered, "Women." "Speaking of."  John looked at the man. "What?" "You've been getting a little cozy with my little Caitlin." "You're little Caitlin," Arthur laughed, "has eleven years on you, Marston." "She's like two hundred years younger than you!" "Two hundred..."  He shook his head, "John, relax." "I just want to know your intentions with her." "My intentions?" "Do you love her?" "John," Arthur shook his head, "stop.  She saved my life.  She's a good girl.  I'll admit, I'm keen on her, but a girl like her would never be with a man like me.  I'm not good enough for her." "No one is good enough for those girls."  John admitted, "I overheard Mary-Beth and Karen talking about the two of you.  They said they saw you kiss her." "I kissed her.”  He was honest, “I didn't...  it’s not like I..."  He cleared his throat, "You know what?  I'm not talking about this with you." "She's my blood, Arthur.  I have a responsibility to her... to keep her safe." "To keep her safe from me?" John looked at him, "That's not what I meant." "None of this matters anyhow.  We don't know how long she's going to be here.  It'll only hurt both of us if we..."  Arthur squirmed, "I don't like talking about this with you." "Yeah."  John sighed, "This was a bad idea.  I'm sorry." "Sure."  Arthur nodded, "That was a nice salmon you caught earlier.  Shame she got away." "Yeah."  John replied, "I want to bring something to Pearson so he gets off my back." Arthur let out a small chuckle. The two men spent the rest of their fishing trip in silence.

*Horseshoe Overlook, New Hanover*

Caitlin looked up, hearing the two argue. "He's an adult, Susan."  Dutch said, "He can make his own choices." "We all know what he's going to do." "You need to let him decide for himself."  Dutch said, suddenly getting quiet.  He smirked, "Besides, I think with your new... guest... I think he may surprise you." She shook her head, lifting the envelope for Dutch to see, "I hate this girl.  I've always hated her.  She breaks his heart over and over again and he keeps going back to for more." "The boy is loyal to a fault."

"Ain't that the truth." Caitlin grumbled to herself, suspecting she knew what they were talking about.

"I'm not giving it to him."  She shook her head. "You have to." "I don't have to do anything."  The woman turned, calling out, "Cait!" She looked at her, "Yes, Miss Grimshaw?" "Susan, leave the girl out of it.  She's got enough going on as it is."  Dutch sighed. She handed her the envelope. Caitlin tilt her head, "...but it's for Arthur." "Do what you will with it."  She said, "Give it to him.  Don't give it to him.  I don't care, but I will not." Caitlin shoved the letter into the pocket of her apron, "Where is he?" "He went fishing with John."  Dutch offered. She nodded, "Well, dinner will be ready shortly."

Susan knew what she was doing when she handed that girl the envelope.  She had a knack for reading people.  She knew Caitlin was in love with Arthur.  She knew Caitlin had to know about Mary, and the trouble she caused for the man.  She could tell Caitlin had a dark side to her.  She's already see the woman's loyalty and passion for protecting the family.  Moreover, she'd seen the girl's temper.  Susan smiled, knowing she had someone to do her dirty work for her.

***

The group celebrated Caitlin's return from her one night stint in prison in typical Van der Linde Gang fashion.  Food, alcohol, singing, and dancing were in abundance.

Arthur leaned against the tree, his arms crossed, as he watched the group. "You alright there, Arthur?"  Karen stood beside him. "Sure."  He answered, without looking at her. "You look sad." He looked at her, "I'm fine, Karen." She shrugged, watching as Caitlin danced with Sean, "You should ask her to dance." "I don't dance."  He said, firmly. "Not even for the woman you love." "I don't love her." "Do you want to know how I know you love her, Arthur?"  Karen put her hands on her hips, "I never told you who I was talking about.  You just knew." "Stop."  He shook his head. "Come on, you old mope."  She hit him playfully, "Dance with me, and show the love of your life that you are capable of having fun." He sighed, "Fine." She curtsied to him, as he put his hand out to her. He held her hand delicately, as she put her other hand on his shoulder.

Caitlin looked toward the man, as she danced with Sean.  Their eyes met, as he twirled Karen.  She smiled at him.  She felt her heart jump in her chest, as she watched the corners of his mouth turn up, and though it was too dark to see with the shadows of the fire dancing across his face, she knew his cheeks were red.  She lowered her head, blushing herself. "Why don't you go to him, love?"  Sean said, quietly. "Who?" "Arthur Morgan."  The Irishman chuckled, not too drunk to notice she'd been looking at him all night. "Why would I do that?" "...because you love him, so ya do."  He twirled her around, pulling her in close again. "I don't love him." "Oh, but you do, love."  He insisted, "I can see it in your eyes... The way you look at him... You've been in love with that man for a long time, eh?" Her brow furrowed, her step slowed. "It's alright, love."  He slowed to keep in step with her. "His journal was in my family since he..  I couldn't help reading it.  The pictures...  He's so talented, and handsome... It's strange, right?  That I would fall in love with a man who'd been dead for over a hundred years." "Love is a crazy thing."  Sean said, "I personally think that the two of you would do well together.  He needs someone that makes him happy, and I haven't seen the man smile that much since I've known him as he does when you're around." She lowered her head, smiling to herself.

The man had just enough alcohol running through his veins not to care about the consequences of his actions. "Ma'am," he gruff voice all but caught in his throat, "may I have this dance?" Sean smiled. She blushed, putting her hand in his outstretched hand, imitating a sweet southern belle accent, "Well, yes, you may, kind sir." "Well,"  he pulled her quickly, close to himself, his hand on her hip, "I don't know that I would call myself a kind sir, with the thoughts I'm having about you right now." "Arthur Morgan!"  She feigned shock, "Why whatever do you mean?" He swallowed, "Was that too much?" She cocked her head back, laughing, drunkenly, "Arthur, always the gentleman, even when you're trying to be naughty." He blushed. She rest her head on his chest, as Javier played a slower song on his guitar.  She felt him wrap his arm around her tighter, holding her close.   He smirked, feeling her sigh deeply against him, "Why would someone like you be interested in someone like me?" She looked up at him, "Really?" He just looked at her. "Arthur, you may have made some questionable life choices, but...  You really are a good man inside, and a fine looking one on the outside." He laughed. "Arthur, to be honest...  This is going to sound... weird, but..."  She hesitated, unable to look at him, "I fell in love with you years ago." "What do you mean?" She sighed, "Your journal..." "You read my journal?"  He sounded offended. "I mean, you were dead, so...  I didn't think you'd mind." He looked at her for a minute before laughing. She chuckled, resting her head against his chest again. "Well, no I suppose I wouldn't have." "The drawings...  They're wonderful." He grinned. "Where did you learn to be such an artist." "My mother."  He told her, "She taught me to read and to write and how to draw." "She sounds like a fine woman." "She was." The two danced quietly, for a few minutes. "What did you save me from?" "What?"  She looked up at him. "Why didn't you want me to collect that money for Strauss a while back?" She swallowed, finding no harm in telling him now, "Tuberculosis." "Tuberculosis?"  He repeated her words. "The man was sick...  He...  I don't know the details, but that's how you got it.  At least that's what you thought." "...in my journal." "...in your journal."  She sighed, "You were so sick...  There was no way you could have defended yourself when..." He looked at her. "I know you don't think much of yourself, Arthur, but I do." "I ain't a good man." "You are though.  You're a good man who did some bad things, but you've done some good ones too." He just looked at her. Caitlin's eyes shifted, as she caught a glimpse of her sister out of the corner of her eye. "What is she doing?" Arthur looked, sighing, "Micah." "She better not."  Caitlin snapped. "You really don't like him." "Neither do you." "I have a reason."  He looked at her, "I think even more so when I see how much you don't like him.  I'd love to know what you know about him." She just looked at him, sighing, "I don't want to ruin this moment talking about Micah Bell." "That's fair."  He sighed.

Arthur bowed awkwardly to the woman, as the song ended. She laughed, as she curtsied him. He smiled, thriving on the affection he got from the woman.

Micah stood beside the woman, as she stood watching her sister laugh with Arthur, "She's a little hot headed that one, isn't she?" "You have no idea."  Sophia rolled her eyes, "She always was." "I don't understand why she hates me so much."  He spoke softly to her, testing her to see what she knew, "I am not a bad person." "You're an outlaw." Sophie looked at him, "You're not really what I would call a good person, Mr. Bell." He shrugged, "Do you know?" "Know what?" "The things she does... about... all of us?" She shrugged, "Some.  I was never really into our past like she was.  She was closer with Grandpa Arthur and our dad...  I mean, Jesus, the more I get to know John, the more I realize that she's just like him, so it's no wonder." Micah snickered. "She would feed on all those old stories.  Who knows how many of them are even made up or exaggerated?" "Was I in any of them?"  He stood tall. She shook her head, lying, "Not that I know." "Oh."  He seemed disappointed, "I don't get what she sees in that sad cowboy anyway." Sophia looked at him, shrugging, "She sees him for his goodness, I suppose." "His goodness?"  The man laughed, "He's a vicious outlaw!" "That's what I tried to tell her!" "Eh, I wouldn't worry about it too much.  I imagine you girls will go back where you came from soon enough." "I hope so." "You know, if you ever want to get out of camp, I wouldn't mind riding into town with you.  We could get a couple drinks at the saloon and eat some real food... maybe sleep in a real bed?" "Thanks for the offer."  She nodded, only half disinterested. He smiled at her.

*The Next Morning*

"What's that?"  Sophia asked her sister. "It's a letter." "...because you've made so many friends in the last month we've spend in the old west?" "It's not for me."  She made a face at her sister, "It's for Arthur.  Miss Grimshaw gave it to me to give to him, and I forgot about it." She nodded, "I'm going to go see if Mr. Pearson needs any help with breakfast, are you coming?" Caitlin nodded, "I'll be right there."

She looked at the envelope, as she walked toward the lit lantern in the tent, "I'm sorry, Arthur."  She took the glass off, holding the envelope over the fire.  She looked at it for a few minute, the flame threatening to scorch the paper.  She pulled it back, cursing herself, "Damn it."  She blew out the flame, leaving the tent.

Arthur sat on the edge of his cot, slipping his boots on, "Miss Marston, how are we this morning?" "I'm well, Arthur, how are you?" "Is something wrong?"  He noted her tone. She held out the envelope to him, "Miss Grimshaw gave this to me to give to you yesterday, but... I forgot." "Thank you."  He looked at it, then up at the girl, as she turned to leave. "Yep."  Caitlin walked away, but stopped, sighing, looking up to the sky.. He looked at her, curiously, as she turned around, "Are... you ok?" "That's wasn't the truth."  She admitted, "I don't want to lie to you.  You..."  She sighed, "I have to keep enough from you, you deserve the truth when I can give it." He furrowed his brow. "It's from Mary."  She told him, "I wasn't going to give it to you.  I was going to burn it, but...  That's not fair to you." "I appreciate your honesty."  He nodded, looking at the envelope. She nodded, "I just ... I didn't want to see you get hurt." "She's not going to try to kill me, is she?"  He joked. "I suppose not, unless you can die of a broken heart." He didn't know what to say to her. Caitlin took a quick breath, "Well, there you are, so... I'd better get to work before..."

"Miss Marston, I think there are some dirty dishes and utensils over here with your name on them, and the chickens need to be fed.."

Caitlin still looked at Arthur, pointing to the woman, "...before that..." "She really is a great woman."  Arthur stated. "I don't doubt that."  Caitlin sighed, "I just don't know what's harder: quitting my job as a nurse to run the Marston Ranch by myself for the last few years or working for Miss Grimshaw." He let out a little chuckle, as the girl started to walk away, "Miss Marston." She looked back at him, digging her hands into the pockets of the white apron covering her blue skirt. "Caitlin."  He walked over to her, "I wanted you to know that...  Well, what I mean is..." She raised her eyebrows, curiously. "I care about you."  He gestured toward her, "I know you probably won't be here forever, but...  I wanted you to know that." "I care about you too, Arthur."  She felt herself blush, "I want nothing but the best for you, and know that if I'm gone tomorrow that..."  She looked up at him, feeling herself become emotional, "I just want you to know that you are good enough, Arthur.  You've done some bad things, but that doesn't make you a bad person.  You're a good man with a big, loving heart...  I know you love Mary, but...  I've been in relationships like that one, Arthur.  Don't let her continue to hurt you.  You deserve better, whether you think so or not, and I'm not saying that I'm better for you than her, but...  I love you without wanting to change you." He just watched her walk away.  He swallowed down a lump in his throat.  He looked at the envelope, "I'm sorry, Mary..."  He placed it carefully against the woman's picture that he kept by his bed.  He looked at it for a moment, before leaving his tent.

To Be Continued.......

[baconwaffle2016]

[NNT Sin Week, Day 1: Meliodas] Firefly AU: “No Power in the ‘Verse”

So, it was basically a tie between the Hogwarts AU, something canon, and the Firefly AU. The Firefly AU won.

If you don’t know about Firefly or Serenity, just think cowboy/pirates in space. Who also intermingle Mandarin with their speech, because of backstory reasons. There’s a wiki out in the ‘verse somewhere, it won’t be hard to find.

Some glossary on the Mandarin phrases that are used here. Most are from the television show, one I picked up by looking up Chinese profanity on google. That being said, it is likely very inaccurate and I apologize in advance.

Ta ma de – basically, “damn it”

Go-se (or just go se) – “dog crap/shit”

baobei – “sweetheart”

goo yang – “motherless goats”

chi shi – “eat shit”

dong-ma – “understand,” usually in a question

And my favorite one, so far…

Cào nǐ zǔ zōng shí bā dài – “fuck your ancestors to the 18th century”

I hope you enjoy!

Meliodas was brought from his thoughts when a rag was put to his back, damp with cleaning alcohol, and he hissed as pain seared through him. It hadn’t been long since the last battle on-world, so the knife wound was still fresh and bloody, but he’d live. The bastard that done this to him didn’t though, heh—

He let out a groan he couldn’t bite back or muffle as the rag pressed into him again, agony fraying his nerves. He closed green eyes and sharply inhaled a breath, then hissed it out. When he opened his eyes again, he glared ahead.

“Ta ma de, woman,” he growled, his gaze shifting to nearly glare behind him. “You tryin’ finish the job?”

The hand holding the rag still rubbed at the wound, but at a lighter touch, hinting at apologetic. But still, she said, “Please, you’re fine. You’re just being a baby.”

“Are you always this charming with your patients, or am I just that gorram special?”

“You’re one of the few soldiers in this damn platoon who’s on my slab the most. If anything, I have to question how highly you regard me.”

Meliodas snorted, his mouth quirking into a smirk. He rolled the shoulder that wasn’t wounded, but still aching from atrophy, and then sat up straight from his previous cringing position. Raising a brow, he said wryly, “Maybe I wouldn’t have to see you like this if you let me visit you.” 

She sighed out a near laugh, sardonic but musical. She patted the knife wound again before removing the rag, and then rubbing in a salve to heal the damaged tissue. Then she took out a needle and thread, and began to gently suture the wound; she placed her free hand on his unwounded shoulder for leverage.

“This is where I work, Mel. It’s not exactly a place for a rendezvous,” she told him. 

Meliodas smiled and placed his hand over hers, his fingers gently stroking her skin. Her hands weren’t as smooth as they were a year and a half ago—these weren’t just hands that healed anymore, they’d learned to harm others too, with guns and knives and even by curling into fists that slammed into jaws like lightning cracking rock—but he still reveled in the softness that remained. He turned and tilted his head to lay kisses along the back of her hand. When he heard her soft intake of breath, hardly a gasp, he smirked and lingered his lips on her wrist bone. 

“We can meet in my tent,” he offered. 

“I-I, that’s, I mean,” she stammered before clearing her throat and saying, in a tone that carried the authority of a soldier, “Absolutely not!”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble, I can just kick Ban out.”

“Th-that’s not the point!”

“There’s also a pretty decent inn back in town. Roaches don’t even look that big—” 

“Oh, gorram it, Meliodas!” 

“—and maybe eat a meal that isn’t canned beans, for once,” he added with a dry chuckle, even as his stomach clenched in longing.

(Damn it, he just wanted this war to end already, and finally be free to live without the rutting Alliance holding him and everyone else down.) 

She sighed and nearly bit out, her Londinium accent beginning to bleed through, “Meliodas, I have to stitch this up properly so you can heal.” 

“Eh, you always do it shiny-like, no matter what.” 

She said nothing to that, instead seemed to focus on finishing the stitch. When at the end of the suture, she snapped the thread and tied it off. Then she let out a sigh that sounded satisfied and then dabbed the stitch with another salve to clot the wound. After a pause, Meliodas rolled his shoulders experimentally. The wound would smart for a few days, but it was more or less good as new.

He finally turned to look at her, to watch as she washed her hands in the sink. She was dressed in a loose purple button down with a brown leather vest clasped tight to her and a pair of beige pants that were pulled taut to her body in a way that made heat tingle up his spine. When she turned around to face him with those eyes, big and blue like the ocean but bright like a star, and that slight curve of her mouth—Meliodas won’t lie, it made his heart go a little wild. Someone like her had no right to look so shiny, not during a war like this.

No star in the ‘verse could shine as bright as her. 

As if she’d read his mind, pink rose to her cheeks, the blue in her eyes flaring self-consciously.  

“What?” she asked, then glanced down at herself. “What’s wrong?” 

Meliodas leaned back on his elbows, regarding her with a warm smile. “Nothing. Just thinking about what I’ll be doing after the war.” 

She scoffed, then while rolling her eyes, she placed her hands on her hips. Those same hips rolled to the side, cocking in a gesture that read irritation, but made Meliodas grin regardless.

“And what exactly will you be doing after the war?” was her question, her right brow giving a wry quirk.

Meliodas smirked and spun around to face her, legs hanging over the slab, and reached out to loop his index and middle fingers through the loops of her trousers and tug her to him. She kept frowning, even as the blush on her cheeks darkened to red, but stepped closer.

“I actually want to set up a bar somewhere on the outer planets. Maybe on Whitefall, or Persephone,” said Meliodas, while settling one hand on her waist and stroking his thumb against her hip. His smile towards her turned warm. “I was thinking maybe you could join me.”

She laughed, then placed her hands on his shoulders, drawing close enough to nearly brush her forehead against his. Her smile was wistful, as if in memory. 

“That does sound nice,” she said. Then she smirked. “But what would I do? Wait on customers in my scrubs?”

Meliodas cringed, mocked a gag. “Oh, ew. No way, that’s not nearly sexy enough. Nurse uniform or bust.” 

“I’m a trauma surgeon.”

“Ruttin’ good one too. But if you’re gonna be my waitress, you gotta wear somethin’ to show a bit of that skin—y’know, for tips.” 

“Yeah, because it’s not for your benefit or anything.”

“Absolutely not,” he claimed, already thinking of what hot number she’d look best in. “Customers’ needs gotta be met first.” 

“It’s nice to know that this future you picture of us has me retaining such dignity,” she replied flatly. 

Meliodas snickered and hugged her close enough for him to turn his head and leave kisses along her neck. She giggled but then tried to push him away.

“No, stop, I’m still mad at you, you piece of go-se!” 

“Yeah?” He smiled and trailed kisses up to her jaw, then around to her mouth. “What can I do to make you happy?” 

“How about not getting knifed in a fight with the Alliance?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? War scars are the new tattoos, baobei.”

She let out a groan and tipped her head back. Then when she faced him again, despite her scowl, she grasped the sides of his neck and leaned in to kiss him. Her mouth was soft and moved over his in a way that implied everything but anger; he groaned and answered the kiss with his own, one hand moving to rest on her back while the other went to thread through her short hair (silver, like starlight). 

Before the kiss could deepen, she parted from him and looked at him with watery blue eyes—a vulnerability she rarely showed anymore, since she joined the Independents—and bit her lip. 

“Just promise me you’ll come out of Serenity Valley in one piece,” she said. 

Meliodas paused, unsure what to promise. In a war, even one on the brink of ending, the future was always uncertain. He didn’t want to open either of their hearts with pretty promises, only to pierce them with regrets. But he hated it when she felt unsure, when she felt scared. In the time since they’ve known each other, which many will argue had been short, he had grown incredibly in tune with her. Sometimes, when they were sharing a bed and whispering secrets beneath sheets, Meliodas swore even their hearts were in sync.

(Stupid. So fucking stupid…)

“I promise that I’ll do my best to, that we both leave here alive,” he decided. Then after a thought, he added, “And maybe Ban, because we could use a family pet.”

She snorted, then began giggling so hard her nose pinched cutely. Meliodas smiled back and closed his eyes. She had such a beautiful smile…

 …

 …

 …

 …

 There was a daze, a vision of black—blacker than the vast cold, some might argue—and with that came the sounds, that of gunfire, explosions, cries of pain, and yells to “Fall back, fall back, gorram it!” and of course, the sound of ships touching down. The sounds were muted, and with the darkness overwhelming his mind, it felt like he was drowning. But there was one sound, one voice that rang out clearer than the others—just like always. 

“…Mel.” 

He clenched his eyes tightly closed. No. 

“Mel? What’s going on…?” 

Please. 

“—Meliodas!” 

Just be quiet, for once, he prayed, even as his mouth opened to rasp, like a scripted line he’d long memorized, “…I’m so sorry, baobei. We lost.” 

“…Captain?” 

Meliodas woke with a gasp, his green eyes snapping wide open. He blinked, put his vision into focus, and he realized he had fallen asleep atop the kitchen table while using his folded arms as a makeshift pillow. His mouth tasted sour, his throat was dry, and his head throbbed in a way it hadn’t in a long, long time. Groaning, he ran his hands through his hair and grasped the side of his head. What happened last night?

A near snarling snore from across the table. Meliodas glanced to see Ban leaning back against a chair, empty bottle still in hand. Then, it all came back. 

(“To Unification Day!” Ban slurred, his grin bitter and eyes red from lack of sleep—neither he nor Meliodas ever slept well in the days leading to the end of the War—and his right hand (no longer flesh, but metal, because most of his arm had to be amputated to let him live) holding an amber bottle of a liquid that could probably shrivel the paint on the ship. “May those gorram goo yang chi shi for the rest of their days!”

Meliodas snickered, then held up his own bottle as he claimed, “To the Alliance, the biggest sons of bitches on this side of the ‘verse. Cào nǐ zǔ zōng shí bā dài!”

“Ooh, that was a good one, Cap~”

“I try.”

Sharing sardonic grins, they clinked their bottles together and drank to their defeat, their misery, and those they lost in the War. They continued to drink and talk into the night, probably keeping up many members of the crew but not really caring, emptying bottle after bottle—except one, which stood at the end of the table, in front of an empty chair.

That bottle was for—) 

“…Elizabeth.”

Meliodas snapped his head around to face the doorway into the dining room. There stood Elaine, her expression blank and her gaze clouded; the dress she was wearing was a loose sundress, likely something she borrowed from Diane, and on her feet was a pair of combat boots. She was a young woman of at least twenty-one, with wide caramel eyes and a baby face that made her look younger than she was, along with her petite form. He stared at her with wide green eyes.

“How do you know that name?” he asked, his voice cold and holding a danger he couldn’t hold back. No one should know that name, much less anyone on his crew; no one except Ban. “How—?”

“You were calling for her, all night,” said Elaine, her voice calm, almost in a daze. As his eyes narrowed, she lifted a hand to poke her head with her finger. “From in here.” 

Meliodas remained silent, except for the deep inhale and exhales he released to keep his calm. It’s not her fault, he reminded himself with clenched teeth. The Alliance did this to her.

It didn’t make him feel any less hurt though, which he hated. Once upon a time, her name brought joy and hope for a future; now, just hearing her name felt like shrapnel embedding into his chest. Like a war wound that flared up occasionally, a reminder of what had once been. And knowing what had happened to Elaine didn’t make her piercing stare any less unnerving. Meliodas quickly turned away and got up from his seat, walking around to where Ban was still sleeping.

“Don’t ever say that name again, dong-ma?” He ordered her. “And please, try not to read my mind. You won’t like all you find in there.”

Elaine kept staring. He didn’t turn to see her, but he could feel her stare. 

“Brother needs to see you on the bridge. He says that we got a wave from Gowther, who got some information from a client,” she said. “Says that we have a job.” 

“…Tell your brother I’ll be there in a bit. Thank you.” 

She stared at him some more, making Meliodas’ neck tingle with discomfort, despite knowing he shouldn’t feel this way.

(Go-se, though. What did those bastards do to her?) 

Meliodas wondered for a moment before shaking his head. That question wasn’t for him to ask, let alone investigate. She’s not his sister, after all; as captain, his responsibility over her only goes so far.  Honestly, if her brother wasn’t such a skilled pilot, Elaine and Harlequin probably would have been marooned on a dusty moon somewhere. Meliodas placed his hand on Ban’s good shoulder and shook him awake.

“What, what, what’s going on?” Ban cried out in a panic, his eyes for a moment in a furious daze, forgetting where he was. Then he blinked at Meliodas and calmed down, his shoulders slumping like he was holding the world. With an exhale, he leaned forward and threaded his metal hand through his hair. “Shit…probably shouldn’t have drunk so much.”

“C’mon,” Meliodas said, patting his shoulder again. “Gowther’s on the Cortex. He’s got news ‘bout a job.”

“Oh, awesome~” Ban giggled rather madly and rubbed his hands. “Money, money, money—”

“—Which you’ll be sharing a percentage of with the rest of the crew.”

“Aw, Cap’n!” 

“That’s how it is.”

“Fine,” Ban groaned and walked out of the kitchen/dining area.

Meliodas began to follow but paused when he passed the untouched bottle from the night before, the bottle that should have been hers. After some thought, he reached out and took the bottle. He stared at it for a moment before reaching for it and taking a swig, then another. Once the bottle was empty, he nearly slammed it back down on the table and went off to run his ship.

[vankoya]

Aphelion; Perihelion.

✗ Part of the Across the Multiverse series!

Genre | Cowboy Bebop AU.

Pairing | Jeon Jeongguk / Feminine Reader.

Words | 2,309 words.

Conspectus | The call will always come, and Jeongguk will always forget. That is just how it is, how it always has been, how it always will be.

Warnings | Alcohol, smoking and gambling addiction. Somewhat unhealthy relationship. Weapons.

The radio crackles sometime after midnight. Well, for anybody in the Tharsis timezone, at least.

Such a flimsy, manmade concept is nothing but precisely that when the ship is suspended somewhere near Ganymede. Thrust into the oblivion of outer space, where the stars are always visible against the pitch infinity and the sun remains to burn fiercely in the distance. Existing simultaneously when, back in the years that Earth was the only colonised planet, you could only see them one after the other.

But out here in this vast, tenebrous eternity, there is no day or night when the two elements that defined them come to coincide. Thus, no means for time.

It really screws around with your body clock, that is for sure.

Though based on Tharsis time, and the fact that it is a Saturday down on Mars, it should be near two in the morning. This is generally the appropriate time that the crackling occurs and you, slung within the limbo of not quite asleep though desperately needing to be, heave that same old sigh. The one loaded with past burdens and bad decisions and the name of that sole crew member you would fight blood and bone for, would die for, but would never admit it.

Jeongguk fucking hates Mars, which always has you wondering why he spends his every Friday night in the thick of its casinos. Losing the woolongs you split from the last bounty on blackjack tables, slot machines, and another pack of cigarettes that Namjoon will convince to trade him for a can of beef or something trivial. Disgustingly broke scavengers, the lot of you.

Lazily, you stretch for the receiver on the coffee table, swiping your fingers this way and that until they come into contact with cool metal. Answering with a click of a button, you part your lips to speak. Before you can, words are tumbling through the other end of the line in a voice that both clutches your heart and makes you wish to stomp the feeble vessel underneath your heeled boot.

“Baby, fuck, thank– Thank fuck–” And god, if it were not for the way the words were slurring together like melting ice being swilled in a glass of whiskey, the fact that you can practically smell the liquor on his tongue through the receiver is a clear indicator that Jeongguk is blind drunk.

“Hey baby, sweetheart,” he continues to coo and you are already lifting yourself from the draped position across the couch. You step over a face-down, sprawled out and snoring Taehyung in your progression towards the front of the ship. “Y'there, baby? I m’need a favour, pretty please.”

“What?” There is nonchalance in your tone, cutting and firm. But your actions juxtapose the lack of empathy you wear like an artificial shield around him. You enter the bridge and light up the touch-screen monitor to reroute the ship to Mars. Namjoon is going to be pissed, but you really could not care less.

“C’mere ‘nd give me a kiss,” Jeongguk whines, which directly translates to: I am too intoxicated to drive my ship home, so please come and pick me up before you and Namjoon decide to bail on me and fly to the farthest planet from here. He sounds terribly genuine, so sickly sweet like melted sugar, full of divine promise.

You have to swallow the heart-shaped lump in your throat before you thickly answer.

“We’ll come pick you up in two hours.”

You hang up the radio immediately after the confirmation is spoken—before he can make a snarky comment to your outright neglect. Slamming the receiver on the panel, you run your other hand down your face, groaning.

Taehyung appears by your side as he does in that Taehyung way of his—uninvited and usually scaring the damn wits out of you. You stifle a yelp when he slumps beside you out of thin air, smacking the side of his face beside your hand where it lays upon the control panel desk. You retract it against your chest as if you have been electrocuted.

Taehyung is a loopy, noodly teenage kid that the three of you found on Earth, roaming about with nothing to his name but the clothing on his body and a jacked up laptop. Yes, a jacked up laptop that he used to hack into the ship’s system, reconfiguring the flight sequence to have it land right before his toes. To say that the three of you were screeching like banshees while all of this occurred is a severe understatement. But it is completely understandable when your spaceship suddenly starts hurtling through the atmosphere towards grand expanses of desert plains, and one strange, gangly boy with skill hidden in his goofy grin.

Taehyung’s eyes are drooping with lethargy. A trail of drool is dried to his chin. “Mars?” he mumbles, yawning. “For Jeonggukie?”

“Yup, the dumbass got drunk again,” you hum, listening to the engines groan as they guide the lump of junk that is the Helios through a one-eighty, heading towards the Astral Gate. “Maybe we should just leave him there. What do you think?”

“Can’t, sissy!” Taehyung whines, scrunching up his nose and staring at you accusingly, which has you raising your eyebrows in question. “Not when sissy loves Jeonggukie so much!”

Namjoon turns out to be more pissed at the fact that you woke him up by throwing the receiver at the wall of the ship with a bloodcurdling scream, smashing it to smithereens.

The passage through hyperspace takes half an hour less than anticipated. Yet surprisingly, Jeongguk is already slouched beside his battered, steel grey zipcraft, the Aphelion, when you arrive at the casino. A cigarette dangles unlit between his lips. 

Really, you hate Mars just as much as he does with its low density, causing the lighter gravity that keeps easy on complexions. Lifting wrinkles from the skin; softening any marring in the form of scars. You can barely see the one that thinly slices Jeongguk’s cheekbone. The smoother skin is ugly and unsightly.

He looks more beautiful with it. Natural and real. He looks like Jeongguk.

Mars apparently makes him a different person in a lot more ways than one.

“There’s m’girl!” Jeongguk hollers. The cigarette falls to the ground in his haste to get up, and he does not seem to notice as he crushes it in his drunken stride towards you. He smells like a liver abused by alcohol and lungs sticky with tobacco when he envelops you in a crushing hug that is so unbearably warm. So unbelievably home. “Y’made it, baby. Missed you.”

“How haven’t you sobered since you called?” you groan against his throat, moisture gathering on the skin from your hot breath, arms hanging limply by your sides.

Jeongguk pulls back then, rifling around in the pocket of his black bomber jacket. He retrieves a stainless steel flask, which he holds up next to his liquor-slack grin. His breath smells like a casket full of death.

“Poor men come prep–”

You snatch the flask out of his hand before he can finish, weighing just under half full in your hand. Twisting off the cap, you knock back the last of the contents and then ditch it into the finely trimmed bushes. His grin only widens at the way you cringe with realisation as the alcohol burns a fire down your throat, knowing full well how much you hate gin.

“Let’s go, dumbass,” you cough, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth, ignoring the way Jeongguk stares at your lips. “The Helios is parked on the port down the road. We’ll pick up the Aphelion once you’re sober.”

“You’re always s’hot when you’re demanding,” Jeongguk cuddles into your side with a devilish simper, beginning to walk in the direction of the home ship with an arm draped limply around your shoulders. He hums a tune that he knows you once listened to long ago.

“Even if you were broke, my love don’t cost a thing,” he croons, tucking you closer, but you refuse to appease him, eyes set on the destination floating in the bay like a giant beast down the hill’s slope.

Silence is your only solace, secluding your voice to the back of your throat where it itches and burns with the urge to form. Because when Jeongguk wakes up in five hours time, he will have forgotten all that he has said on this ugly Friday night in Tharsis. Just like he does every other time.

Jeongguk, for quite possibly being the biggest out of all four crew members, has the smallest room on the Helios. Back when the ship was a fishing trawler, it must have been a storage room. Now, it is fitted with some overhead drawers and a double bed that has its sides touching all walls but the entrance.

“Help,” he slurs, spine against the mattress, legs dangling off the edge and either side of your own that stand between the bed and the door. He cracks one eye open, juts his lower lip. “Pretty please?”

Begrudgingly, you take him by the wrists and haul him upright. His head slumps forward and presses to your stomach with the slackness of his muscles. You shuck off his jacket first and then lean over his shoulder, reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it up, exposing the curved bumps of his spine, the slashes of scars against tanned leather. Jeongguk obediently lifts his arms.

Once you have pulled the cotton over his elbows and wrists, he lays back against the bed again. His arms are tucked behind his head, and his torso stretches in unadulterated, wrecked and ruined display.

You wonder how many bullet holes he will have marring his flesh by the time he eventually loses. How many gunshots it is going to take until he is dead.

From his position, he waggles his eyebrows. “Like what’ya see, baby?”

“Fuck you, Jeongguk,” you spit, tearing your eyes from the gentle caramel tone of his skin, soft and innocent. You turn on your heel to leave.

“Wait, stay!” he suddenly insists, lurching forward and curling his fist into the hem of your sweater, tight enough to keep you in place. You glance at him out the corner of your eye, try to not let the hope become obvious in your gaze. His expression has become twisted, pained, though strangely unreadable.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“Why, Jeongguk?”

“Because I want you. I want to remember this.”

The ship, for once, is silent. No engines run to power you through the distances of the universe. No Taehyung screeches like a dying animal in front of his laptop. No Namjoon complains to his thirteen bonsai about the rest of you and how there is never any damn peace and quiet.

Instead, it gently bobs on the water in the port and the late night liveliness of Tharsis sounds far, far away. Jeongguk is staring at you like he is repenting for his sins and you are something holy. Yet the both of you know that you, of everyone onboard, is aeons from that.

Suddenly, Jeongguk defeatedly exhales. He runs his free hand through his hair before he uses the other to hook his fingers around your wrist, yanking you on top of him where you collapse in a heap of limbs. Silently, he hoists the both of you up to the head of the bed where only one rumpled pillow lays.

He helps you unclip your bra without taking the sweater off, threading the straps through the sleeves with precious ease. Then, he rolls your jeans down the muscles of your thighs, calves, and you are about to kick them off your ankles when you both notice that your boots are still intact. You slide each shoe off, and Jeongguk uses one to throw at the light switch by the door, effectively drawing the tiny room into a swathe of shadows. It is only when he is tugging off his own black jeans that he cusses under his breath.

“Forgot ‘bout that.”

He is nothing but a hunched over outline at the centre of the darkness. “Forgot what?”

“Gun,” and you notice it then when he chuckles and pulls the handle out of his waistband. He lifts it up so that you can see the weapon—loaded, no doubt—before he drops it onto the pile of clothes at the end of the bed.

“Jesus, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk laughs louder, and it is gruff and beautiful, ringing around the room; smothering the sound of your trembling heart. He climbs back next to you, an inch of space separating two bodies that long for one another. Though it only lasts for a moment before he, glacially, curls his arms around your waist, slips his cold palms underneath the back of your sweater, and lays them crossed over on your shoulder blades. Holding you closer than he ever has.

There, with his nose touching to the tip of your own, your legs toasty and entwined, you can see his eyes glimmering, the drunken haze fading. They are a shade of onyx, exceptionally more gorgeous than the galaxies the four of you sail as bounty hunters, scavengers, thieves. Human beings with no other place in this vast universe.

But here, with Jeongguk closing in, his breath hot on your mouth and his fingertips dancing patterns across your skin, you cannot help but think that maybe, this really is it. Here, with him, you belong.

“M’not letting myself forget this time,” he whispers, and then he does nothing more than kiss you, lips of heat and home tucked against your own in a promise that you finally, at long last, allow to blossom happiness within your heart.

Prompt | Call Me: I will write a drabble about my character asking for yours.

Series | Across The Multiverse is a collection of drabbles based around the prompts from this list, each taking place in a different universe. The updates will occur whenever I am inspired by a prompt to write a small piece, most generally done as a warm-up.

All Rights Reserved © Vankoya. No translations, reposting and/or modifying of the material is allowed without my direct permission.

[firebornamari]

McHanzo Talon AU

This is the Great Talon AU that I’ve been thinking about for the past… what-have-you. I don’t actually know what the real goal of Talon is within the canon OW universe, but as far as I know, they are The Bad Guys™. So in this AU I wanted to give them more of a purpose, and mainly just shove McCree and Hanzo into an interesting situation.  Also known as: Wraithy McCree, Lightning-using Hanzo, and a Yandereish Oni-skin Genji

Talon itself is made up of “Dead People.��� Much like Reaper, everyone who is a part of it is someone that has died by all rights and reasons, and has been brought back to life by Devil Mercy. It’s through the last regret that a person is brought back from the dead, usually permanently altered in some way, but usually compensated by it being a supernatural power. That power is based on the lingering thoughts that contaminate the soul as it’s been exposed to the world. I’ll explain who has what power later, just for now, I’ll give the example that upon Gabe’s death, he thought: “If only I hadn’t been seen I could have painted the walls with their blood instead”. And thus can phase and morph as he does in the canon universe. But as he was an “earlier work” of Mercy, he is not perfect, and to keep his form, he has to consume souls. Also important, those brought back from the dead, have to keep their soul stimulated somehow, usually by the driving force that brought them back in the first place -- usually the hatred. When a person finds true peace, they end up disappating because they can’t hold their own form anymore.

But Talon is made of people that destroyed themselves and were made anew, and that’s their goal-- to do the same to the whole world.

Talon, as it is in this au, has Reaper, Widowmaker, Mercy, McCree, Genji, and of course, Hanzo. Sombra, on the other hand, is for Overwatch.

Now I’m going to go over my three major characters, starting with Genji because I’m so proud of the character he became. Genji Shimada:Genji is wearing the Oni Skin and is kind of Yandere-ish, for lack of a better term. He’s not exactly screwed on straight-- and he never was. He was the kind of kid that had no regard for his on self or others. The kind of kid that learned that cats bring their owners dead birds as a gift, and one time brings a dead sparrow to his father at one point. He gets scolded and doesn’t understand because it was a gift to show his love. One time he used a bodyguard for practice. And by that I mean he tied him to a training post and threw shurikens into his body for hours before someone else came by and saw him taking a shuriken out of the dead man’s eye. The eye still stuck to a pointy end. The whispers were loud. The whole clan talked about the broken boy, sometimes to his face. He didn’t quite understand how he was bad, just that he was. And so, he grew to hate the clan. But hanzo… Hanzo never once judged him. He was always supportive and kind. Even when he scolded him. He took all the time to explain what Genji did was wrong-- how it was wrong. Answered all of Genji’s questions. Hanzo was the only one Genji didn’t hate. When Genji learned that the clan was going to dispose of him, he begged Hanzo to kill him. To kill him in a way that wouldn’t hurt, because he knew anyone else of the clan would take the time to torture him for his “transgressions.”

With a “Thank you.” and an “I love you.” Hanzo struck the blow that killed Genji. (note: familial love). His dying thoughts were a wish where families such as his own didn’t exist and more understanding people like his brother flooded the land.

He was brought back by Devil Mercy, put into the metal shell of his oni skin, granting him the strength that mortal flesh would not normally give, along with his unnatural skin. After his death, his mind almost regressed to a childish state, being impatient, selfish, and acting innocent wherever. But above all, he will do anything for his “dear brother.” Although he sometimes has impulses like “wouldn’t brother look great if his blood painted his neck?” and goes to act on them, although most times he’s not successful. Jesse McCree: I, unfortunately don’t have all of Jesse’s story together, but he ends up being Reaper’s student, dying by Reaper’s hand, and swears to fucking d e s t r o y Reaper, but joining Talon to stay at his side. Keep yer friends close, and yer enemies closer. He’s Reap’s second in command and his goals aren’t really clear because he sense of self is obliterated. There’s no happy cowman. Or so he thinks. He doesn’t really understand himself. Doesn’t help that he also shares a similar phasing power to Reaper. He can’t figure himself out if he can’t really exist. His form is always changing -- HE’S always changing.

The only thing he really knows is that he’s got a deep cold hatred, but a stronger respect for Reaper.

His power works like Reapers, but he’s got more physicality to his form that lets him grab and throw people with tremendous strength, but he can’t completely fade into a dark stringy cloud like Reaper does. He’s more beast-y than wraith-y. When he’s using most of his power at once, his eyes turn red and he’s got these weird black fangs and such.

He’s not the happy cowboy, but he’s hella mesmerizing. At least in Hanzo’s eyes.

Hanzo Shimada: Hilariously enough, Hanzo is the one I have the least worked out. The only thing I know is that he was alone for the longest time, having also hated his family for not caring about his brother and putting them both in the situation they were in. But as Hanzo was on the run, he came into contact with all sorts of great and kind people that were willing to support him, even as a complete stranger. He learned support. And as he dies, he wishes that he had be able to connect to more people, so maybe his brother could have found love and support like he did.

He dies by getting caught up in a talon attack, having his chest shredded open by Jesse. Something neither of them realize/remember when Hanzo is picked up by Genji and tossed to Mercy.

However, Hanzo doesn’t die until he’s been put on Mercy’s table. So his soul is only exposed for a few moments, making his soul the most pure out of all of Talon.

But because he soul was exposed, and put back so cleanly, his abilities aren’t so strong as Genji and Jesse. His ability is like a spreadable lightning from his palm that connects him to his opponents. He can stun and incapacitate them, but he can also explode their heart. No big deal.

Plot: Goddamn, I have no idea. I just think that Jesse and Hanzo spar a LOOOOT. And Reaper and Genji realize that Hanzo and Jesse like each other FAR earlier than the two of them do. With Genji offering to help Hanzo like every day and Reaper giving his approval to Jesse to Jesse’s massive confusion. I also want Jesse to show parts of his old happy cowman self, but whenever Hanzo points it out, Jesse just doesn’t understand what he’s talking about. Also, there’s a moment where Jesse starts losing his sense of self in a battle because he’s bathed in so much blood and like licking it up and such. And Hanzo goes to punch him to get him to come back. But Hanzo’s fist phases through McCree’s cheek, but he keeps his lower jaw intact. Hanzo hooks his fingers on his jaw in the same motion and slams the side of McCree’s head into the ground.