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howlett-n-morgan · 5 months ago

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Take Me Home

1. TEXAS RED

Arthur Morgan x Texas Red!Reader

A/n: if you're seeing this for the first time, welcome! If not, and you were following my other blog, welcome back! Either way, I hope you enjoy this dumpster fire brought to you by my imagination ✨️

Summary: In the town of Agua Fria lived a shooter called Texas Red. Many men had tried to take him, and that many men were dead. A duelist and potential outlaw, with a secret no one knows. The perfect recruit for Dutch Van Der Linde to sweet talk into joining up.

Warnings: game typical violence, gun violence, dueling, old fashioned ways of thinking (no racism depicted in this chapter, but misogyny is mentioned) mild language, Arthur is a grump but also a sweetheart.

WC: 6.5k

“The infamous Texas Red,” he finished for you, but every time you hear that nickname it somehow gets worse. Why on earth did the good Lord above curse you with something so nasty as ginger hair? “Infamous? Don't know about that,” you lean back against the bar for another drink of water when your hands drop to your sides. “I'm just a kid. Name's Charlie Brooks.”

The light from the outside window is what wakes you first, the brightness pooling over your closed eyelids before they even open. You’re still in Agua Fria, the place you've made a name for yourself. Charlie Brooks, but that's not the one that comes to mind.

Texas Red. The unkillable. Nothing more than a duelist to many, and even less so to those who don't care for that sort of thing. But to those who dare challenge the big iron on your hip, you are not anything short of a quick handed master. Only eighteen years old, or so they say - it’s what you’ve told them, but like your name, it isn’t true. Whichever way you spell it out, your reputation is the reason people know you; You have the fastest draw on this side of anywhere.

For someone who's known near and far as the kid who never lost a match, the nickname is a little less than favorable. Texas Red isn't for the blood on your hands, it's for the ginger of your hair. It's factual, not demeaning… but still unfavorable. You do not care much what they call you anymore, just as long as they know what comes with it. Too many men have underestimated your ability, one and nineteen more.

Here in Agua Fria there's folks that will come from far and wide, just to test your trigger finger. Today is no different. You've spent the night in a hotel above the saloon, so by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, you know there ought to be a man there, ready and willing to die.

“That's him.”

You hear from under the breath of the bartender. He served you only last night, one drink of silky whiskey before bed, nothing more. You told him your name, but not the one people know. Word gets around, you suppose. Your pistol has twenty notches on the handle, folks can tell enough from that alone. One of the outlaws that hangs around here does the same thing… except he takes pride in those marks, as opposed to you. You make those marks to remember the weight of your pistol, heavier every time a notch is made.

The man before you is tall and strong, likely a farmer that does heavy work. He has a sly look about him, but you don't feel bothered too much. You think his hands, worn by the sun and weathered by his work - whatever it may be - will not draw fast enough to even graze you. They are too stiff where they hang by his side, probably from pushing a plow, or milling a field.

He hasn't spoken a word to you yet, but that's what you assume. He's here to challenge me, they always are. No one asks after you otherwise… except for maybe some working women, but that never ends well.

“You're the kid?” He looks you over, a furrowed brow and a smirk brush his features, but it doesn't last. Yes, you think. I'm the kid, and this is my gun.

“Yes sir,” your voice is a little lower, the early morning is stuck in the pitch of it.

His question was so vague, but having been asked about eight times out of twenty ‘are you the kid?’ makes you a pretty damn good guesser of what your answer ought to be.

He takes another once over after a step forward, and now you can see that he stands about a head taller than you. He's not quite intimidating, but you can admit, the anxiousness of a man initiating a duel is always a thing that prickles your skin, warms your very fingertips. Maybe that's why you shoot so fast.

“You don't look like a killer,” he looks down, but his nose is somehow still in the air. He wants to prove something, to someone or to himself you can't be sure, but only the most foolish of men dare your gun this way.

“I'm not one.”

And he laughs. You don't even think to look up at him, you keep my face forward. I don't have anything to prove, but of course you know you’ll have to.

“You shoot folks, got a name for it,” he settled his hands on his belt. It's a gun belt, sure, but the rounds don't even match the gun at his hip. They look bigger, as for a rifle. This farmer likely shoots ducks. Sitting or flying, that’s not the relevant point.

He has experience, and that's what clouds his mind. He thinks you’re a sitting duck.

“I do, but I ain't no killer,” you paused, rounding the man, stepping up to the bar and pointing for a glass of water. This early in the morning, any form of alcohol shouldn't be legal. You reckon it's the very thing that made this gentleman bold and eager enough to try what he's about to. At least you’re pretty darn sure that he's about to, otherwise he’s just an adoring spectator. “I shoot folks as need shootin’, but they always ask for it. I ain't malicious or nothin’.”

“Maybe you's the one that needs shootin’.”

Atta boy, getting to the point. You have to smile. He looks confused by it and he very well should be… people don’t normally crack a grin when being threatened.

“S’pose you wanna be the one that does it,” You take a drink of the water you’re handed, but it does little to wash away the tickle in your throat, trying to climb its way up in the form of the chuckle.

“If I gotta be.”

You’ve never seen this man around town. Being here in this area almost two months, you’ve seen more of the traveling recluses than any of the farmers. Seen more of the local outlaws, too. They never stay long, they cause a little trouble here and there… but never the farmers. They come into town maybe once, twice a month. They harbor most of their own supplies on their land. No need for the town.

“And you think you'll hit me?”

“I've never missed.”

And then that chuckle finally does escape you.

“I knew twenty men who hadn't, either,” but the other's words were a bit more out of ignorance. They wanted to show off, thought they had nothing to lose. You were just a skinny kid with red hair and a heavy gun that you could barely stand to carry.

“I like my odds.”

So you turn to the bartender. He watched this same charade last month. A different man, not quite as tall, but just as confident. He stops wiping down an empty glass, and looks to you with a look of annoyance. What did you do to deserve it? You haven't the slightest clue. When he looks at the challenger with sincerity and condolences, you know what he thinks behind those eyes.

This is a fine young man, he may have a wife and some children. He doesn't know what he's doing, he had a strong drink. He only heard one story, it isn't fair.

But of course, you can't back out. You’ve never backed out. Never having anything to lose, and like today, no one has ever tried to convince you otherwise. If you die now, you can go out a hero of sorts, the gunslinger of Agua Fria. If you live, then you'll someday die a legend. Texas Red, the unkillable.

You will have to step outside, and you will have to shoot this man, but for the first time, you feel you oughta know his name. You stepped to meet him and offered your hand. It's smaller compared to his.

“What’s your name?”

“Robert Sims.”

He shakes your hand tightly, he wants to show how strong he is… as if that somehow makes him shoot faster.

“Glad to meet ya. I'm-”

“The infamous Texas Red,” he finished for you, but every time you hear that nickname it somehow gets worse. Why on earth did the good Lord above curse you with something so nasty as ginger hair?

“Infamous? Don't know about that,” you lean back against the bar for another drink of water when your hands drop to your sides. “I'm just a kid. Name's Charlie Brooks.”

He scoffs, his eyes falling to the floor. Maybe he doesn't wanna do this. He seems to be rolling it over in his head. If he wins he kills you, a scrawny kid with an ugly hat, and not a friend in the world. If he loses, well… he dies.

But as if foolishness ruled his mind, he settles on his thoughts, and you can see it clear as day when he decides.

“Are you ready to step outside?”

And you smile again. He could've been your friend. He seems like a kind enough man, a little arrogant, but a man of honor in himself. He even struck you with a slanted smile of his own, but for no reason other than your reputation alone, he wants to kill you. Always a shame.

“S'pose so.”

And he doesn't say another word… Ever.

Thirty paces apart on the dirt road outside, the poor man never even cleared leather, but a bullet rests between his collarbones, and he himself rests on the ground. He’s got a pouch on his hip you noticed earlier, so while everyone around is frozen in place, you carefully go up to his body, stripping the valuables from him before moving on your way. To the winner go the spoils.

You holster your weapon, turn around and face the folks that stopped their journeys to watch. Some had seen the last one, they expected the outcome. Others were a bit surprised. David beat Goliath. The bigger opponent fell.

You took a walk around the block to settle down, find a nail to notch your pistol yet again. You’ve never forgotten your earlier opponents, but something about this one makes you sadder than the rest. One and Twenty more, and whoever else is stupid enough to have the same idea.

Once you feel at rest you land back in the saloon, but it's not as empty as before, your single friend Robert Sims being the occupant. Now there are three men. There is a tall dark haired man with a mustache and a bowler hat, a darker skinned man beside him against the bar, and a young man that looked all too similar to yourself in complexion and hair color. It was nice to know that you weren’t the only one God would curse that way.

You don't plan on letting yourself be bothered, so you sit down one stool over, beckoning a whiskey you can shoot to chase the adrenaline. You thought you had calmed down, but sitting here it feels as though you’re in the middle of a footrace, with the speed accelerating instead of decreasing.

“Charlie Brooks?” The tall man with the mustache was the first to speak, and directly to you.

These men have guns on their hips, and you hope they are not thinking what the last man thought. You’ve barely calmed down enough from Robert Sims, and your head would hurt having to shoot twice in one day.

“Yes,” your confusion forced through.

“I'd like to talk with you. This man here tells me you're quite the gunslinger,” he gestures to the bartender and you give him a glance, seemingly just doing his job minding his business when he's not running his mouth about you.

“He told ya? Or were you outside?”

The man had a laugh that seemed comforting almost. It was hearty and full of actual joy. He pat you on the back and you had half a mind to turn away from it for a moment, unsure of why he was so friendly or if you appreciated it yet. It’s been a while since you felt the comforting or friendly touch of someone who didn’t later try and shoot you.

“I did in fact see your show of skill, but I wasn't sure if approaching you after a fiasco like that would end up poorly for me.”

And so you smile, because his sense of humor is alike yours, and he looks to be unphased by your violent acts of earlier. You technically didn’t break any laws. Didn’t do anything wrong, even by killing a man. He had threatened to shoot your first, if no one claims they saw the duel, you can write it off as self defense… but this man doesn’t seem too deterred. In fact, he looks all too happy having witnessed your properly provoked quick draw.

“I ain't jumpy, if that's what you're worried about.”

But he had a different point on his mind, so the subject was changed in an instant.

“Look, son. I'm gonna cut to the chase,” he pointed at your pistol, the newest twenty-one mark shining where it peaked out of your holster. “You have a gift for using that. I could use some talent like yours.”

And suddenly you’re confused again. Who is this guy? What does he want?

“I ain't a bounty hunter, sir.”

“I can very well see that. I'm not looking for a temporary gun, kid. I need someone long term.”

And suddenly your interest is piqued. The other men haven't said a word, and yet they seem to be a part of this offer, whatever it is. They are fully invested in your answer, on the edge of their seat - metaphorically, since they’ve been standing - while waiting. It’s strange, as if it’s all been plotted.

“Not sure I quite understand,” You slide the empty glass back after taking the second shot of whiskey, but hold your hand over the top, keeping the bartender from refilling a third.

“If you'd be so kind as to follow me and my friends, I would be happy to explain in further detail,” he steps away from the bar, his hand outstretched to the door. This situation reads danger in every which way, but you don't stray from it. You can’t believe you’re doing it, but you follow along, an open mind.

Nothing to lose.

Your horse was in the stables, an older stallion that was probably bred from war. His coat was full and black, like a starless night sky. Fury, you called him. These other men had put their horses up in the stables as well, but they were quite a bit stranger when it came to interacting with the horse hand. They paid him off so he’d forget any of you had been here.

These men must be outlaws. Dutch, Javier, and Sean… From the time of their introductions, you were watching them with vigilance. You had started to gather that much from the way people ran inside when they passed, but the other behaviors lead you to believe that they weren’t the typical type. They weren’t just bad men looking for trouble and fun. They had reasoning, and they had qualms about who they spoke to about what. They were careful, if that word can even describe an outlaw.

You followed them out of town, and down a road a bit. Agua Fria was a bit drier than other parts of Texas, but it had some nice trees here and there, with ponds and hills to break up the dusty roads. When you came to a clearing, a full on campsite set up, you immediately looked around, taking in who you thought would be the most imminent threats.

“Right over here,” Dutch said, dismounting his horse and leading it to a hitching post. You followed him and the others, and the redhead, Sean, took your horse off your hands.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“This is the camp, ain’t much to look at but we’re all very tight knit, here.”

You followed behind Dutch, he was the ringleader of all of this, as far as you could tell. He gave the orders, and the others followed. You couldn’t say you didn’t see why. He had all the capabilities of a natural born leader. His presence, his personable way with words, and even his ability to convince a random stranger to follow him.

“S’cozy,” you said, nodding to each person you passed. He didn’t bother introducing you to them yet, and you figure it’s because he wants to see how well you fit first. No point in getting anyone attached.

“It is indeed. I’ll have you wait here for just a moment, you can mingle, if you’d like. I’m gonna talk to a few friends of mine,” he told you before ducking into a tent, the flaps falling behind him.

You huffed a breath, turning to the first face you saw and tipping your hat.

“Howdy, Ma’am.”

The young woman looked up to you, a sweet smile on her face. She had lovely dark hair and beautiful blue eyes that reflected a clear sky.

From within the tent, tensions were a bit higher.

“First Mack and Davey, now this… kid? You can’t keep picking up people like they’re stray dogs, Dutch…” Hosea Matthews, Dutch’s right hand man was the one to speak first. He’d just heard quite a story - which to be fair, Dutch liked telling grand stories - that seemed to be impossible.

“I know, I know… but you wouldn’t believe it even if you saw it. Hell, even I don’t.”

“Let me get this straight,” another voice piped up from the corner, standing to make his presence more known. “This eighteen year old kid, who can barely hold up a gun… is the fastest draw you’ve ever seen?”

“I blinked and the man was dead,” Dutch furthered his point, hearing a low whistle from the youngest man in the tent. They began to peak through the open tent flaps, not letting anyone else see them.

“Abigail seems to like him.”

“Abigail likes everyone except John these days,” Hosea joked around, sitting himself back down when he’d taken his look at the kid. He was a spry little thing, but looked like a boy still in adolescence.

“Listen,” Dutch began, his hands raised to calm the air. “This kid could mean the difference between life or death in some of our upcoming jobs.”

The younger man looked to Dutch, then to Hosea, and then to the ground, shaking his head. Dutch was like his father, but these fantasies he conjured up sometimes to justify his antics could be wild.

“He can shoot faster than me?”

“My boy, I’d let you challenge him yourself if I wasn’t sure he’d drop you where you stand.” Dutch clapped a hand on his shoulder before turning to Hosea.

“If he’s really as fast as you say, we should keep him. He can’t be of any harm otherwise.”

A moment lasted longer than you thought it would, but you’d garnered the attention of not one but two ladies whilst sitting in the shade of the trees.

Abigail, the heavily pregnant young woman you’d started conversation with, and Tilly, a young lady who seemed to be swooning with every word you said. You didn’t have the heart to say nothing to her, you weren’t even sure you’d be sticking around.

“And then what happened?” Tilly asked, scooting closer.

“Well, I guess I shot him. S’how most these stories end, sadly.”

You suddenly felt a bit sorrowful. You’d shot a man down only today and here you’d moved on so quickly. The time of self recovery was getting shorter and shorter. Maybe you ought to stop shooting folks, then you could make some ground on a normal life… but that’s never really been your way, not since you left home. If you stay with this gang, though… the shooting gets worse, and you know that for a fact.

“But you’re a good shot, probably why Dutch wants ya,” Abigail lifted a brow, nodding towards the tent. You were sure he’d liked you well enough, and you liked this whole tight knit unit well enough. If you shoot enough folk, you reckon you get to stay.

“Speak of the Devil,” Tilly smiled behind where you were standing, and you took it as a queue to turn around yourself.

“We sure as hell want him,” Dutch said, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “I have some people I want you to meet. This is my partner, Hosea Matthews.”

And the man - Hosea - smiled and waved. He seemed nice, and gentlemanly. He had a kind face, like that of a dedicated father.

“And this,” Dutch stood aside, revealing another man stood behind him… “Is Arthur Morgan. My enforcer, and right hand man.”

You froze when he lifted his head, hat tipping upward enough to see his face. Your breath hitched in your throat as you scanned his features, falling to the stretch of his body and then roaming back up to the brim of his hat. You weren’t sure if it was from fear or from awe, but the tenseness in your body was thick and unwavering. He had all the toughness of a rugged outlaw, but his eyes were calm, serene. Like pools of oasis water against a dry and scorching desert. A beautiful man by anyone’s standard, but completely unaware of himself.

Standing before you now, he nodded in greeting, and you had to snap out of the haze that even now surrounded you, clouding your mind and blocking out anything that wasn’t him.

Sweet Lord above, help me look away… and finally you did, begrudgingly.

“He’s gonna show you around, give you the rundown of how things are here,”

“Sounds-” you coughed once, trying to play off your strange behavior as you cleared your throat. “Sounds just fine.”

“Alright then,” Dutch leaned in towards Arthur at the last second, nudging his arm as he did. “Don’t test ‘im before he’s had a chance to settle. I don’t feel like losing two fast guns on the same day.”

You heard the tail end of the conversation, but pretended it passed over your head. You were standing quietly, still halfway in awe of the man. Sandy strands of hair that fell over the corners of his eyes, his strong jawline stubbled in the same lovely color. He let his hat fall over his eyes again, but you were certain if you’d been able to see them again, you’d not be able to look away.

He fell into a slow walk beside you, beginning to lead through the campsite.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Kid, as if you were actually one…

“Charlie Brooks, sir,” You replied, holding a firm hand out. This was reflectant of a similar introduction you’d made earlier this morning. Didn’t matter what happened though, you wouldn’t be shooting the man before you. Not even if he begged.

“Dutch says they call you Red.”

You dropped your pleasant expression, huffing a fast breath to match the new look on your face.

“Texas Red… But I ain’t even from Texas, so,” and it was true. You’d only earned that nickname here.

“The red part still fits,” Arthur was teasing you. Perhaps this is what Dutch meant by ‘don’t test him.’

You sighed, realizing that you’d found the downside to this ruggedly handsome stranger… “My name is Charlie Brooks.”

Arthur laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t get upset, boy… I’m only poking fun.”

You drop the tension in your shoulders… you didn’t like being teased, but perhaps it wasn’t as bad coming from this Arthur character.

“Men learn fast not to poke fun at me,” you told him, partially as a threat, but followed it up quickly. “I s’pose I’d better compose myself around here.”

Arthur laughed, genuinely. He seemed to find you amusing, or maybe he found you to be annoying. Either way, you earned these hearty chuckles to enjoy for yourself.

“You may be quick with a gun, kid… but just know, that pistol on your hip couldn’t save you from me,” his voice was in a lower register when he said it, and you didn’t know whether you should be intimidated or completely and totally enamored. He wasn’t completely serious, unwilling to scare you away for Dutch’s sake. But he did want you to understand where you stood with him, and you did.

You only nodded, and kept walking.

He had shown you the laundry areas, where the girls nearly strip the boys down just so they have something to do in the daytime. He showed you to Mr. Pearson’s ‘kitchen,’ if you could even call it that. He showed you where the weapons are kept, but not where to refill them. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to yet. You take in every word he says, committing it to memory, not only so you can fit in around here, but also so you can recall the sound of his voice on a whim.

He shows you down to the sloped rim of the pond, where usually one at the time, members of the camp come to bathe in their spare hours. You wondered how far down the way you would have to bathe, just on the off chance someone might come and see.

“Bill takes care of the horses, mostly. I’m sure he’ll add yours to his rounds if you ask ‘im,” he mentioned, walking back past the horse rails and troughs. Your horse was standing happily in the sunshine, enjoying the blue skies and grass compared to the dusty and dark stables you always put him up in.

“I’ll remember that,” you say, as if you’ll forget anything else. So far you remember everyone’s name - everyone you passed by, at least - and every individual location of the camp.

“Miss Grimshaw and the others should have a tent for ya by sundown… if not, just bunk with me until tomorrow,” he offered, hands sat steadily on his gun belt. Your face flushed, but lucky for you, he was much taller and couldn’t see under the brim of your hat when you tilted your head.

“That’s kind of you,” you nodded in reply, saying nothing more.

He began to back away, needing to attend to something else, but he stopped short.

“You’re alright, kid,” he complimented, as best as he could give one, anyway. “See you ‘round.”

And you stood still, watching him walk away with your hands at your sides.

“I’m in deep shit…”

Early to bed, early to rise, yatta yatta yatta. You still hate mornings. The camp wakes at the crack of dawn, and you stir just as some folks are leaving, mounting their horses and setting off for the adventures ahead. You’re fairly certain it’s Dutch, Bill, and that other man Hosea, the one with the kind face.

You did end up taking Arthur up on his offer to bunk for the night. He was kind enough to set up one of the spare cots for you, unwilling to argue about sleeping on the ground and all that. He pegged you for the arguing type and wanted to leave well enough alone.

He was gone from the tent-like structure by the wagon, away somewhere probably having a cup of that coffee you smelled. They must have had a pot brewing somewhere, because it was the only thing willing you to leave the shaded area you were resting. The sun wasn’t high in the sky, but you could already feel the effects of the heat swirling in around the camp.

It was strange, going about your morning routine with others present. Washing up your face in one of the water barrels, raking your hair back over your head with your wet fingers to let the hair sit flat before you crushed it down with your hat. You’d been nearly presentable, good enough for the morning, anyway.

It wasn’t long before you were sitting close to the congregated group, a cup of coffee in your own hands. It wasn’t the best you’ve had, but hey, it helped you keep your eyes open. You didn’t dare interject into the conversation, unknowing of it they would accept it. Not that it mattered, because you liked hearing them interact as is. They were a rowdy bunch, but they had some wit here and there.

After a while, you zoned out during talks of events you hadn’t been to, people you hadn’t met, things you didn’t get to see before coming here. You watched a bunny that leapt across the camp, running into the wilderness ahead only to disappear behind some rocks. You realized by then you were at the end of your coffee cup. You stood up to take it back to Mr. Pearson, but were interrupted by one of the others in the circle. You remember his name is John.

“How about you, Brooks?” He asked, catching you off guard, for you had absolutely no clue what the conversation was.

“How about me?” you replied, a furrowed brow as you stopped in your tracks and waited.

“Are you really as fast as people say?”

You scoffed, a slanted eyebrow to the man when he seemed in disbelief. You don’t blame him, he’s never seen you shoot.

“Faster.”

“Boy’s got some pride on ‘im. Shouldn’t be too hard to break it down,” the only other redhead in the gang reared his accented voice. “Ay, Arthur?”

You turned to the man, stoic and quiet, his hat covering most of his face so you couldn’t see what his features were saying.

“If Dutch says he’s faster than me, I won’t push my luck.”

Except for he wanted to. He really wanted to, and you were curious to see his skill as well. Maybe not against you, because hell… you ain’t never lost before but there’s a first time for everything, and you like it here too much to throw it away.

“I don’t buy it. That’s just Dutch telling tales like he does,” John stood up and clapped his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Never in my life have I seen someone with Arthur’s shootin’ speed.”

“Never?”

You knew it was probably not in your best interest to boast your ability on the first day, but shit, it was the only thing you had going for you. You had to make way in this group somehow.

“Never.”

“Alright,” you nodded. “I propose a game. Two bullets, our names carved in. We set up a can to shoot and whoever’s bullet gets trapped inside s’the one that got there first.”

Arthur lifted his head, and for the first time this morning, you saw his eyes. Your face instantly got red, but no one seemed to notice, too caught up in the heat of the exchange.

He nodded once, a slow and decisive nod. He was thinking it over.

“Sure,” he said, his thick accent coating the word. “Guess I’ll play along.”

And the group dispersed, grabbing everything needed. Arthur took it upon himself to carve the bullets, and strangely, you trusted him not to tamper with yours. He didn’t seem like the type to play dirty. He didn’t look like he needed to be.

Sean set up the can on a log, a crudely drawn X out of charcoal on the rusty front of it. There were words being exchanged as you both stepped up, opening your guns to drop out all the bullets before Arthur handed yours over. His etching wasn’t too bad, but you dropped the smug look on your face when you saw what he actually put on it.

“I told you my name’s not Red,” you huffed, taking it anyway and dropping it into the cylinder, giving it a quick spin to line it up.

“Doesn’t matter, no one’s gonna see it but you,” he teased, loading his own gun and standing beside you, about five yards away from the can.

“Need me to count?” you joked back, hopefully not in vain. You wouldn’t be pridefully wounded if you lost in all honesty. You’d been waiting for your talent to fail you for a long time now, and without any stakes on the table, you suppose today could be the day.

Both guns now strapped to your hips, you waited in silence, and so did everyone else. It wasn’t something that needed cheering on, but it was definitely something to be on the edge of your seat for.

You saw Arthur drop his hand out of the corner of your eye, so you cleared leather as fast as you could in hopes that your shot would land, and it did… or at least, you thought it did. The can went flying and both guns had been fired.

“Who won?” John yelled over in question to Sean, who went to kneel down by the log, picking up the can.

“Uh…” He held up the can, showing two bullet holes, before dumping out both bullets from the inside. “Both of em’.”

And for the first time in any shoot out you’d ever participated in, you were too stunned to speak. You never doubted this man’s abilities as a talented gunslinger, but given you’d never seen him shoot, and knowing your own track record… it was surprising to see.

“Well,” Arthur turned to you, as the others continued to chat amongst themselves, not sure how to split the bets they had made beforehand. “You beat me.”

He offered his hand to you to shake, but you shook you head, you didn’t understand.

“It’s a draw, both bullets hit,” you tried to reason, but he was set on his own explanation.

“You hit first. Mine went through the top as it was fallin’.”

You shook his hand anyway, but froze in place when he spoke. Could he really tell? Was he that detail oriented when shooting? You’d never known much of your craft, just that you could do it, just that you’d practiced a bunch and got pretty damn good… but you didn’t even think to make that observation.

“That don’t count,” you tried to absolve him, still feeling as though from what he said alone, he was the better gunslinger. “I’ve never said this before… but I would not duel you, Arthur Morgan. You’ve scared me somethin’ awful with that gun.”

He had a chuckle in his exhale as he let it fall from his lips, a nod and the drop of your handshake. “Guess we both met our match today.”

“I’d say so.”

The day was slow. When Dutch and Hosea and Bill returned in the evening, there was some wind of a job coming up, the first one you’d inevitably be invited to. It was discussed quickly and not in great detail, and the heads of the camp still had some ideas churning about it. Hopefully you’d be able to keep up in the heat of the moment, as you’d never done anything like this before. Never robbed folk - alive folk, at least - or taken something as a means to survive. You’ve lived off of bets and fools you shot dead. It was a lousy way to live but it had never gotten as low as stealing or cold blooded murder.

The thoughts turned over in your head and for some reason you couldn’t seem to lose them, but at the end of the night they were momentarily stalled when Arthur helped you carry the already assembled cot into your new tent. It was simple, just a double sided narrow-pitched tent, no room inside for anything but a cot and a single human. You could just kick your boots under the cot when you slept, that would be the extent of your storage space. At least it had the privacy of the two flaps at the front, current parted like curtains to allow entrance.

Once everything was set up, Arthur took a step back, but didn’t leave yet.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll owe you one,” you promised, trying to be as casual about his genuine help and concern over you the past day. No one had ever shown this much attentiveness to you, and though you know he’s only acting on orders from Dutch, it feels like he really cares. He’s kind and he’s gentle, despite his rugged appearance and reputation.

“S’no problem,” he scratched the back of his neck, looking from side to side to make sure everyone had either retired for the night or was too occupied to listen in. “I wanted to tell you something.”

You furrowed your brow, crossing your arms.

He sighed and met your eyes again, debating his words in his head. Out with it already…

“I know you’re a lady,” he tried to speak evenly, but the tail end of his sentence got caught.

Your eyes widened before he even finished his sentence. You looked around as well before shoving him inside your tent, too small for one person let alone two.

“You don’t know anything,” you assured him, suddenly self conscious of how he perceived you. What was it? Your voice? The way you walked? Your body? Was anybody else going to notice?

“I wasn’t pryin’, I swear,” he said, reaching into his satchel, still on his hip after a long day. “Bill left early this morning, I took care of your horse. These fell out of your saddlebag…”

He held out to you the most damning piece of evidence there could possibly be. Long cotton wraps and a sanitary apron, the brand new woolen padding you’d gotten was pressed inside and ready.

Shit. You didn’t even think twice about hiding the contents of your saddle bag when arriving here. No one had ever been kind enough to care for your horse, so you didn’t worry.

You looked into his eyes, firm but not judgemental. When you looked at him just a second too long they turned to a silent fear. Like he was a child getting caught stealing sweets.

“Don’t tell Dutch,” you begged, and he huffed a sigh, unsure of what to do.

“I can’t lie to im’,” he shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. You were new, this wasn’t just about loyalty, it was about hierarchy. You, the new soldier, could not dare ask the second in command to deprive his leader of the truth.

“I’m not asking you to. Just don’t tell him, yet. I’ll think of a way to let him know…”

You knew it was a stretch, but he was wonderful with the women of the camp, a man of high honor among the ladies. Surely he would help you, just until you were ready to share your secret.

“We’re different, y’know? If you’ve been hidin’ all this time out there, that’s one thing… but you ain’t gotta do that here.”

“I don’t want them to look at me differently…” you trailed, silently pleading with him.

He nodded, the look in your eyes nearly breaking his heart. There’s a story within you, but he’ll wait to hear it. For now, he just complies, hearing your voice at it’s softest point, the feminine silkiness flowing through. You only ever spoke to yourself like that anymore.

“Okay,” he placed a warm hand on your shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze, before maneuvering out of your small tent. “Just until you tell ‘im yourself, ya hear?”

You nodded in understanding, a thankful and sweet smile dining your features. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“G’night, Red…”

TAGS: @sheepdogchick3

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #red dead fandom #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 community

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haveuevermetme · 3 months ago

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i’ve seen so many times men in my country say that women are like children or animals, they’re “guided by instincts or emotions or both”.

i started writing this post and found an example immediately: “First of all, you need to remember that a woman is not equal to a man. This is a different being. A woman perceives a man as part of the environment, the outside world. Therefore, she does not feel responsible for him. A woman lives by her instincts. She is guided by emotions even when it is to the detriment of her, you and your relationship. She destroys relationships with her actions, even if she wants to keep them. It is impossible to negotiate with them, since women do not own their minds and are not able to take into account other people's interests. Simply put, an ordinary woman is only partially sane.”

i know all of the men’s opinions about women are just projection, but it keeps surprising me how many of those are there. their opinion of women as inferior creatures, not capable of thoughts, opinions, logic, guided by instincts and emotions, is also a projection. men love being told what to do, to have direct instructions (“just tell me what to do”, “make me a list”), they don’t control their “instincts” (“she deserved it, you’ve seen how she dressed??”), they don’t control their emotions (poor anger management, “if father of the family has a bad day, everyone in the family has a bad day”, “she just provoked me”), they don’t know what logic even is (“hey, beautiful, wanna go watch a movie at my place? no? you w***e!!!”, “women’s purpose in life is to serve her husband and take care of the household” => “what do you even bring to the table? i go to work and bring money which buys you everything!”), they want all their problems to be solved by women (draft, “only men work in the mines”, “male loneliness epidemic”). this is childlike behaviour, it’s not mature. it’s irresponsible and damaging, it puts women into situation of “you should listen to him, he is a man” at the same time as she is supposed to solve every single problem, make decisions, take the blame for bad decisions even if they were made by a man (“be wiser”), keep him entertained and feeling as though he is in charge. she should make him a king without him being a king, she should do all the work of the queen, wife, courtiers, servants, AND king while indulging him in his fantasy of being a ruler. she should be all that and never forget her place as “inferior”, “a child” or just “an animal”.

#radblr #radical feminism #radical feminist safe #feminism #radical feminist community #male entitlement #male loneliness #haveuevermetme posts

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dr5amatic · 3 months ago

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RUNNING TOWARD HOPE ,

a sentence starter prompts list comprised of quotes from the novel blood over bright haven by m. l. wang. please be advised that this list may involve topics including, but not limited to, murder, death, violence, alcohol, and religion. change verbiage as needed.

was that a veiled dig at my intelligence?

leave your tools and weapons. they’re just weight.

while you can still breathe, keep moving. stop for nothing. turn back for no one. not even your own blood.

it must be hard to be you! how terrible to be so singularly talented!

since when do you really care about people who aren’t you?

i take it that wasn’t supposed to happen?

be cold, be hard, and don’t give them an inch, you understand? no matter what they say of you.

when i care how attractive you find me, i’ll let you know.

you’re certainly not going to survive playing against me.

that’s a lot of power.

i already missed my train. i’m going to sleep here.

the world isn’t about love for me. it’s about power.

i think i’ve just had a problem with magic since the first time i tasted it–like some people have a problem with alcohol.

magic is the one area where i can shut myself in a room with my books and my thoughts and come out more powerful than i went in.

the unbreakable rules of magic are unbreakable for a reason.

don’t play dumb with me. it doesn’t suit you.

is there something unreasonable about wanting to do my own work correctly?

brilliant men–even moderately intelligent men–in this city get showered with opportunities to succeed. brilliant women have to fight for those opportunities, and, when we get them, we have to defend them tooth and nail, or they’ll be snatched away.

i’m not married, i’m no one’s apprentice, and i’ll be damned if i let a man find some other way to take my glory from me.

women are always told to be kind, be forgiving, be nurturing. as far as i know, it’s never gotten them anywhere. the men, who have the real power, won’t return the favor when it matters.

if you are capable of everything they are as a group, then who can say you’ve been arrogant or unvirtuous?

if i can’t clear that clouded glass, there’s nothing left to do but break through it.

i never said i didn’t believe your god existed. i just don’t believe he’s the greatest or only deity at work in the world.

a ravine won’t water crops or quench the dying. at some point, there has to be a river, or what good can you really claim? if the man of good intentions never manifests a river, only calamity, should he not go to hell?

this is the balance of the universe. it is only right for the world to bring back upon him what he brought upon the world.

anyone with enough self-delusion can admit himself to heaven. this is nonsense.

it’s much easier to tell yourself you’re a good person than it is to actually be one.

i can’t work with you if we’re not honest with each other.

i’m not trying to twist your words. i’m trying to make sure you mean them.

you want me to be honest. i want the same thing from you, but you can do that without disrespecting me, my discipline, and my culture.

i can be civil, or i can be honest. you can’t have both in their entirety.

my knowledge of magic and history is obviously nothing in the face of yours.

maybe you’re not remembering clearly. sometimes, when an event is too upsetting to wrap your mind around, your memory gets muddled.

you’re that committed to your god of greed? go on, then. serve him. destroy me.

you’re the worst kind of murderer, i think. the kind who won’t even acknowledge their crime.

you never worshiped a god of truth. you worship a delusion.

i lost myself a little. and it took today–took something terrible–to bring me back to reality.

let me pose you a question that’s been troubling me for hours: must i forgo brilliance–no, not even brilliance; must i forgo any sort of intelligence; must i forgo the baseline mental functions that come with being alive–for stability?

you must be the dullest conversation partner i’ve ever met!

they’re either evil or they’re the stupidest people who ever lived!

you have to play along. pretend to buy his cover story. whatever he wants you to believe, act like you believe it and go about your business like nothing is wrong. don’t ask questions. don’t antagonize.

swear to me on your god and your mother’s grave.

i’ll be happy when i see you alive and whole tomorrow morning.

i just want you to be smart. be careful. acting on your every emotion the way you do is going to get you into trouble.

the most powerful minds and hardest hearts have a breaking point.

your head will clear, you will remember who you are, and you will move beyond this.

your devotion has always been to magic. none of that has to change because you’ve uncovered a few skeletons.

it seems i misjudged you. my theories about you were flawed.

for many, the denial must be a necessary shield against the guilt.

we’re surrounded by devils.

someone’s going to bleed and nothing bleeds like a mage’s ego.

things are about to change. the future has to be different. it will be different.

are you really going to do this? is this the mark you want to leave on the world?

i’m realizing how ridiculous it is to demand civility when the world is so disgustingly uncivil upon closer inspection. so, i’m not here to ask for your friendship or your politeness.

mages are detached from reality. they’re obsessive, socially stunted egomaniacs. you know, like me.

good people will turn monstrous when it’s down to their survival or someone else’s.

all i can say is… if you’re going to do this, i don’t co-sign it. don’t do it for me–or for anyone else. be selfish. be arrogant. do it for yourself.

i don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt. i don’t want to be the reason you die.

is it better to be safe and broken than it is to be dead?

all this agony for your goddamn ego.

i can’t believe i ever called you my family.

the forces of darkness are nothing to the light of god.

sorry about your reputation.

you could’ve been something great.

as far as the public is concerned, you will be forgotten–all your skill and innovation.

i never helped you for glory. i did it because it was the right thing to do.

i’m not your glory. i’m your penance.

we have done a great evil, and you’re smart enough to know that, deep in your soul, no matter what lies you spin around it. and i’m your attempt to get out of that feeling, aren’t i?

we all bear the burden of knowledge in different ways. some of us endeavor to do good.

have i dragged you anywhere you weren’t determined to go by your own power?

if i was to be your penance for what you have done, is it working? do you feel absolved?

you want me to throw away honesty in exchange for my life?

i don’t know what you’re capable of.

i think it’s important to be honest with the people you care about.

i don’t want your protection! do you hear me? do you understand? if you harm any of those people down there, it’s for yourself, not me.

you still have a chance to do the right and honest thing.

you have a long way to go yet before you’re half the monster i am.

if i’m going to die, i want to go knowing i left you safe and right with yourself.

if this is the last night of the world as we know it, i want to spend it with someone who can appreciate that with me. i want to spend it with you… if that’s alright?

don’t stay because you’re hoping to talk me into your plan over the course of the night.

honestly, i don’t know why i indulge your pessimism.

remember all this grief and terror–and try to do something good with it.

#inbox memes #inbox prompt #roleplay memes #roleplay prompts #rp memes #rp prompts #rp sentence starters #sentence starters

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noxturnalnymph · 11 months ago

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Devotion 🖤 II. Predator or Prey? (Ch 4)

CultLeader!Joel x OFC!Reader

Series Summary: When is it enough? When is it too much? When does Devotion become Obsession?

Visit the Series Masterlist for series warnings, cult info, timeline info, and HCs on ages. Reader has a nickname and some minor physical descriptions - is an OFC from Reader POV.

*This series is 18+ MDNI. I will not be listing individual chapter warnings as I don't want to spoil the plot of each chapter. Please see the series masterlist for entire series warnings to decide if this is for you.*

LAYOUT OF JOEL'S HOUSE

II. Predator or Prey?

CH 4 (4.8k) The following Sunday everyone in town is gathered at the old church with the big white steeple for the weekly Valley meeting. After a midday interfaith service, the religious leader gives Joel the floor for his usual speech. As he always does, Joel begins by extolling the virtues of the community, speaking on their recent raiding successes, and then reviews the three tenants.

We are stronger together. It’s important that everyone finds a place within The Valley that caters to their strengths, so we can depend on each other and serve one another. The predator versus the prey. You have to be one or the other and we choose to not be anyone’s prey. This community is held above any other and we must protect it at all costs. Create a path to the future. Everything we do here paves the way for us as a society to beat the fungus, to find a cure, and to return to the top of the food chain.

The crowd listens, enraptured, nodding along and smiling as Joel holds them in the palm of his hand. He praises the men and women who patrol the perimeter of the community for their diligence and bravery. He thanks the farmers who live outside the town borders for their perseverance. Then he scans the crowd, looking for you, to silently acknowledge how grateful he is for your presence. But all he sees are the same eyes over and over again, looking at him with devotion and reverence. He usually sees you in the second row with the rest of the house, but you’re not there.

As his speech winds to a close and he heads back to his front-row seat, he realizes that you were in the crowd with the rest of his household. You were there in the second row the whole time, staring at him just like the rest of them do, with blind adoration, with expectation, with mindless loyalty. He’d felt a change on Thursday. After the meeting he’d touched you everywhere, gotten down on his knees for you, and worshiped at your altar. He’d felt something shift and now the wild look in your eyes is gone.

You’re completely devoted. You’re under his spell. You’re one of them.

One of us, he corrects himself. You’re one of us, just like he wanted you to be…. Right?

You watch Joel speaking at the meeting and it's as if his words have new meaning – like he’s speaking directly to you. You’ve never felt small or beautiful or feminine, but he makes you feel whole. He makes you feel strong. He makes you feel like a woman. You feel like you were supposed to be his, always. And it was always supposed to go like this, as if your whole life has led you to this moment. All of your failures have led you here, to him.

The trepidation you felt when you first got here has completely disappeared and you know that you’ll give everything you have to Joel. You’ll give him all of you, your mind, body and soul, gladly. He can fill in all of the broken or missing pieces of you. Every bad thing that ever happened to you Joel can fix. He can heal the parts of you that weren’t good enough, that weren’t pretty enough, that weren’t smart enough.

He can save you.

As soon as the crowd begins to move out of the large room and amble towards the dining hall next door for dinner, he grabs your arm and pulls you roughly into a small supply closet. It smells of lemon and vinegar and is far too small for two people to move about comfortably. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that there is a crowd of people on the other side of the door or that he shouldn’t be asking you to do what he’s about to ask you to do.

The look in your eyes has gone to his head, he needs to see your supplication right now. He needs to witness your devotion, he needs to give you communion. He pushes you down onto your knees, undoes his pants, and offers himself to you. It’s your first time seeing the size of him and you look willing to comply, your eyes still dazed and glowing, still filled with trust in him. He watches as you take hold of him with one hand and begin to lick and kiss the head, slowly dragging your tongue up and down his shaft.

Once you put him fully in your mouth he loses all patience, needing more immediately. He pushes your hand away and takes your head in a firm grip on either side, pausing as you look up at him. Your eyes are still glassy. He nods his head and you reciprocate, which he takes as permission to begin drawing himself in and out of your mouth, gently pushing your head forwards and backwards.

Slowly, he passes back and forth over your lips, allowing you to adjust to him. This only lasts for a few thrusts before he begins to move faster, deeper. He matches the movements of his hips with his grip on the sides of your head, coordinating them to fuck your face in earnest. He hears your gurgles and sees tears beginning to run down your cheeks but you don’t push him away, so he doesn’t stop. He tells himself that you want this. You want this as much as he does.

You kneel beneath him, knees stinging on the hard floor, mouth full and struggling to breathe around him. You’re not sure where this is coming from, but it's obvious that he needs this right now, and what you want above all else is to give him what he needs, to be everything for him. You place your hands on his thighs to brace yourself and try your best to breathe through your nose, to be quiet and still and exactly what he needs you to be, even if this is painful and uncomfortable.

You wish the tears would stop streaming down your face. You’re afraid to even look up at him, worried that he’ll take one look at you and think you’re not enjoying it. What if he thinks you’re having a terrible time, what if he thinks you look awful, what if he thinks he’s hurting you? Maybe those things are kind of true, but still…. What if he stops? What would you do with yourself if he stopped? If he didn’t want you to do this anymore?

You finally look up and meet his eyes. You barely recognize him, his eyes black and his face hard. He doesn’t even meet your gaze, it’s like he’s staring right through you. His pace begins to falter and his hips start to stutter, and you hope it means he’s nearly done. You’re trying so hard to bear this, to not choke, to not cry, to ignore the stiffness in your jaw and the stinging in your knees, but you don’t know how much longer you can do it.

“Are you gonna swallow it?” he huffs out, voice strained. He pulls himself out of your throat until only the tip of him rests on your lips.

“I’ve never–” you swallow back a gag, “I’ve never done that before.”

“But you will, right?” he nods his head as he asks.

He nods, so you nod. And you will. You’ll do anything he asks of you. You don’t have time to wipe your face, which you’re sure must look a mess, before he puts his entire length back inside your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You can’t stop your body from heaving as he pushes in, and part of you wonders how he’s able to ignore it. He’s usually so in-tune with you.

He lasts less than a dozen more thrusts before his hips stutter to a halt as he starts to release his orgasm down your throat. You feel hot spurts hitting the back of your mouth and you’re awash with shame that it instantly makes you want to gag. He needs this, you tell yourself. You have to be good for him, you have to do a good job for him. You have to be everything he needs you to be.

He pulls himself back so his cock rests on your tongue as he continues to come, coating your mouth, and now you taste him for the first time. The salty bitterness covers your tongue and you’re begging yourself not to retch. He holds your head still, encouraging you to swallow him, even placing one hand over your throat and telling you don’t spit, and swallow it all, which you do with difficulty.

When you’ve swallowed every drop, he seems satisfied and lets go of your head, tucking himself back into his pants. Without warning he turns and walks out of the closet, leaving you to lurch forward since you were resting on him for support. You fall forward onto your hands, catching yourself before your face meets the ground, scraping your palms a bit on the dirty linoleum.

You stay there for a moment like that, on all fours, in a cleaning closet, alone. Down here it smells like musty mop heads and mildew. Down here. On your knees. For Joel. Days ago you were alone with him and he was the one on his knees, worshiping your body, treating you like a goddess. Today he used your mouth like a fuck toy. No, you can’t think like that. That’s not what Joel did, he would never do that.

You run the last ten minutes through your mind a few times as you slowly get up and brush yourself off. He needed you. He could have anyone here but he chose you, out of everyone. No one ever did that before. No one ever chose you over anyone else. But Joel did. Joel needed you today and you were able to be there for him, and that’s what matters.

Joel pushes his way through the crowd, not an ounce of shame or regret present. He smiles and shakes hands and gives hugs. Everyone in The Valley looks to him for answers, for guidance, for leadership. He’s the reason every single one of them is here and he’s responsible for them all. They are his flock and he is their shepherd. He gives so much of himself to be here, to do this. He deserves the adoration and the appreciation. He deserves you. He deserves your body, your mouth, your reverence.

He knows you’ve changed since you arrived, you’ve become more trusting, less wild. You’ve morphed into what they all wanted you to be, a devoted member of The Valley. He’s changed also. He used to be different, back when you first met. Back then he could give you pieces of himself, his real self. But the more you’re drawn to him and the more you’ve trusted him, the more he's become unworthy of your trust. He doesn’t even remember doing it intentionally, but it’s done.

He’s slowly lured you into his trap and now, you’re caught.

–

The rest of the week your head is completely filled with thoughts of him. He’s your first thought in the morning and your last thought before you fall asleep. All night your dreams are filled with him, and you cling to the fleeting images of him when you wake. You can’t seem to get enough of him, aching to be near him every moment of the day. You stare at him longingly across the table at every meal and follow him around like a puppy whenever you can, unable to focus on anything else.

Joel himself is so lost in his own delusions of grandeur, he walks around the house with his head held high, cocky and full of himself. He can feel you staring at him all the time and he indulges you once in a while by taking your hand and grazing it across his lips, down his chest, over his burgeoning erection. He’s half-hard all the time now, anticipating. He’s convinced that you’re going to let him fuck you after the next Thursday meeting. He’s going to have you, he’s going to have every piece of you.

The days leading up to it, he thinks about it all day; his dick achingly hard but he refuses to jerk off now, wanting to save it for you. He’s practically vibrating with anticipation when Tess comes up to him Thursday before dinner and gives him the bad news. She tells him you’re sick, started throwing up a couple hours ago, and won’t be able to accompany him to the meeting.

Before he can argue, Tess waves her hand in front of his face, telling him not to worry, that Kerri will be going with him instead. Without a moment for an argument to leave his lips, Tess slips away and Kerri is standing in front of him. She has been living with them for almost a year now, since he found her battered and bruised about a half day’s ride from here.

Kerri is petite, has chin-length curly hair, a toothy smile, and a faint scar stretching from her left temple down to her jawline. She walks with a barely noticeable limp but always pulls her weight around the house, doing most of the meal prep and impressing everyone with her fine cooking skills. She is nurturing, generous, pretty, and maybe the last person Joel wanted to see tonight. She’s not you. He wanted you.

He’s made so irritable by the last-minute change that he can’t even hide his disappointment. He can barely focus during the meeting, getting easily distracted and having to ask people to repeat themselves. After the meeting, Kerri, sensing his unease, gives him a hug to try and ease some of his tension. He knows she feels his erection, how could she not? It’s been raging for days and he can’t help himself, he pulls her tight and grinds himself into her for a brief moment of satisfaction.

Back at the house he heads into his room but within minutes Kerri is knocking on his door. She asks, is this okay? and he hesitates. She hasn’t come to his room since before he brought you into town, but pushing his dick into her thigh at the meeting tonight for the small relief that friction brought him must have signaled to her that he desired her company. He doesn’t. He only wants your company.

He looks at the closed door to your room and thinks about you inside, sick, probably asleep. What would be the harm in seeking comfort from Kerri? He’s fucked her before, it’s not a big deal. He’s never fucked you, it wouldn’t be like he was cheating. In fact, he thinks you’d probably want this for him. You wouldn’t want him to be suffering, and he’s been painfully hard for days. You’d want him to have relief.

There’s a small voice screaming in the back of his head that he ignores. You’ll never have to know about Kerri. You didn’t know about her before and you won’t know about her tonight, and what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

He opens his door further, silently inviting Kerri inside. She attempts to kiss him but he won’t let his lips meet hers, instead kissing the side of her head, her cheeks, her neck. He tries to breathe through his mouth, unable to get over the scent of her that isn’t at all like yours. He lets her hands grope along his body and he closes his eyes tight, trying to imagine they belong to you instead.

She undoes his belt and pushes his pants down with a practiced hand as she palms his length, working to get his half-hard cock to come to life. Between her curls tickling his chin, her all-wrong scent, and her rough touch, he can’t seem to keep his erection. How is he supposed to fuck away his need for you if he can’t stay hard?

Wordlessly, she sinks down to her knees in front of him. Don’t worry, she says, as she puts him in her mouth, doubling down on her efforts to work his stress right out of his dick. With her not-your scent, not-your hair, and not-your face out of his line of vision, he’s able to let his mind wander and let his thoughts of you return.

He imagines you on your knees in front of him, thinks of you in the closet with your lips wrapped around him. He thinks of your wet mouth, your soft hands, your wild eyes. That does it. He comes immediately and without warning, causing Kerri to cough and sputter around him, spitting his come back onto him. His own release gets splattered onto his thighs, slides down his shaft, and drips from his balls as Kerri wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, rising to her feet.

“Uhhh, thanks hon,” Joel mutters, as he pets her head and pushes her towards the door.

You know it’s probably close to midnight when you rise in your bed, having spent hours throwing up and then sleeping. Your body is tight with pain, you feel flushed and sweaty, and your head is pounding. You should drink the water Tess left on your nightstand but you worry that it might cause you to throw up again. You were really hoping to see Joel when he got home from the meeting tonight, so when you hear his door open, you heave yourself out of bed and turn your doorknob to greet him.

You see Kerri leaving his room as he stands in the open doorway, pants undone and softening dick still dripping with the evidence of his release. Kerri doesn’t see you as she heads down the hall to her room but Joel’s eyes rise to meet yours for a brief moment before you hastily close the door. You hear the clinking of his belt and then hear his voice directly on the other side of the wood.

“Hey baby, how you doin’?”

Your head is spinning, you’re sweating profusely now, your pulse throbs behind your eyes. Did you really just see what you think you saw? It was pretty dark in the hallway, maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you. You’re pretty sure you have a fever, maybe you’re hallucinating. Joel lightly knocks on the door and you jump.

“You alright?” he asks.

You mutter back a yeah before you stumble towards your bed, wondering if this is all just some bad dream. Joel wouldn’t be fucking around with Kerri, he wouldn’t do that, he isn’t like that. Joel doesn’t use people, right? Joel is yours… right? This must all be a nightmare you’re having. You’re taking short, quick breaths now, fighting to remain conscious. You fall onto the mattress. You’re so fucking sick and as your head hits the pillow you let sleep overtake you.

After a long, fitful night’s sleep, you wake in the late afternoon, feeling slightly less feverish than the day before. You’re immediately hit by a wave of panic, feeling tightness in your stomach and it starts to hurt, causing you to fear you may throw up again. You saw Joel and Kerri last night, and you’re pretty sure she wasn’t helping him with a stuck zipper. You need to talk to Joel, you need to confront him about what you think you saw. You need to hear him tell you it’s not true.

Joel is sitting at his desk, going over the patrols for the upcoming Christmas holiday, when you knock at his door. He’s been waiting for you to come see him since you caught Kerri leaving his room last night. He knew he’d have some questions to answer, he’s just not sure yet how he’s going to answer them. He knows he was well within his rights to have Kerri get him off, he just hopes you don’t come crying to him, jealous and angry.

He opens the door for you and lets you into the office. You enter the room and round the corner away from the door, keeping your gaze at your feet. You fumble with your hands but don’t speak, attempting to gather the courage to ask a question you’re not sure you want the answer to. Joel opens his mouth to start the conversation but before he can speak, there’s another knock at the door.

He moves to open the door and Rosie, all five feet nine inches of her, is peering at him over her glasses. She throws her arms around him, pushing him back into the room a little, whispering in his ear.

“I heard you were stressed out honey, I can help ya out a little,” as she lowers herself to her knees.

Joel doesn’t even have time to protest as she reaches for his belt, looking up at his face. She stills her hands and follows his gaze behind her, turning back to meet your eyes, which are bulging out of your head.

“Oh PJ, I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know you were in here.”

She gets up off her knees and quickly exits, leaving you and Joel alone once more. Joel knows the other shoe has dropped. Some of these women have been here for a long time, some for a short time, they are free to come and go if they desire, but living in his house is considered a privilege. He’s the leader of this community and to be able to help take care of his sexual needs and have him take care of yours is held in high honor.

The women who live here aren’t petty or jealous, they are sweet and giving people, hard workers, and dedicated members of The Valley who make sacrifices and put others – notably Joel – first. They’ve been keeping their distance out of respect for the obvious affection that you and Joel feel for each other, but they must think that since Joel seems stressed then it’s their time to step in and perform their usual duties.

They don’t know that you aren’t aware of the long-standing arrangement they have in this house. They don’t discuss things over the breakfast table but they also don’t keep things secret, because they don’t know that it should be a secret. They’re all open and honest with each other and have no idea that Joel has kept you in the dark about his relationships with them.

Of course, you have been kept in the dark, and now that the light is shining – too brightly – on the truth, it’s making you sick to your stomach. You stare at the ground where Rosie was just kneeling in front of Joel. You know that what you thought you saw last night was, in fact, Kerri leaving Joel’s room after getting him off somehow. It happened. It was about to happen again. It’s probably happened before.

“It’s all of them?” you ask.

Joel shrugs.

“It’s all of them,” you say again, not a question this time. Your vision is going blurry from the blood pumping through your skull so hard. You’re afraid you’re going to pass out. “You fuck all of them?”

“I have, yeah,” Joel says, shrugging again.

“And you plan to fuck me too?” You can’t even meet his face, your mind is reeling a mile a minute.

“You’re welcome to come to my room anytime you want, baby,” he answers casually. Goosebumps roll across your whole body and you fight back a dry-heave.

“Like they do?”

“Sometimes,” he fucking shrugs again. “It’s not a big deal, PJ.”

You barely hear him, the sound of your own heartbeat creating a hum in your ears, the sick feeling in your stomach rising up your throat, threatening to spill your insides out at your feet. Not a big deal, he says. It’s not a big deal that he’s been lying to you since the day you got here. It’s not a big deal that he wants to use you just like he’s apparently been using these other women, that he wants to use your body for his pleasure. It’s not a big deal that you thought he was different.

And now you see the cracks in this whole place, see it for what it actually is. This place is upholding a façade of a normal society, but it isn’t even close. Joel is treated like some kind of god or king or both and no one says no to him, he gets whatever and apparently whoever he wants. You can’t believe that he made you feel like you mattered when you clearly don’t matter at all.

You thought he could fix you. All he did was break you. You’ve never felt so low.

“Just another one,” you start to repeat, “Just another one. Just another one. Just another one.”

You’re just another one of these things that he gets when he wants it, and he gets whatever he wants.

“Just another one. Just another one. Just another one.”

He’s just another man, in a long line of many, who used you.

“Just another one. Just another one.”

He walks towards you, backing you up against the wall, bringing his face closer to yours. Baby, you hear him say, as he brings his lips towards yours. He tries to kiss you but you shudder away, repulsed by him, and he grabs for your arm to pull you back to him. Overwhelmed by his scent and the clawing tightness gripping your insides, you bend at the waist and throw up all over his shoes.

“What the fuck,” he curses loudly before he takes a deep breath, calming himself. “You okay, PJ?”

He reaches for you again and you push him away, a loud sob leaving your lips. Oh fuckin’ christ, he mutters. Here come the fuckin’ waterworks. You’re making a big deal out of nothing and he’s getting annoyed at the theatrics. He grabs your arm and yanks you up, ignoring the vomit dripping from your chin and the tears streaming down your face.

“Quit bein’ dramatic,” he says as he shakes you by the arm.

Tess comes in the door just then, seeing your face and the way Joel is manhandling you.

“What the fuck, Joel?” she wrenches you out of his grip, touching your forehead and feeling your fever.

She sees the throw-up all over Joel’s feet and sees him roll his eyes. She has no idea what’s going on right now but Joel has lost all his tenderness with you. She scolds him for letting you out of bed, telling him you’re still really sick. She takes you back up to your room, makes you drink some water, and tucks you back into bed, threatening to call the doctor if you try to get up again before your fever breaks.

–

Later that night as Joel heads up to bed he goes to your door and knocks several times, but you don’t answer. He knocks again, no answer, and knocks again. Tess comes out of her room and down the hall, having heard the noise he’s making knocking repeatedly at your door.

“Leave her alone Joel, I told you she’s fuckin’ sick.”

“Shut up Tess,” he doesn’t even turn to look at her. “Get back in your room.”

He throws your door open and sees you laying in bed with your back to the door. He says your name several times but you don’t move a muscle. He takes a step forward, his foot crossing the threshold to your room.

“Don’t you dare,” Tess snaps at him.

His steps halt. He says your name again, louder this time. Aside from the rise and fall of your breathing, you don’t move. He knows you can hear him, the whole house can fucking hear him. Tess is behind him, berating him some more. He repeats your name, yelling now. He hears a door down the hallway open, yells again, hears Tess hissing stop it, goddamnit, and then hears another door open.

How dare you fucking ignore him. Who the fuck do you think you are right now? He lifts his foot to take another step into your room and he hears Tess start to go ballistic behind him, cursing and bellyaching. Why don’t you fucking look at him? He hears whispers of the other women further down the hallway. Jesus fucking christ, why don’t they leave him alone? Why don’t you roll over?

He steps back into the hallway and slams your door closed, rattling the walls of the entire house. “Go to bed,” he screams at Tess. “Go the fuck to bed,” he repeats down the corridor as he steps into his room, slamming his own door behind him as well.

🖤

Thank you endlessly to @papipascalispunk for helping me with this series and listening to me rant about Cult Leader Joel. 🫂 I appreciate you SO much.

TAGLIST (lmk if you wanna be added or removed) @strang3lov3 @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @covetyou @iamasaddie @sr-lrn @clawdee @theywhowriteandknowthings @beefrobeefcal @merz-8 @speckledemerald @alltheseperfectimperfections @survivingandenduring @afraidtofear @millennial-teenybopper @missladym1981 @xdaddysprincessxx @lumoverheaven @ghoulettesinspace @brittmb115 @wintersquirrel @obscurexsorrows @littlevenicebitch69 @lulawantmula @pedroswife69 @joeldjarin @heimtathurss @untamedheart81 @pixielou5 @feel1n-h1gh

#devotion series #cult leader joel miller #noxturnalpascal #ofc!reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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katzenmas · 1 year ago

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okay but think about Nikto. Nikto who was not always no one. He was his mother's son, his sister's younger brother, the smiling kid from apartment 56 in the orange complex, the runt of the litter in his class.

Nikto who once had a name. A little boy who had a funny nickname that was yelled by his friends as they skipped class and ran from the guards in school. A boy who had dreams and nightmares and stupid petty fights with his classmates. Nikto who in his teenage years buzzed his hair and started wearing darker clothes. A boy who was offered his first cigarette at 14 and coughed up half a lung after one hit. A fight with the kids from a neighboring school left his nose crooked and blood filling his mouth, but his hands were slung over his friends' shoulders and they laughed. Nikto who watched wars break out. Had to hear it on the radio, see it on the news. Two old men talking about yet another conflict while playing chess in a park. History class in school talking about 'The Great Patriotic War', the horrors suddenly becoming too real. The need to do something pressing into his mind as he read the newspaper about an attack on a theatre by Chechen terrorists. Nikto who's mother's face paled when he said he enlisted. His older sister who tried to tell him to go to univeristy, study and then leave to go to a different country, live a better life, a life he deserved. His grandma who let silent tears spill as she remembered how her own husband did not return to her. A 17 year old boy who made up his mind, he wanted to serve his country, answer the call of duty. Nikto who went to training camp, passed it, but barely. A young fresh-faced boy who layed in his barrack bed and wondered if he made the right choice. He though he could never get used to the wight of his gun. Nikto who as the years passed adapted to the harsh military life. He revelled in it. The man came a long way, no one would be calling him the runt of the lotter now. His body filled out, muscles and skin hardening, his face that held baby fat even into his late teen years all but completely dissapeared, being swapped for a five o'clock shadow and a square jaw. Nikto who got into the helicopter with a smile, joking around with his squadmates as they set out to their next mission. The man who took down 13 hostiles by himself but was overwheled, the man who was not deemed worthy enough to go back for, the man who left at the hands of the enemy. Nikto who finally became no one. Nikto who's mind was spliced in so many directions that he could not make out the heads or the tails of life. Nikto who was no longer a boy or a man. He was death, he was nothing. Nikto who forgot his own name, forgot what life was like before the torture. Nikto who looked into the mirror, at the deformed thing that used to be his face. His minf trying to, but never quite coming up with a picture of what he looked like before. Nikto who came back changed. The voice in his mind also splitting, making him think that he was no one but also everyone at the same time. A big void of bodies and sounds trapped in one broken body. Nikto who had a chance to go back home. The door to the apartment where he supposedly spent his whole life was unfamiliar to him. The peeling paint and the rickety lock looked like things he knew, but the more he tried to remember the harder it was. Nikto who watched the woman who was supposed to be his mother fall to her knees when he said that her son is dead. The dog tags and envelope methodically handed over to her. He watched as another woman slowly made her way over to the weeping lady, embraced her and wailed. Wailed for a man who was dead but also alive. Screamed a long forgotten name and prayed to god, a god that Nikto himself remembers praying to during those months of being caputered. But they don't get an answer from him, just like he never did. He mutters an apology and turns away from the door. Leaves the orange complex with the women who grieved him behind. Just as he left himself behind. he was no one. He was Nikto.

#cod #call of duty #nikto #nikto call of duty #nikto headcanons #cod headcanons #call of duty headcanons

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fantasyinvader · 5 months ago

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There's something about Sacred Stones that, really, I feel was ahead of it's time. I feel like there was a definite focus on gender roles, especially when you look at how Ephraim's story diverges from Eirika's.

Ephraim does the typical manly-man thing, where he sets off to fight the invading empire. However, it's pointed out how by doing so he abandoned his people and at the end the people aren't cheering for his return. They're cheering because the war is seemingly over. Trying to solve things through violence and force doesn't make him a good or beloved leader, especially with the reveal that everything Grado has been doing is an attempt to prevent the suffering of it's people through upcoming natural disasters.

And adding onto that, there's both Innes and Lyon's feelings of inadequacy because of Ephraim. In the case of the latter, it leads to him attempting to prove himself through any means such as harnessing the power of the Demon King. This belief that men have to be manly like Ephraim, with an added serving of having to handle their own problems rather than appear weak thanks to Emperor Vigarde nearly lead to the world's destruction.

Then there's a bit about treating women solely as a love interest. Lyon feels he needs to be worthy of Eirika's hand, in part fuelling his downfall, while at the same time being upset that she can kick his ass in a sparring match. Carlyle betrays Jehanna because of his “love” for the queen, blaming her for being “too beautiful” and she calls him out on it. Meanwhile Orson betrays Renais to revive his dead wife, leaving her as a mindless living body. After turning his beloved into an object, he lets Renais rot while he does nothing but spend time with her. And then there's Valter lusting after Eirika... Treating women solely as objects of affection, putting them on a pedastal rather than treating them like living, breathing people with their own minds and personalities, Sacred Stones is subtly calling that out.

In addition, women aren't there to simply support men. Eirika may have been searching for her brother, but she was also helping those in need as she came across them. In addition, her handing over her country's sacred stone under the belief it might be able to save Lyon also contributes to the final boss regaining his strength in her route. But Eirika also, rather than taking a supportive role like a healer, learned how to fight and shows that she's not soft when people mess with those she cares about. And I feel like the whole thing with her wanting to help Lyon serves as a foil to Selena, whose loyalty to Vigarde can't be swayed even when she learns that he's just a reanimated corpse. On the other hand, the game also gives us L'Arachel who takes a proactive role in trying to deal with the monsters and is essential for defeating the Demon King and can go on to be the queen of her own country.

And really, this whole “women are supposed to support men” feels really good when I remember the interview for Echoes commented about Celica.

Kusakihara: They each come to represent masculinity and femininity in their own ways. Alm pursues a path of power while Celica walks a path of love –and aims to save Alm with it, leading to a type of self-sacrifice. The scenario is built upon this.

It really stands out to me that Sacred Stones does have masculinity and femininity represented in their own ways, much like Echoes. But whereas Sacred Stones basically had a message about how dangerous subscribing to such views on gender was, Echoes was more about how the men and women needed to support each other. Celica may have been the first female lord character, but her story is one where it's all to save Alm and in the end he needs to save her after her self-sacrificing nature leads to her being controlled by Duma, who is also supposed to represent masculinity except in a more extreme manner. Meanwhile, Eirika isn't motivated by romantic love, just compassion in general.

Eirika is your starting lord like Lyn, but rather than demoting her from main character after the “tutorial” stages end in favor of her brother, she can remain the lead throughout the entire story. And really, look at the female lords since barring Player characters. Ike is the only one who can kill the final boss at the end of the Tellius games despite it happening in Micaiah's game, Lucina can die in Awakening without a game over, and joining Edelgard is meant to be a path of sin since she's a villain. Meanwhile, Eirika was used to represent Sacred Stones in Engage, and the big final SR card in Cipher for the lord character of Sacred Stones was of her.

No female lord since has been treated like Eirika.

I feel like Sacred Stones should, I dunno, be held more by the fandom for this. Yeah, Eirika makes that mistake but it's meant to be a mistake. She feels bad about what she did and works to fix things. She's also proactive and will kick ass if needed despite her being the diplomatic twin. Really, it's Ephraim that needs to be more like her. But instead, we have a fandom that glorifies Ephraim for the very things the game calls problematic about him while deriding Eirika as “girly”. It feels like one of those cases where people missed the point, like the Josie and the Pussycats movie, Starship Troopers or Martian Successor Nadesico, and ended up believing it was supporting what it was calling out. Sacred Stones feels more like a deconstruction of typical RPG gender roles in retrospect and how harmful they actually are. But, as I said at the start of this, I feel like the game was ahead of it's time because of this stuff.

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abearinthewoods · 1 month ago

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do you even believe the patriarchy as a concept exists. women could not even own credit cards under their name until the 70s

A very smart woman I know defined the patriarchy as “the process by which men are given a slightly superior social position in exchange for massively inferior protections.” (I think its still incomplete given how conditional male privilege is.)

Did you know the first versions of worker safety regulations only protected female employees because men's lives were are inherently seen as disposable?

Its why femcide seems like a more pressing issue despite being the massive minority of gender based violence. The men dead from wars they were gender selected to serve in aren't treated as androcide, just the cost of business society. A consumable or wear item to be cast aside once they no longer serve their usefulness unless they earn a spot in song and tale which is just a sly way to provide more "revered hero" brainwashing for the next generation of wear items. (Looking at you vets.)

Tell me, how again is exclusive voting rights and being seen as the head of the household suppose to make up for black lung?

How are credit cards a fair trade off for shorter lifespans from being expected to do all of the back breaking work or take all of the mortal risk?

This is why I hate patriarchy theory. It obfuscates shit like this in the minds of people who don't understand it.

Go read more bell hooks and stop sending me asks until you can show men the same amount of empathy you show women given the other 2 i got blaming the male gender for that one rape case or that one telegram chat are likely you as well based on the timing.

#bell hooks #white feminism #fuck the patriarchy #serve the patriarchy #smash the patriarchy #witches vs patriarchy #gender roles #anti feminism #misogny

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dcangel · 1 year ago

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hi hi! i saw that u were asking for reqs and prompt 29 rlly had me thinking… imagine you’ve been there for 2 years and are the only girl, and you don’t socialize much, you do your part and keep to yourself so no one knows much abt you. but when thomas shows up, he continues to bug you with questions/bother you including why ur the only girl there. there’s a lot of tension and one night he wonders off in the woods he finds you and one thing leads to another and it happens..!

AHH okay this is sending me to hell bc my mind is going feral just thinking about it and I literally am so excited to write this one. And thank you so much for requesting one <333 (this is my first time writing smut so bear with me)

Idk how to tag these correctly bc I’ve never posted anything but if I’m wrong just correct me: p in v, slight fingering, praising, degrading, dirty talk, mentions of edging, mentions of getting caught, choking kink, slight size kink, slight/moderate pain kink, oral sex!f receiving, a few uses of y/n, nicknames, 2nd person pov. Majorly unedited and not proofread (grammarly told me there were 149 errors but it’s 2:24 in the morning so grammarly can kindly fuck off. hopefully this is bearable to read.)

8238 words (what thee actual fuck)

29– Thomas

“Don’t muffle yourself. Let them hear your whiny voice, baby. Everyone should know how good I’m fucking you.”

The last few days were… something else. Like clockwork every month, another greenie arrived, but to you that just meant another person bugging the shit out of you until they got over it. What were you supposed to tell them? That you just felt like coming up into the maze and trapping yourself here for two years just because you were bored? Every single greenie, without fail, always pestered you like a small gnat swirling around your ear each day; “why are you the only girl? Why are you here? Is it hard being the only girl?” And of course the alarmingly obviously questions that crossed every new shank’s mind, but only few braved to ask.

You mostly managed to steer clear of the lewd obscenities, letting the few friends you made take care of it for you since it got to be an irritable subject for you very quickly. But, unfortunately, there were some that wanted to ask the girl herself. Some that didn’t even know your name, yet still approached you with a supercilious guise thinking that it would somehow win you over. Each time it made you wonder what they put in these new greenies before sending them up; they just kept getting worse and worse.

Majority of the gladers knew your name, but then again how could they not? Some knew it but just decided to call you whatever you wanted; as if you being a girl made you less human and more of an object. Those were the boys that could only dream of touching a girl, never mind even being able to hookup with one.

You were surprised by the amount of people that actually treated you as equal, even though it was the bare fucking minimum. Sometimes you found it ironic how Chuck—the youngest glader here—didn’t even think twice about your humanity status when half the so-called “men” in this place treated you like scut. The boy having stated many times that “you’re a human too, just like the rest of us. We each play our part and at the end of the day; work is work. It doesn’t matter how old you are or if you’re a guy or a girl.” You think one of the reasons you were such good friends with the boy was because he could easily relate to your struggles; him being the youngest glader and always treated like a baby who couldn’t comprehend the simplest things, and you being the only girl who’s treated like shit because apparently women can’t possibly be able to do the same things as men. You were both deeply misunderstood, and that served as a foundation for one of your closest relationships.

Of course the leader, Alby, had always said the same; you were to be treated as equal. He’d even brought up the fact that it was dispiriting that the matter was even a question at all. Some days were worse than others, only granting you the energy to will yourself out of the small hut Gally and few others helped you build, at the last possible second and skipping breakfast as you trudged your way over to the gardens, taking your place by Newt. From there, maybe you’d have an occasional conversation about the dirt that constantly flung into your eyes, automatically irritating both your sight and your mood, or maybe about how brutally the blazing sun treated your reddening shoulders and face.

But on those days—the bad ones—you kept silent, doing what you were told when you were told, taking part in the roles that made the glade work. Maybe you’d join the rest of the glade for supper, sitting with the very few people you called ‘friends’ but at the end of the table, hoping to avoid conversation that inevitably reeled you in. More often than not, bad days usually warranted you to take the meal to your hut after a quick ‘thanks’ to Frypan, then making the isolated trip to the comforting confines of your own space.

You tried keeping to yourself, afraid to get too close with anyone that wasn’t Chuck or Newt, but of course your name was brought up quite often. It never made sense, though; you rarely interacted with anyone, even the people you exchanged words with on occasion, not much was known about you. You even tried to avoid being seen as often as possible in hopes that your absence would somehow make the gladers forget about your existence.

Yet every month when a new greenie was sent up, terrified and questioning their entire existence, it also started a new uproar around your name. So with Thomas, it was no different. Well, almost no different.

After he showed up, he wasn’t subtle with his intentions like most were—always asking anyone he could about anything that might make you more 3-dimensional in his eyes. So when he saw you talking to Chuck and ruffling the young boy’s hair, he used their already-forming bond to his advantage.

“Hey, Chuck, who was that?” He pretended to be oblivious as if he hadn’t been staring at you all day every day, the way your hair was always tied back in a single low braid, how the small strands that were too short slipped from the crossed-pattern and framed your face, how your sun-kissed nose scrunched whenever some minor inconvenience passed your way or the way your head tilted ever-so-slightly as a way to show your confusion.

He was well aware that this most certainly happened with every new arrival; the pestering questions, the intrusive thoughts, yet he was infatuated with wanting to know absolutely everything he could.

“Who? Her?” Chuck followed the older boy’s gaze, quickly losing interest once he saw where it led.

Thomas’s gaze, however, didn’t falter. He couldn’t decide what part of you to focus on. Maybe the way you effortlessly carried buckets and buckets of whatever the hell was needed for gardening, but it looked heavy enough to make him stare in awe. He was shameless. “Yes her. Who is she?”

“A person.” Chuck answered, being frustratingly vague.

Thomas finally pulled his brown eyes from you, landing them on the smaller boy beside him. “What’s her name?”

“Why does it matter?” The young boy was all too familiar with the questions of each newbie, most greenies coming to Chuck for the same thing each month that became almost a routine to give out as little information as possible to protect his friend.

Thomas sighed, mentally rolling his eyes. “Because I wanna’ know.” He answered bluntly.

“You wouldn’t care what that guy’s name is,” Chuck pointed to a builder named Dan. “So why do you care what her name is?”

The greenie squinted his eyes, jaw clenched in slight irritation, the veins on his neck becoming more prominent than before. “Because I just want to know?”

“Y/N, her name is Y/N. There.” Chuck’s bitter tone was definitely a eye-opener, the boy usually sweet and happy to make new friends.

“Thanks.” Thomas managed to get a small thumbs up in return as Chuck walked further away, obviously done with their conversation.

. . .

The next few days left Thomas’s curiosity at a higher peak, even worse than when he first got here—before he knew about the girl. Luckily Chuck had told you each time the greenie asked another question, and you couldn’t express how grateful you were for the young boy since he never answered them.

However, despite Chuck’s anguished attempts at telling Thomas to leave you alone, the greenie pursued his interests in getting to know you more, although it was nearly inevitable that this would happen.

On this particular day, though, he couldn’t seem to find you. Much to his dismay, you were in the Deadheads, sitting by the small brook that always seemed to flow despite the enclosed glade. It was night, the sun long gone although the heat never seemed to leave. You liked the Deadheads, specifically the brook. It was quiet, nothing but the sounds of water trickling over small rocks and folding in on itself, and maybe the occasional leaf falling to the forest floor. The peaceful sounds were a drastic difference to the clanking of shovels on rocks that seemed to peeve each gardener, or tools hammering wood that echoed across the entire open glade.

It was rare, but sometimes you’d accidentally fall asleep in the woods due to the calming nature, serving for an aching back and sore neck that shot pain thorough your whole body when you craned it the wrong way. It would’ve been one of those nights, except the sounds of leaves crunching and twigs snapping under someone’s foot brought you back from your half-asleep state. You sat up against the tree, your legs crossing as you looked around. The only people who knew you came out here were sure to be asleep by now, Chuck always falling asleep the second the second he laid down on his hammock, and Newt knowing you didn’t like to be bothered out here.

You thought back to when Ben had been stung and was chasing Thomas through the Deadheads, and you thought the same was about to happen to you. Grabbing a small stick by your side— that would probably snap if any pressure were applied— you stood up and looked around the dark forest. The plush foliage provided little to no light, which left your eyes desperately trying to adjust to the darkness as quickly as possible.

You held the stick out in front of you and slowly backed up, occasionally spinning around to check behind you, the stick swinging through the air like it was wielded by a maniac.

The lack of light confused your senses, and somehow you didn’t you didn’t hear the cracking and snapping of leave and twigs, or feet the heat behind you getting closer and closer until your back slammed into something that scared you so bad you almost yelped as you whipped around to threaten whoever it was with the flimsy stick that almost snapped when you turned. You were greeted with an unfamiliar face, one that wasn’t just another in the sixty something faces in the glade that you had yet to learn the name of. It was a new one.

“Shit— sorry.” He muttered quickly, large, outstretched hands already on your shoulders to steady you.

You back up slightly, hoping his grip would fall off, and it did. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The boy automatically took to fiddling with his fingers, a nervous habit you guessed. “I, uh… I was looking for you, actually. Chuck told me you might be out here.”

You squinted your eyes slightly, not believing him since Chuck knew better than to tell a random greenie where you’d most likely be during your free time. “Did he?”

The greenie struggled to come up with an excuse, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at the ground.

“Or did you just watch me come out here earlier with the plans of following me, hoping I’d still be here after you were done with your job?” You added with a raised brow, a clear annoyed tone evident in your voice.

“Wel— No that’s not— I mean… well, you’re probably used to the newbies bothering you—”

“Damn right I am. And I don’t expect you to be any different, so unless you have anything important to say, then I’m just gonna leave.” You got straight to the point, not caring to sugarcoat or be nice to him since you’d tried that before with other greenies, and it usually didn’t turn out well. You dropped your stick and started to turn away from him when you heard his footsteps following you again, his voice following soon after.

“Well, no, but I just wanted to talk to you. I don’t know you v—”

“So let’s keep it that way, yeah?” You said, sounding as if you were talking to a child.

He clenched and unclenched his fist, a small habit of his. “Could you just stop cutting me off?”

“Why should I?” You said, brown raised in annoyance as you crossed your arms, shifting your weight onto one leg.

“Because I fucking asked? It shouldn’t be that hard to be nice to someone.”

You scoffed, his attitude impressing you since it almost matched yours perfectly. You eyed him before opening your mouth to speak. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be. So why’re you making it so difficult then?” You asked, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, your head tilted coyly.

He let out a quick sigh, jaw clenching in irritation. “Because, all I did was try and talk to you and you’re being a bitch about it.”

Your head jerked back slightly, your eyebrows automatically raised with a taunting smile of disbelief creeping up. “You just can’t help it with the foul language can you?” You said with a laugh, one that seemed to get on his nerves even more. It was almost impressive how irritable he was. “Maybe you should try talking to directly instead of bugging my friends—especially Chuck— about me. Y’know, like a conversation or something? Maybe start off with a small introduction like your name or something a little less hostile.”

“Fine, I’m—”

“I know who you are.” It wasn’t intentional but you realized that you had cut him off again. But instead of apologizing, you almost wanted to see how pissed he could get before stomping off.

He was definitely contemplating it, almost losing interest since your attitude made him want to smash his head against a rock, but his pure stubbornness was what kept him standing there. “Again with the cutting me off! Is that all you ever do? ‘S that why you don’t have any friends.”

Being the only girl in a glade full of boys made this seem like nothing compared what else you’ve heard, so his little insults and slight temper tantrum did nothing. “Well you said you wanted to talk to me, and I’m assuming you wanted to get to know me more since all you ever do is bother Chuck.” You said with a shrug. “Come on, you can do better than that, I know you can.”

Something about your tone, the way it was taunting him, teasing him in a way that he couldn’t tell if he should hate you or want to slam you against a tree and— he shook his head, seemingly getting rid of whatever was going through his mind. “Why, you want me to insult you? Treat you like a piece of shit like everyone else does?”

You didn’t respond. Rather, you just stood there, not bothering to move as he subtly took a few slow steps toward you.

“Or maybe it’s something else?” He said, head tilting in a certain way that allowed the small streaks of moonlight peering through the spaces above that weren’t covered by trees to illuminate the beginnings of smug look on his freckled face.

Of course you knew what he looked like, he was a gardener the first few days so you had the displeasure of working near him, but something about him being up close and the way the shadowy brightness of the moon cast a perfect gleam allowed you to really notice his features. You had to admit, he wasn’t a bad looking guy; short brown hair, a perfect nose that could make anyone jealous, pale skin littered with moles and freckles that didn’t seem to be on just his face, golden-brown eyes that looked darker than in the daylight, and you couldn’t tell if it was because of the tree coverage or some other reason…

“I bet it’s something else, isn’t it?” His voice was what snapped you from your thoughts, your eyes focusing back in on his darkening gaze.

“Huh?” You said, your eyes practically in slits at this point. You couldn’t tell if your question was actually a question, or if it was because you’d already forgotten what he asked before.

He took a step closer, yet he wasn’t actually that close. It was simply the darkness of the Deadheads and the way your other senses tried to account for your poor vision that made it seem like he was towering over you.

Or maybe he was.

“I said, are you just always a bitch like this, or do you do it because you like the way people respond. The way they get irritated and go off on you or treat you like shit all for you to complain about it afterwards.” You almost couldn’t believe his words. But what was less believable was the feeling that resonated in the pit of your stomach. One that had you thinking things you shouldn’t be.

“What? What the hell is wrong with you?” You spat out, trying to act offended.

His smirk grew, telling you that you reacted exactly how he expected. “You didn’t answer my question.” He took another step forward.

“I don’t have to.” You stepped back.

He noticed your slight step back, he also noticed the tree behind you—he same one you’d almost fallen asleep against earlier—getting closer each time. “I think it’s only fair that you do, so, go ahead. Answer it.”

Now, there were two ways you could’ve answered this. Which one did you choose? The one you knew would get the better reaction, of course. “Make me.”

One step later, you were already back up against the tree, seemingly nowhere to go (you could easily step to the side), and Thomas right in front of you, head tilted downwards to look at you because of the height difference. “I don’t think you really want me to. You’re just saying that.”

“Oh yeah? Try me.” You whispered lazily, a small gleam in your eyes as you looked up at him.

He brown ones bored into yours, an almost-mischievous glint behind them. He leaned down, his mouth inches from your ear, his hand against the tree on the other side of your head. “Maybe I will.”

You couldn’t help the way your knees felt weak, something about his voice; the raspiness embedded in his low, deep tone. “Maybe you should.” You breathed out, watching him pull back, his eyes flicking between your eyes and somewhere else.

His other hand slid around your waist, large palm being a source of heat as if the night air wasn’t already warm enough. It was torturous, the way his lips ghosted around your skin, every area he passed felt empty after the heat of his presence left, the way you felt his breath brush her face when he laughed at his own teasing actions.

His hand slid around to your lower back, pulling it forward in an arch as your upper back stayed against the tree. Thomas looked down at you, the very tip of his nose so close to yours that the heat radiating from him felt like he was actually touching you. You bit the inside of your cheek, never good with the whole ‘patience’ thing.

Thomas, on the other hand, could’ve dragged this out all night. But when he met your gaze, the look in your eye let the thought slip from his mind. It was when you whispered some words that didn’t quite stick in his brain against his lips, that’s what got to him. He bent down and connected your lips, the kiss wasn’t a slow, savoring-every-moment type of kiss. It was a hungry, sloppy, impatient kiss that made it seem like he was devouring you.

It was needy and heated, more teeth-clashing and tongue-tangling than anything. His lips were chapped and rough, but then again so we’re yours after two years in the glade.

His lips trailed down your cheek, then your jaw, then right under your jawline, nipping at the surprisingly soft skin. His lips followed your jawline until they were right under your ear, finding a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had.

You breathed out softly, biting the inside of your cheek as your head tilted backwards, hitting the bumpy bark of the tree. To your left was his outstretched arm that he used to hold himself up against a the tree, and to your right was his head, slightly buried in the crook of your neck as he peppered the spot with little nips as kisses. He freehand—the one that was on your lower back—slipped down to the curve of your ass, squeezing all around the plump skin.

“How’s this for getting to know you?” He breathed against your skin.

You bit your lip, just a little, but enough that his scrutinizing gaze caught it. “I think you, uh, you should get to know me just a little better, y’know?” You said, a small lump in the back of your throat that wouldn’t go down.

“Hmm, think I should, huh?” He teased.

“Mhm, yeah… y-you should.” You nodded, teeth gliding over your own bottom lip as you tugged his hair gently so he’d look up at you.

The heel of Thomas’s palm dug into your ass, prompting you to jump up a little. To jump right into his arms. Your thigh hitched up on his waist, his hand gliding from your ass to under your leg, finger tips reach the the inside of your thigh. Your other foot steady on the ground— well, would’ve been steady if you hadn’t stepped on a tree stump. Your footing faltered, twisting your ankle in the process and you pulled from the recently rekindled kiss to wince.

He chuckled and lifted up your other thigh, practically holding you up until you got the hint to wrap your legs around his waist. Your back was pressed into the tree, bare shoulders are partially-bare upper back collecting scratches and green moss smudges.

Thomas didn’t waste anymore time, the fingers of his free hand already sliding down your torso and half under the waistband of your jeans. He only stopped for a brief moment, looking up at you as you nodded back—maybe a little too eagerly.

He didn’t even bother to unbutton them or unzip them for the time being, his fingers twitching with the thought of touching you in mind. While he was just as impatient as you, he still managed to find the will in him to tease you. Two of his veiny fingers swipes over your panties, starting at the beginning of your wetness and dragging them all the way up to your cloth-covered clit. You couldn’t deny nor hide it anymore, you were soaked—rather, your panties were.

“Damn, this all for me? Guess you liked the idea of me proving you wrong, huh?” He taunted.

Your eyes bore into his like you wanted to say something snarky, but you literally could not lie. He felt it. He felt what he did to you. He knew the slight power he had over you—although you were sure he didn’t quite know just how much power he possessed.

Reluctantly, you tenaciously nodded up at him, just a very slight head movement that you hoped he’d miss, but of course he didn’t. You were grateful he didn’t respond, with words anyway, but you could see see the glint in his eye that made you want to kick him, slap him, anything you could to get your point across. But he made you weak in the knees, figuratively and literally since one of his hands was under your ass holding you up, your legs raveled around his waist and connected at his lower back.

At first, when you felt his hand leave your ass, you couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed by the loss of touch, or to expect your body to hit the ground. But it didn’t. He had you pinned against the tree, your legs already locked tightly around him, your arms slung around his neck.

His, now free, hand glides around to the front of your thigh, up your stomach (it would’ve gone under your shirt if he didn’t have other plans), over your tank top-covered breasts, fingers stopping momentarily to knead the dough-y flesh, and making their final stop around your throat just below your jaw—palm pressing against your airway loosely, pointer and thumb fingers settling below your ears on either side of your head.

The fingers caressing your sopping panties also became more active; drawing slow lines up and down.

“T-Thomas,” you stuttered, not because he hand was that tight, but simply because it was tight enough to warrant a gasp present in your words. “Don’t tease me.”

You were really in no position to be the one saying commands, but it was the sheer stubborn-confidence that impressed him enough to consider the choked out words. “As you wish.” He spoke, slipping two fingers past your panties, the material bunching to the side, and right into you without any warning. Well, to be fair he did give you a warning, just no time to process before you felt his long, slender fingers gliding against your walls.

“Fuck— Thomas.” You breathed out, your tone a little whiny. You were almost embarrassed at how easily you gave in, how easily you let him get you this way.

He gave your throat one last little squeeze and dropped his hand down to one of the straps on your tank top. He was considering sliding it under your shirt, but then he’d have to go through more trouble to get it off seeing as you were leaned against a tree. So, Thomas decided to take what he knew you’d give, and he tugged at the straps.

You knew your standards were low when consent made your heart swoon, feeling the nervous hot-and-cold sweats rack your body. But being the only girl in the glade, you were glad someone other than your friends was showing you respect…ish.

After seeing your nod, he slid the strap down and you pulled your arm back and through the thing fabric piece, the same was done on the other side. Thomas’s fingers were barely moving, too slow even for his teasing pace, but his brain had a little more focus on what he was trying to do with one hand.

A few seconds later, and you were gasping at the sudden coldness you felt against your pert nipples. It was an odd sensation, the glade was always hot yet when your bare chest was exposed, the air felt cool.

The chilled breeze caused the buds to instantly harden, making something of Thomas’s harden as well. “Shit, angel, no bra?”

You hadn’t worn a bra since today was one of those days— the ones with low energy, restless sleep barely giving you enough stamina to will yourself throughout the day. “No…” you admitted, almost shamefully.

Before you could even think, lips were wrapped around the sensitive buds, a tongue flat as it pressed over the top. You let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a small moan, finger tangling in his hair automatically.

Thomas simply couldn’t leave your other side untreated, so he rolled your other nipple between his fingers while fucking you with the other hand. Every sound you made, whether it be a sigh, a moan, a whimper, a small whine of his name, each and every one of them seemed to be egging him on more. Like small pleas and begs for more of his touch.

And whether you knew it or not, that exactly what they were; your body whining, aching for anything he’d give you, grateful for the plainest stroke of his digits in your wet cunt, or the effortless drag of his smooth tongue across your pebbled nipple.

Somewhere between small praises and straight-up degradation, you manages you end up without any clothes and Thomas’s pretty face between your legs as you stand there against the tree; teeth clenched, thighs trembling, fingers scratching at his scalp leaving a stinging sensation in their wake. It felt good— the burn of your jagged nails against his already sensitive scalp, the sun un-ironically taking part in making sure it would hurt him.

The tree bark dug into your bare back as you simultaneously pushed yourself up on your tip-toes, squirming at the sensation of his tongue on your clit becoming too much, yet tugging his face further between your wobbly thighs with the grip you had on his brown hair.

Thomas decided he liked you best when you were like this; a sweaty, moaning, whimpering, indecisive mess for him— despite only speaking his first words to you less than an hour ago.

And quite frankly, you couldn’t care less. The only thing spurring you on, giving you the shamelessness needed to give yourself up like this was the undying need to cum. He had be fucking edging you this whole damn time, yet you couldn’t complain. Not while he was pleasuring you at least. Your protests came after you didn’t—after the way he’d suck on and swirl his tongue around your swollen bud, getting you right there, only to pull away as you were about to topple over the edge.

It might not have been verbal, but maybe you’d give his hair a particularly harsh yank, or dig your nails into his raw scalp with as much strength as you could muster. Unbeknownst to you, Thomas enjoyed it. He loved the way you whined and squirmed, body begging for a release even if your mouth was too stubborn to communicate it. He loved the pain you inflicted on him, the pricking sensation hurting so bad—yet not enough—that it felt good.

“Did I get you to change your mind yet, Angel?” Thomas spoke against your cunt, lips glistening with you juices, eyes dark as he looked up at you with a captivating stare that you fell prisoner to time and time again.

You bit down on your lip brutally, the discomfort not even phasing you anymore. You were sure your lips would be bruised and possibly bloodied in the morning for more than one reason. “Thomas… please,” There it was. The first real plead that spilled from your lips. Not the desperate whines or frustrated grunts you’d given him earlier, but an actual word that put your need on full display.

And it sounded better than he could’ve ever imagined.

“What’s wrong, princess? Am I not good enough for you?” He cooed, tone mocking your desire so damn condescendingly that if it were anyone else you’d send their skull flying against the maze walls.

But you couldn’t resist, he had you under his spell, wrapped around his finger. And you knew it. You both knew it. “Fuck me, make me cum… just do something for fucks sake!” Your voice held a guise of irritation and rage, but just behind that was the exact whininess that he was looking for.

“I think I like the sound of you begging for me. It’s pretty.” He whispered, whether to himself or you, you couldn’t find it in you to give a fuck anymore.

Thomas stood up, large hands sliding up the sides of your bare body, soft skin beneath his calloused fingertips. A whimper slipped from your swollen lips, the feeling of his hands setting your body ablaze, leaving goosebumps only the chilly day’s managed to give you in their wake. You felt like you were sweating buckets, yet the warmth radiating off his wide hands (or maybe you were just small) left the rest of your figure feeling frigid.

His lips wet lips met yours, hand meeting your throat as you gasped lightly at the taste of yourself on his tongue as he poked and prodded at your own. You didn’t even have to think about how easily you let him in, you blatantly followed his command no matter what form in came in without a second thought.

Fingers feeling needy, you reached for his belt and he slotted his knee between your thighs, pinning you against the tree for the umpteenth time tonight. However, you didn’t hear a protest or receive a firm look coded with a not-so-hidden message, so you proceeded with your actions, fingers fumbling with the flimsy metal piece until you hear the telltale clanking sound of his belt slithering through the denim loops and clashing against the dirt floor.

His jeans dropped next, nothing to hold them up or keep them in their place as you unzipped them. His shirt had been discarded earlier, just before he got to his knees in front of you, so it was one less article of clothing in your way.

But that didn’t matter, the only one you care about was still on him. Dainty fingers lightly brushed over his bulge, your eyes dropping for just a second to catch a glimpse of his clothed size before you had to tilt your head back up due to the hand holding your throat. It was dark, but your eyes were well adjusted by now; well enough to see the tent his erection formed as you unintentionally teased him.

Your hands were impatient, your whole being was impatient, but you could at least do something about the need to have your hands around him. After practically grabbing his hard-on through his boxers, palming it roughly for just a second, you didn’t even wait to get your hands inside his boxers. Immediately, you tugged your hand up his length, his impressively long length. He groaned, cock already throbbing, twitching at the thought of being buried inside you.

The noise almost took you by surprise, and you were almost proud of yourself for being the cause. You brought your left knee up his thigh, situating it comfortably in the groove of his hip, and pushed down the remaining fabric. His free hand assisted you and helped slide the other end down until he kicked away the item that he’d be searching for in the darkness later.

Digits finding his hardness again as you continued to make out, your thumb carelessly swiped over his slit as you handled his tip, collecting the bead of precum that had you wetter than the brook you were settled by during previous hours. He felt the heat of your fingers disappear, only to return moments later with arousal that couldn’t’ e been just his.

You coated his shaft with your sticky mixture, eliciting a deep groan from the back of Thomas’s throat. Regardless of you having the last few touches that made gave other pleasure, he still wanted to remind you who was really in control.

His fingers tightened around the column of your throat, his body pressing you into the tree even more, hard enough for you to feel each ridge of wood jabbing into your back. You felt his knee pushing up against your cunt, your slick automatically coating his thigh as you couldn’t help but grind yourself against him. He smirked—you didn’t see—, your actions appearing needy, so much so, that they were almost pathetic.

“It’s hot as fuck knowing I made you this wet, that I got you to the point where you don’t give a fuck about how pathetic you seem, the only thought in your brain is the desire for pleasure. For me to fuck you, huh?” His words were spat with hot breath waving against your cheek, it was hard not to give in and accept his words.

“Please, Tommy… need you inside me,” until the words came out, you weren’t aware of how shameless they’d be, of how much you sounded exactly like he described. “‘nd I know you do too.” you added shortly after in an attempt to recollect some of your dignity. Didn’t work. He saw right through you.

But what did work what the whine you put on his name, the one that few called him, but only you could have him contemplating between fucking you like a normal person, or fucking you for so long and hard that neither of you could walk straight or have any cum left to give. Obviously there was only one choice in his eyes, but you couldn’t see it. You could only see blown pupils, so wide that just a sliver of brown, lust-tainted color rimmed the pitch-black darkness.

You resumed the position you were in earlier; legs squeezed tight around his waist as if your life depended on it, ankles locked in the back, heels digging into his spine a few inches above his tailbone. Your arms wrapped around the nape of his neck, while his hand was settled at the base of yours.

Striving to be a tease, Thomas watched your reactions while he rubbed his tip up and down your wetness, starting from your hole, up to the top of your clit, then back down. Something about the moves, so calculated, so precious, so damn taunting that it almost seemed like he was mocking you, it was all becoming too much. He had been edging you all night—well, enough to to feel like it was all night—that you knew he was nearing the end of his limits as well.

Impatient by nature, Thomas merely gave your throat a warning squeeze before he slipped his tip inside. He may have been ruthless with his teasing, yes, but he wasn’t heartless. He waited, kept his hips still against his own will until you nodded or squeezed his hair each time you wanted him to push in just a smidge further. He praised and affirmed you with words you didn’t even process since the only thing your mind could focus on was the contrast of pleasure with a little bit of sting. You wanted nothing more for him to be fully sheathed inside you, fucking your stupid—and so did he—, but you decided it best for you to take it slow. At first.

Once his hips were flush with yours, hard cock filling you in ways you didn’t even know existed, you adjusted your legs around his waist, shifting until the discomfort went away mostly. You didn’t even nod or give and indignation before you bucked your hips against his, causing a sigh to fall from his pink, kiss-bitten lips, while a light moan fell from yours. He took that as his sign you were ready, and he slowly pulled his hips from yours with a semi-gentle test thrust first before he saw you were okay, then he picked up his pace in a matter of seconds.

“Fuck, angel, you’re so tight.” He groaned against your neck, hot breath symbolizing a warning before his lips were all over the soft skin.

You whimpered, your hands automatically lacing in his hair and tugging at the roots, nails occasionally scratching at his scalp. You don’t know how long your hand stayed like that before realizing you needed something better to grasp, to hold on and cling to like your fate was dependent on it.

One are tucked under his, the other following suit, and soon both hands were clawing down his back, the feeling prompting Thomas to pound away harder. Teeth against your neck let you know that you’d have to wear your hair down for the next few days, and possibly skip meals at the homestead to avoid being seen as well. Even so, you didn’t care right now. You were to wrapped up in the way his fucked into you, mercilessly pounding away at you pussy, the wet squelching sounds coming from where the two of you were connected absolutely sinful.

You knew the gladers had gone to sleep however long ago, but you also knew that a few had a hard time sleeping. Thank god Chuck had knocked out before you came out here.

The threat of getting caught is what caused you to bury your face in his shoulder, head leaning against his outstretched arm that was holding the tree for support. You nips and suck at the skin of his collarbone right where it connects to his shoulder, albeit much weaker and definitely less effort put in than him, but it gives you something to do, along with practically gouging your uneven nails down his sweaty back, to keep your mind off the seething moans that threaten to rip from your throat.

After awhile of hearing you go silent and feeling the pressure of both your lips and fingers on his skin increase, Thomas grows annoyed with your lack of sound. You feel his hand leave your throat, but you don’t exactly process it, your brain overwhelmed with too many things to worry about the loss of touch, but you do feel where it ends up. Your head is abruptly yanked back, yet somehow as gently as possible although is still leaves a pained sensation. Thomas’s fingers were in between the weaves of your—now very loose and incredibly messy—braid, forcing you to look at him as he fucks you. He seemed to know exactly what you were thinking.

“Don't muffle yourself. Let them hear your whiny voice, baby. Everyone should know how good I'm fucking you.” Without a barrier to block your noises, you let out a moan at his words alone. And then everything comes crashing down. You give up on trying to quiet yourself, only having enough left in you to chase that feeling that leaves you whining incoherent words that maybe he understands, digging and clawing at any available surface you can get you dainty little fingers on (which is most likely his back or shoulder), and letting yourself go completely—letting him take care of you.

And boy does he know how to take care of you. For someone you’ve never spoken a word to until tonight, he knows how to fuck you right. He knows how to have you in his arms, body practically limp and a deadweight which only impales you more on his dick. And when he hears that you’ve given in to more than just his one request by letting your jaw fall slack, any moans or whimpers just free to waltz out, he leans in close to whisper in your ear, voice deep and slightly raspy; “Good girl.”

He feels the way your fingernails grips his shoulders harder, possibly hard enough to draw blood, and the way your already-tight walls clench around him even more. Something in his mind clicks for him that doesn’t for you, probably because your too busy with the way he fills you up so damn well his tip kisses your cervix each time you come back down on him and he fucks back up.

“You like being called a good girl, huh? You like being told how good you feel around me, being praised for doing what I say like the good girl you are?” He knows what he’s doing at this point. But that was stop you from enjoying it nonetheless.

“F—yeah, fuck, I do.” You agree with what little sanity to have left, mustering a nod that almost spends every ounce of energy.

Your eyes have him in a trance; watery, pupils blown, looking up at him with the most innocent looking eyes he could ever think of. Except he knew you weren’t innocent.

“I bet no one else fucks you like this, huh, angel? No one else gives you princess treatment because they’re too busy trying to find a way to get in your panties to even think about treating you right. But a part of you likes it, don’t you?” You merely whined, words failing you as he smirked and kept going. “You like the fact that half the guys here probably jerk off to the thought of you when they’re alone, think of you as some little slut that everyone gets a turn with in their minds. The glade’s own whore, hmm?”

“F-Fuck, Thomas,” you whimper, the feeling his words give you turning into physical pleasure, not just for yourself, but for Thomas as well when he feels your warm walls squeezing around his shaft.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it; just whoring out and fucking every guy in this place? But your so damn innocent—too damn innocent, it’s why half the guys here can’t seem to get their mind off you.” He grunts between thrusts, as if his hips slamming into yours punctuates each word. “Don’t worry, after tonight I think enough people around here will have learned who got to fuck you. I’ll treat you right, princess.”

Both hands clenched at whatever they can, and Thomas feels the crescent-shaped nail marks already imbedding themselves in his shoulder and nose of his neck.

You were getting undeniably closer, and you were afraid that he might edge you again. Hell, you were afraid that you let him have that much power over you. In spite of your efforts, your own voice adding to the ringing in your ears as you bucked your hips downwards— if even possible with the force he had you pressed against the tree with. “Don’t stop… please, please don’t stop, Tommy.” You begged, pathetically desperate for him to finally let you release.

“Only if you keep making those pretty little sounds, angel.” And you did; effortlessly obeying his commands, when in reality it was inevitable that your sounds escaped at some point. You just didn’t hold back at all. At least you didn’t talk to very many people, otherwise they would’ve been suspicious of your barely-there voice if the hadn’t already heard you screaming the night before.

His thrusts became irregular, and at first you thought he was going to tell you that you didn’t do well enough for him, seize yet another orgasm from you like he had been doing all night. What you didn’t realize was that he was slowing down to edge himself, not wanting to cum to early or before you did.

Thomas decided you wouldn’t mind a few scratches on your back, maybe a few splinters, ‘cause it sure as hell looked like you wouldn’t give a damn right now, so he took his supporting hand off the tree and encased it around your throat, admiring the way his hand seemed to swallow you whole. His free hand fled to your clit, rubbing circles against the sensitive bud as you cried out his name. It was mindless, you hadn’t even realized it. That’s what made it so fucking hot.

Time and time again, you continued to impress him with how easily you could be controlled, completely fucked out to the point you only knew his name and the word ‘please’. “Atta girl. That’s right, let everyone know who’s fucking you like this.” You whimpered his name again, the word simply rolling off your tongue without a thought. He wasn’t even sure if you said it because you followed orders so well, or if it was really the only thing you could say.

“T-Thomas, shit—fuck, I’m g—” your sentence was left unfinished since you couldn’t breathe, your lungs on fire just like the rest of your skin. It could’ve been from the way Thomas’s hand was unconsciously restricting your airway a little too much, though, once he noticed he eased up. Either way, he got your message loud and clear. And he could feel his own release brewing in the pit of his stomach.

“Please… please don’t stop this time. I-I can’t take it anymore… need to cum.” You whined between shallow breaths before he could even speak.

His pace and force picked up to almost inhuman speeds, basically fucking you into the tree behind you. “I won’t, I promise.”

As if the words didn’t register, mindless pleas were pouring from you, “I have to—’m so close, Tommy, please.”

“I know, baby, I know. Me too, alright? So your gonna be a good girl and cum for me, yeah?” It wasn’t until his thumb pressed against the bundle of nerves he was previously circling, did his words finally sink in.

Along with his gentle demand came your orgasm that you didn’t know had been so close the whole time. Your walls enveloped him so tight he was sure his dick would slip out, but it didn’t. It stayed inside your warm, velvety wetness, twitching but thrusting sloppily throughout your high as his neared.

You were seeing stars, and you were pretty sure they weren’t the ones in the night sky above you. Your nails dug so harshly into his chest and back that your fingers aches, and you could only imagine the number you’d done on him. The feeling was euphoric, sure you’d never come down from the drunken-high feeling. Your thighs shook, muscles spasming as your nerves felt like they were frying at the slight overstimulation he was giving you.

Feeling you cum around him, his cock twitched inside you, soon giving into the demands of your velvety warmth and wet squelching sounds. “Fuck, shit—such a good girl, angel… such a good fucking girl for me.” He moaned out, his voice the softest it’d been yet, but still somehow possessing the same roughness as before.

You felt a hot-warmth gush inside you, your face already buried deep in his shoulder again as you physically could not keep your head up. “Just for you.” You whimpered, enjoying the feeling of being completely filled to the brim, his hand coming off your throat to slide around the back of your neck in a somewhat-comforting hold. The feeling of being taken care of.

#the maze runner #tmr thomas #tmrthomassmut #thomastmrsmut #thomas tmr

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dexthtoyounglings · 14 days ago

Text

Yours Truly

Crosshair x Reader

Chapter Two of Peripheral

Summary: You find yourself celebrating your commitment to the GAR with a childhood friend, night turning sour.

Warnings: Nonconsensual touching, swearing, fighting, mention of war

GIF NOT MINE!!

•--•

There was a guarded booth two levels up, one that was in clear daylight, guarded by the army’s trusted clones. A few surveyed the area, peaking in alleys as they made their rounds, protecting the recruiting area.

The booth itself was eye-catching, doing the exact thing it was supposed to – draw you in. The clean white cloth spread over a small folding table held on it a multitude of advertisement sheets and pamphlets. You remember watching holoseries about young women and men going off to university following their senior year of high school. It reminded you of a college fair.

A laminated sheet of paper drew you in with bold, large lettering, assessing points of interest among recruiters. The sign of the Galactic Republic reappearing on each paper, some hand-outs outfitted with the glowing color of lightsabers. It was a gorgeous display, and with the smiles on all of their faces, it was apparent you were not the only victim to their organizational scheme.

On another note, you understood exactly why they didn’t want to set up at the lower levels – that was too dangerous. Even looking around now, you realized that it was compromising to have so many soldiers in a place they didn’t belong.

Staring at the significant stack of papers begging to be filled out, you wondered if the two of you had been the first to show up in their entire time of advertising that morning. They were not shy to show excitement in the wake of two young, interested adults with nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Manning the booth was a Jedi and what seemed to be his commander. The Jedi was a Nautolan, with green skin that complimented the warm smile he dished out at your wake. The clone beside him donned signature white armor, uniquely with splashes of maroon paint. Not to mention the sight of him in general drew you in.

You had heard about the clones from girls at the bar. You never considered their gushing to be so true.

The two men introduced you to all their propositions. Nothing changed between the serving of the clones and the humans. All that changed was experience, and that could be made up for.

You would be stationed on Kamino with all the other clones as a sort of “home base.” The photos shown to you of the dreary planet didn’t exactly spark the same interest you carried before, but that quickly changed. As you hoped, they nudged you with the offer of protection, clothing, food, and an adequate place to sleep. Adequate was the word they used in honesty, but you believe that proper heating counted as more than adequate.

When they made their countless offers, you looked over at Pango. Maybe you expected something warm on his face, something more than a brick wall. When you searched his expression for an ounce of interest, you found the same stoney stare. Not only that, but you watched the way his eyes stayed locked onto the face of the commander. Something about his features, his inherent disapproval, yet no emotion at all, itched at you.

He hated being wrong, but this seemed like a whole different level of defiance.

You tightened your jaw, and in an equal act of defiance, you made sure the interaction ended. But not without you getting what you truly wanted.

You grabbed a paper and pen instantly, registering for what they had in store. No, there were no pros nor cons in your mind. There was only a strong motivation to sign your life away. Impulsiveness like this had never been able to match your racing mind, but you knew this would keep you safe.

No, war wasn’t safe, but whatever this lifestyle was, it killed you inside. You funneled all your personal information into the hands of the Galactic Republic, allowing your barely-much-different safety into the hands of people who would, in return, take care of you. Sure, maybe they were forced to take care of you, but they would still take care of you.

And you were happy about it.

Only one thing laid heavy on your mind.

Pango. Whatever disdain he showed earlier didn't seem to hold steady. Nor did happiness in any sense. And if he was happy, he surely didn’t care to express it.s

You watched him sign the papers too, left hand resting on the table next to him for stability as he wrote, as if he needed strength.

Walking away with the promise of two weeks' notice before receiving a personal transport to Kamino, he still wore his face made of brick and mortar.

Pango was usually the one that was eager about any form of leaving the bottom of the dustpan that was the Coruscant underworlds. That was his favorite thought in the galaxy. You’d need dozens of hands to count how many times he asked you about leaving. About putting funds together and just leaving.

Part of you couldn’t just do that, no, not with all the uncertainty. Leaving didn’t guarantee safety. Maybe that’s where you two differed. He had always made it apparent that he enjoyed being tied down to something.

Marriage, kids, a house, a job. That was Pango.

This was not.

Nausea foamed in your belly, reeking of guilt and everything toxic that roamed between the two of you. You felt like you had pushed him too far this time, allowed him to follow you into the jaws of a beast.

But, you were equally sick of his cold shoulder. It was because he knew you won. He knew you would only leave on your own violation, and now that you found your way out, he wanted to give you the same hell.

You weren’t gonna put up with it.

“What’s up with you?”

Though furious, you still regretted those words the moment they came out of your mouth. Snarky, careless, poisoned. It sounded like lava rolling off your tongue, when it was meant to be concerned.

You knew it afterward too, watching as Pango resolved to take the route to a transport doc instead of your planned trip. Without as much as a noise either. He didn't open his mouth, didn't give you a pointed look that bled fury. Nothing.

He left so effortlessly, one could’ve argued he wasn’t even real.

Nothing hurt more than knowing you were in the wrong as you watched him take off without you. Clamping your teeth together, you followed the plan of action you had both made before he took off – wander the market.

Maybe you’d bring him back a meiloorun fruit.

You forgot the meiloorun.

A new bar had opened up in the glamorous city of Coruscant, right on the surface. Spread like a virus, word of new clubs and bars razed the Coruscanti gossip, everyone desperate to get a taste of new atmospheres. You could understand the buzz that rang through the air, excitement in all genders and races that had the resources to visit.

Bright lights, big towering cities. Nicer men. Much nicer.

Brinna, sat on your bed, watching you pace back and forth, emerging from your cramped walk-in closet with a new set of clothes each time.

You always saw her on nights like this, when she was desperate to get a taste of something new. Well, someone new. The opening of a new drinking destination was all the bait you could ever need to reel her in and get her talking. You needed that right now.

It didn't help that she worked for a man that had more credits than you could stuff a rancor with. The face of sex, she was everything from plump lips to well manicured nails to gay awakenings. Whenever her boss spoiled her for looking pretty, she spoiled you with a good time.

When you were young and dumb together, only two poor girls on the streets of Coruscant with no parents, you never realized how much you would both grow. And how much she would repay you for protecting her all those years.

Nowadays, it seemed every time she was looking for someone to travel with her to-- what you consider the “fancier” parts of Coruscant --she had one person in mind.

So here she sat on a night you truly needs a pick-me-up, milky skin smooth in the broken lighting of your apartment, still glowing in her own skin like the twin suns of Tatooine rebirthed. You knew it every time you looked at her; she was every man’s dream.

You felt bad leaving without her.

“So, the Galactic Army of The Republic?” she asked, putting on one of those fancy Coruscanti accents you would catch in most politicians around the planet. As if anything about running off to join the military was fancy.

Rolling your eyes, you swapped a shirt with a pair of pants you had laid out on your bed. A ribbed black cami with a white skirt? Definitely not tonight.

“Yes, the Galactic Army of The Republic,” you mocked her with a flubbed accent of your own, smiling to yourself before throwing the shirt back in a broken dresser drawer.

She laughed silently, shaking her head, “I wouldn’t think you’d be into that sort of thing?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘into it.’ It’s a job. Not much worse than what me and Pango do now.”

By the look of her face, you could tell that now was officially the time to address your special friend; the bantha in the room. The one that resided there unbeknownst, taking up space, consuming the oxygen in your lungs and converting it to an awkward sensation. His name echoed in the room, and the chill of him haunted the folds of your brain.

“Speaking of Pango,” she said smoothly, “I certainly didn’t think he would follow you as far as the army. That boy’s a great shot, but we both know he ain’t a fighter.”

Quiet took over the room, Brinna’s glowing eyes a purple fracture of light as she watched you take out another top to rearrange on the bed. “I don't think he's happy about it.”

“And he still applied?”

You nodded with exasperation, fumbling with the laid out patterns and textures even with your nails pinching into your skin at ever fuss, a deep restlessness settling over your mind. Of course he still applied. This was Pango.

Brinna laughed, “Thought he wanted to fly off somewhere,” she spreads her hands through the air as if revealing an imaginary rainbow, “and get married,” she clutches her hands together, pressing tightly against her chest.

You chuckled at her aweful dramatics.

She turned her eyes back to you, amusement flickering in her features, waiting for a confirmation with her words. She'd heard you babbled enough these past few years that guessing should've been out of the picture.

“Yes, he does. He just doesn’t wanna leave without me. Something about me not having anyone,” you throw her a glance to dismiss the eyebrow she raised, “I don’t know, it’s stupid.”

She hummed, watching closely as you resumed swapping clothes with mindless replacements, shoving what’s unwanted right back where it came from. And, the more you mulled over what was just said, the more frustrated you got, the less you got accomplished. It seemed every time Brinna, or anyone for that matter, got you worked up, you wanted to explode.

Allowing you to doom-spiral for three minutes longer than she should've allotted time for, Brinna checked her designer watch, exhausted at the negative energy that whispered shames into your ear.

“We’re running out of time. I can only get the speeder to wait on us for so long, Y/n,” she teased.

Except when you looked up, the genuine smile she flashed you seemed to bounce right off the walls of your apartment, throwing you off balance, yet stabilizing you with the utmost security. It was a good day having her around. No eggshells to walk on. Occasional pressure to be dealt.

You rolled your eyes, smiling to yourself as if hers was contagious somehow. If it had been deadly, you would've found the light of the universe years ago.

You elected to tuck all your pointless choices into your closet and stick with the three you liked best. Smoothing out the clothing that you all but wrinkled within the past half an hour, Brinna stood up to stand next to you, examining the pairs laid out in front of her.

She turned her head towards you, two tight, black french braids tickling the exposed skin of her chest, white teeth forming a smirk. You didn’t need her mouth to open to connect with her, body and soul, brains coming together as one. She knew, and you knew. Fascinating how the minds of broken women binded together without physical adhesion.

Sweeping the other two outfits into a messy pile on your bed, you felt excitement replace what held you captive. Girls night. You didn't have to be a bounty hunter, a soldier, a best friend. You just had to be you, with Brinna, in harmony.

You began stripping yourself of your current clothes, the replacements only fueling your fire.

–

You looked hot. Brinna had told you that before you left, nudging your shoulder and monologuing about the "love" she felt for you. Like she always did when you needed a confidence boost. You didn't need one tonight though. The mirror spoke to you, and you blushed in response.

There was never enough money for a nice sparkly dress, but through time, you had managed to pick up a clean pieces to outfits that did the job. A short, tight black skirt over some sheer tights, completed with a tight sleeveless mock neck and your same-old worn boots. Your shoulders straightened out to flare out your neck, head held high.

Hey, it still worked.

You fluffed your hair out, pushing it over your shoulders and gazing into the mirror tenderly. You had done it just before you left, and thanks to the promise of no wind in the Coruscant lower-level, you made it to the bar with shining hair.

The noise of the bar buzzed from outside the yellow glow of the restroom, calling you back into it. A siren song, you realized, that always dragged you back to the bar, and every time you had to scurry out of the sticky-tiled bathroom, the pep-talk drowning in the chaos. Your heart raced a bit. It wasn't often that you "went out," only a few times a year, but it was still never enough to get used to all the excitement it brought.

Using a familiar excuse of a wardrobe malfunction, you found home with your lower-torso leaning against the pinching countertop. In reality, walking into such an open space made you feel exposed, and ultimately, flushed.

Nothing a deep breath couldn’t fix though.

With a useless puffing out of your cheeks, releasing your deep breath into the face of the mirror, you turned with shoulders squared and a chin tipped up. This was your night; maybe one of the last nights in which you would be free in these levels. Maybe the last time you saw Brinna in such an element, no matter how many promises were made.

You never thought to ask what free time looked like in the GAR. If there even was such a thing.

Pushing out into the flashy lights and rattling music, you allowed it access to sink into your pores and soak into your body, seeping into every organ possible, registering like a drug. The writhing bodies, one grinding on another, whispering about good times and hotels. Others sat at booths, laughing with glasses stuffed in their hands. Lights dances across your face, a purple beam moving over your eye in a quick flash. You sucked your tongue into the roof of your mouth, nervous. Ah, but it felt so good to be exposed like this. Displaying a sensuous smile you swayed your hips, making way to the minx you saw glittering near the bar.

Brinna leaned against the bar, hip popped, a fluorescent drink in hand, the liquid raging against the glass as she swirled it. And of course, the main course was the man she already had hooked to her side, watching her with hungry eyes. Looking past the flashing lights, you felt deja vu run through you. You knew him, but from where, you were unsure.

You grunted, dishing out two credits at the request your favorite, smiling tenderly. The Twi’lek bartender returned your smile, her energetic fingers powering through the order with impressive speed. Brinna identified you instantly, calling you with a confident wave. Grabbing your drink off the counter, you gave your thanks to the bartender, moving to your friend.

Her eyes were already glossy with the alcohol working into her bloodstream, tilting her head up, “Y/n!"

You shook your head, teeth peeking through your tight lips. The man next to her had a hand rested on the nook of her waist, the soft digging of his fingers telling you enough that he wouldn't go home without satisfying his fix of the woman next to him. Not only that, but his eyes, a deep brown, hair shaved close to his head, a golden brown that almost seemed to blend into the rich, tanned skin covering him. Scars -- burn marks -- tickled at his jawline, trailing down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his black t-shirt.

You knew him, resting on the tip of your tongue, you knew him.

"Wrench," he said, reaching out his free hand, voice a rough grumble.

You clasped yours in his, giving a stiff shake that seemed too professional for your own youth, "Y/n."

Brinna seemed uncomfortable in the light of such formality. She shifted on her feet, one hip popping out as she looked at you with eyes that now shone an excitement of sorts.

"Well, actually, Wrench himself is a clone!" she exclaimed, a bright smile, "He's a soldier with the GAR. I told him you were interested."

Bingo! A clone. Of course he’s familiar, there's thousands of him, walking around with features barely separate. Even if you could escape him, you would never be able to shake his features when "he" would be everywhere you walked.

“It was a gamble opening up our army to civvies,” he chuckled quietly, the faint tone of disgust lacing his tone, “She was asking if I had any brothers who were ‘looking.’”

Your face heated as your eyes shot to your friend.

“What? You need to live a little!" she dragged her words, sipping from her glass, "You have boring days ahead of you."

You rolled your eyes, finding her behavior humorous. She knew you weren’t one to get tied up in one-night-stands. That never seemed to stop her from trying to hook you up with some poor man.

She said it was “just in case.”

Keeping your response short, you gave the interaction a light laugh. Drawing into Wrench's sweet tooth, her voice lulled his eyelids to hood, staring at her lips with a hunger you have seen many times. The hunger some men looked at you when you baited them; disgustingly gluttonous, wrath burning through them, lust begging like a starved dog. Her returned look told you all you needed to know. Your ride with her chauffeur would be alone.

It didn't take long to find yourself being whisked way from them, your drink draining like a leaky faucet, pouring down your throat as your senses were consumed. The air sucked in your attention, spreading it with a conquering strike.

Dancing. It seemed to call you, a siren song, it's melody enthralling.

The buzz slowly made its way into your fingertips now, humming through you like an engine, till your drink was finished and you realized it was more than the noise that hummed inside your veins. It was the alcohol too, intoxicating you, muddying the men around you into smells and handsome faces.

You danced with fluidity, losing yourself in the flurry of bodies, a diverse spread of races flooding between the sea of clones that must have been rewarded down-time. Down time. A courtesy you looked forward to reaping.

You found yourself dancing with a few clones, speaking with them in loud yells before they dripped right back into the sea of bodies without a string attached. It reminded you of a well oiled machine, churning and producing, assuring all things moved in constancy. Built to survive, to grab and release, till something clicked, those two souls finding hope in a smooth night.

The machine clicked suddenly.

Except this time, a cog had broke.

You felt it, almost like a whisper of touch at first; simply an accident. A hand brushed your backside, a simple mistake. You scooted aside to give them room, barely losing focus. The dance consumed you all the same, a breezing act. But, as you flung your hair over your shoulder, forehead spotting with sweat, it happened again. Another touch. Blunt. It broke your careless haze this time. The full palm against your ass.

Always giving the benefit of the doubt. No, it didn’t take long for that to be pointless. It never took long.

Mere seconds after your deep concentration was shattered, the same hand groped you with intent.

You whipped around with just as much of that intent.

And, unsurprisingly, the asshole that was completely ignoring your consent. He stared back at you, eyes filled with the swampy hormonal muck that clung to the bottom of unwilling girls' shoes, a cocky grin spread across his face. Another clone, hair grown into a curly mullet, the shaved sides carved into with now faint designs. He looked distinct in comparison to all his brothers you’d met before. Like an asshole in the purest form, reeking of it.

So, you responded the only way you knew how, buzzed on excitement and alcohol. Your arm ignited, every nerve burning, ears red. Coiling into a hard mass of bone and skin, your hand formed into a hard fist.

Rage.

And alcohol.

And timeless self-respect.

You punched him. Hard.

Shame spiked through your body for a moment, hearing gasps around you, people stopping to stare at the spectacle. Then, like a whispering forgiveness, it hushed into the wind. Reigniting, that fury pool itself back into your gut.

“You don’t touch a woman like that, sleemo!” you cursed.

The clone rubbed at his jaw, mouth hanging slightly open, eyes sharp. He looked like he could kill you if the crowd disappeared. His bare hands, now on display as they assessed the damage, were rough, scarred, a weapon in and of themselves. Fear ran a gloved hand over your lungs, before it was flushed out by renewed confidence.

You stuck your chin up a bit, standing your ground, allowing the mix of people circled around you to support or deny what was happening. A male voice called out for him to get out, echoing from the direction of the bar and out. There were pounding boots, and then he was snatched away by the arm of another clone, the savior of his dignity dragging him away, shooting you a quick “sorry.”

The breath that you held in your chest finally escaped, filling the crowd back with life as they cheered, some granting you pats on the back, others ignoring you to slip back into their flow again.

Nothing came back to you though. An anchor in a sea, held down by its own weight. You felt an uncomfortable pressure resting on your shoulders, moving yourself slowly through the crowd. Like molasses, you seeped through cracks and pushed at warm bodies. Taking a breath, you broke to a small clearing in front of the bar. Occupying the chair, wooden and scratched with age, your body slumped.

Yeah. You were done for the night.

The dance floor occupied the same energy, few people sifting out, being replaced by more with a fluidity. That humming inside of your body, the one that made you liquid, had swung with your fist. Your knuckled ached, but that sensation had been bruised to the point of disappearing.

“Y/n!”

A voice called your name, only a little louder than the music that swirled around you. You whipped your head around, watching the swinging of her two braids as she pushed through the crowd in a motherly hurry.

Brinna rushed to your side, worry in her eyes. Her hands reached up to your face, mouth agape, “Y/n, oh my stars, are you okay?”

You nodded, letting her tilt you head for signs of damage to your own person. Appearing settled, you looked up at her a little with amusement.

She understood the cue, allowing herself to let loose and laugh with drunk hysterics, smile spreading like butter on toast. Her laughter filled the space that remained near the bar, infectious to that of your own system. The bubbles of noise, lively and pure, floated around you, eliciting giggles from yourself.

“You kicked his ass! And you looked hot while doing it!” she beamed.

You hung your head for a second, hands covering your features. Removing the palms cupping your eyes, you looked back up at her, “I think I want to go home.”

Her smile morphed into a content happiness, nodding and taking your hand to drag you back to your waiting transport.

–

Climbing into bed, you stared up at the ceiling, watching the way the light seeped through the blinds like strands of gold. Two weeks. That was all you had left down here, with your ceilings that had a few mysterious smudges on them. It dawned on you tonight, the decision you had made and what it truly meant. You had the opportunity for maybe one more bounty. Considering if that last run would be worth it. Or maybe you would just live off of what you had left, the money you had saved, and the money you had recently earned. It was certainly enough for two weeks with just yourself.

You thought of Pango, the boy you had been running around with for as long as you remember. Your partner in crime, following you despite the contrasting plans. Memories of your hair both grown out beyond recognition, stealing from unwatched fruit stands, taking showers in buckets of half-dirty water. Pango had been the gun on your hips for your whole life.

Today, you hesitated to think of a future. His unspoken anger, like something in the night had crawled into his bed and ate at his heart till he changed his mind. Even then, he still came, cold in the warm skin that breathed you to life.

This was what he wanted, right? An escape from Coruscant? He'd daydream about it, speaking every image to you out loud. That transport ship that would take him somewhere. And that somewhere would be the place he would make his own.

You knew what he really wanted. After he spoke of that magical transport ship, you knew what he believed awaited him. You knew why he wanted to leave; to find a wife on that somewhere he dreamed up, working a boring career that allowed him time back to his children before sunset. He wanted to settle down, not to run around in circles till his body rotted away.

Pango didn't want the GAR, or bounty hunting, or you. He wanted that push to leave.

Your heart clenched. Maybe it was your fault he was so miserable today. A plague to his dreams, you dragged him down with all your dead weight He didn’t have to follow you, you knew that. But it would still be your fault.

You suggested the idea. You pulled him with you. You. You. You. The problem that would exist till he physically cut you from his body.

Anger, at yourself, electrified the air, shutting down ant semblance of sleep that existed for you.

Hopefully, one day he would stand up and do what he wanted on his own time.

Not on yours.

•--•

#dexthtoyounglings #dexthtoyounglings: the archive #star wars #starwars #star wars x reader #star wars x reader fluff #crosshair #crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader fluff #crosshair fluff #clone trooper crosshair #clone trooper crosshair x reader

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in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather · 2 years ago

Text

[wedding at the museum] i

Intro

Summary: Mills is tasked with carrying out an Exhibition – a hit – on the Museum’s behalf before his day is complicated by the arrival of a new prospective recruit. In the midst of blood, gore, corpses, and plane crashes, his attention is firmly set on the young woman giving him the cold shoulder.

A/N: I didn’t want to shoehorn in references to the time period, but the story begins in the early 90s and stretches for about a decade, from the time RC is recruited into the Museum to the time of ruined wedding. Just because that’s my favorite era for camp, technology and action.

CW: murder, death, gallows humor, alcohol, injury, manipulation, general flippancy and shithead behavior, a grown man going positively gaga – all my favorite things :)

WC: ~5k

Leaning on his elbow, Mill’s long body rested against the bar as he swirled the remains of his cognac in a glass. The airport was a roiling mass of excited vacationers, grinning as they pulled along their luggage, zipping past stern faced men and women in suits catching short flights and striding towards their gates with determined focus and no excess of cheer. The change in Mills’ plans for the day gave him an opportunity to relax and people watch just for the pleasure of it, something he seldom got to do these days.

Peering over the rim of his sunglasses, he waited for his secondary target to appear. She was placed as equally important on his roster for the day, but he personally prioritized the hits on the men currently milling around the airport, set to converge on his flight, over the babysitting gig he was saddled with.

Since Provenance took such exceedingly great care in selecting both targets and prospective operatives, Mills didn’t see why they shouldn’t take care of their travel arrangements as well, and not dump them on him in the middle of an Exhibition, as if he was some taxi service. Granted, it was the first time he was ever asked to diverge so drastically from the carefully planned Exhibition, but wary as he was, his immediate concern was for occurrences like these to become a trend. Vaguely, he wondered if he should be proud that the Board of Directors at the Museum decided he was capable enough to wrangle in a prospective operative and carry out his Exhibition at the same time.

He recognized her easily from the photos provided. She had a conspicuous irreverence about her that would have caught his eye even without having to look out for her. Blowing a pink bubble with her chewing gum, she stopped to take a look at the large clock hanging from the ceiling. Dressed in sturdy boots and plain jeans, torn at the knees in a way that didn’t make it altogether clear if that was a fashion choice or just a tattered piece of clothing, and an oversized flannel, she hoisted her backpack higher and continued on her way. He didn’t need to have read the short file on her to know that all her worldly possessions were in that small backpack, or at least the ones she considered of import. Mills had sported a not dissimilar look and bag one day, in another life, as he too was walking into the unknown. He had an odd, queasy feeling watching the girl, knowing she was more than likely to step off a precipice before the day was done, the same one that he was currently on the bottom of.

For a brief moment, he considered what type of female operative archetype she was supposed to fit into at the Museum. The bombshell? He couldn’t see enough of her figure to say so, but her attitude was evident and it certainly did not exude coy sex kitten. More likely to serve a purpose as a dominatrix for the discerning arms dealer/pervert than anything else. Perhaps her talents were of the less obvious sort, and she was brought in to train up and become part of Restorations – god knows good medics were always needed at the Museum - or even Provenance, if her mind and instincts about people were keen enough.

Mills pushed off the counter and walked in her direction with long, confident strides. He kept at a safe distance, strategically staying outside her eyeline, ducking behind pillars and corners as needed, riding the escalator she was not on, and looking for an opening.

One hand shoved in his jeans pocket, the other holding his brown leather jacket hanging off his finger, tossed rakishly over his back, he stood in her path and waited. In her distracted haste, boots thudding a steady, but swift rhythm, she walked bodily into him and let out a humph, as if she’d just hit a wall. She lost her balance for a moment and he let his jacket fall, catching her by the arm to steady her.

She looked up, confused as to why the wall that had materialized out of nowhere seemed to be reaching out for her. Her eyes traveled up from his chest, slowly climbing up to his eyes, where she just saw her own face reflected back in his sunglasses, eyes wide and lips parted.

He flashed his million dollar grin and took off the glasses, hooking them into the collar of his white T-shirt. “Sorry about that,” he said without much compunction. “I was looking at the floor as I was walking,” he shook his head and felt some loose waves fall over his face, in that way that made romantic young women want to brush them away for him. “I hate when people do that, and here I am – doing it,” he concluded and smoothed his hair back into place.

“Uh, it’s okay,” she extricated herself from his grip without being rude about it. “I do it all the time.” Yes, I know, he thought as he let one corner of his mouth smile again.

“Ladies first,” he said with a light touch of flirty sarcasm and stepped aside for her. He was rewarded with a knowing eyeroll from the girl and a huff of laughter.

“Thanks,” she tossed over her shoulder and, to his slight surprise, did not look back over that same shoulder to give him the usual once over. Mills wondered if he should be offended by that. He had constructed the casual look for her – simple enough not to look like he was trying too hard, while at the same time including small pieces of flair, like the weathered leather jacket and the sunglasses that should appeal to the rebellious young girl he deemed her to be. And nothing. She was walking away as though he had not just tossed not one, but two of the most dazzling smiles in his arsenal at her, touched her, and made a flirty little joke. He picked up the jacket he had tossed on the ground for her, as if to let her cross a puddle untainted, and hurried in the direction she walked off in.

She was already in her seat by the time Mills entered the cabin. The final pre-flight arrangements for his Exhibition were made and he paused in the aisle long enough for her to look up at the long shadow he was casting. Her eyes smiled at him in recognition and he reached up for the overhead, peacocking his full height and letting his shirt ride up just enough to flash a stripe of creamy skin as he looked down and grinned. “Small world,” he raised a brow and shifted his weight to one leg, trying to coax her eyes to his body with the flex of his defined muscles when she didn’t take the bait immediately.

“Yeah,” she nodded and adjusted in her seat, reaching out for a dog-eared book in her backpack, leaving him to smooth his clothes back down in growing frustration.

How did women do this? All they needed to do was flutter their lashes and they had men wrapped around their fingers. When he’d seen the directive to keep the girl engaged and predisposed to stick around with him, he read between the lines. Dip into his Museum-approved bag of tricks, give her some of the ol’ razzle-dazzle and have her eating out the palm of his hand. Yet, for all his preening, she was more fascinated by some second or third hand copy of Henry V than his overtures.

When the obvious ploy failed, he stewed in his seat, directly to her right and kept looking out of the corner of his eye at her, checking if she was doing the same. Having assured himself she was not, he gnashed his teeth, deciding to veer off course and try a different approach.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” he cleared his throat subtly and leaned over the aisle, trying not to catch anyone else’s attention. There were only half a dozen other people on the flight, all dotted around the cabin out of earshot, but he still needed to be careful and not provoke their suspicions too early. “I’m a very nervous flier and I’ve been sweating bullets all day,” he chuckled nervously and saw her guarded expression soften. Bingo.

“I’m sure you’re engrossed in your book, and the last thing you wanna do is be a distraction for some stranger…”

“It’s alright,” her forced kindness was convincing enough and that was as much of a foothold he needed to really start working on her. Mills found he was charmed when she stuck the receipt she was using as a bookmarker into the paperback before stuffing the book back inside her backpack.

Their conversation started in hushed whispers as they leaned over the armrests of their seats, until Mills pretended to organically and innocently have the idea of sitting next to her – if she didn’t mind, of course – and talking more freely. He played the nervous wreck for a few minutes and made himself cozy in her patient reassurance before relaxing with the help of a few drinks. Mills downed one instantly as he encouraged her to do the same in solidarity, and two more were drunk in quick succession. He had decided eliciting sympathy and getting her boozed up would be the winning combination to keep her pliant, and it seemed to be working.

Mills turned on the charm full force; did all the cheesy things you’re supposed to do to get young girls to spawn butterflies in their bellies. He declared himself somewhat of a chiromancer, reading her palm so he could touch her freely. The hand is full of sensitive parts. The tips of the fingers are five quivering clitorises if you know what you’re doing. And they don’t call that succulent, fleshy part at the base of the thumb the Mount of Venus for nothing. You can see a woman shudder, nipples peaking and pupils blowing wide like a detonation went off inside of them when you run your coarse fingers over it, or knead it with carnal intent.

She chuckled as the combined effects of alcohol and altitude took effect, and he explained that the mount signified sensuality, beauty, enjoyment of melody and art, or their absence. He flexed his hand in the air, still holding hers with the other one, to show how his was thick and overdeveloped, potentially indicating an overindulgence in those things, a weakness for sin, women, wine – where hers was perfectly balanced. That part wasn’t even bullshit, if you take palmistry to be at all reputable. And they had him down pat where sensuality was concerned.

To illustrate those flaws she laughed off, he offered an embellished version of the story of him riding a hog down the Amalfi Coast with nothing but a backpack and a passport that was about to expire. Of course, he left out the part about only being there in the first place to take out a drug trafficker who used, of all things, live pigs to smuggle drugs all over Europe and fund all sorts of criminal activity with his earnings.

He was about to lie and say that nothing happened with the local girl he had given a ride to on his last night there – and he had the distinct feeling she would not believe him - when the whole cabin lurched, sending people pitching forward and several overhead bins yawning open. Her backpack, that he had obligingly stored above her seat so he could sidle in next to her, came hurtling down. She tried uselessly to shield herself from the impact as Mills snatched it out of the air, arms bolting out lightning fast to catch it. Her eyes were lazy with booze and her jaw was slack as she watched him spring into action, so at odds with the unimposing, nervous figure he cut until moments ago. Her drink was spilled down her shirt and she didn’t seem to notice until he put the bag down and took the empty glass from her hands.

“Oh, shit,” she shuddered as she registered the cold lick of spilled drink down her chest and inspected herself.

“I’ll let you go clean up,” Mills offered and maneuvered his long body out of the way, all but pushing her towards the toilet. He had work to do now and she needed to be out of the way for it.

Mills took out one man with a syringe full of pentobarbital. The man gasped sharply and clutched at the side of his neck as the poison immediately took effect. A rapid succession of comatose state, respiratory depression, bradycardia and death would ensue as he thrashed uselessly and stared with horror-filled eyes at his surroundings. Another one’s head snapped back to see what caused the odd sound and snapped forward again as Mills pressed the silencer of his gun to his forehead and let off a silent shot. Two more sprung out of their seats and he was grateful they didn’t do the annoying macho thing of screaming as they charged him. The less noise they made now, the less containing he would need to do with the girl.

The airplane dropped down suddenly, sending his guts floating to his throat. The pilot and copilot were conked out by now and Mills didn’t need his piloting license to tell him they were rapidly losing altitude.

The man closest to him wound up an amateurish punch and Mills easily ducked it, grabbing him by the back of the neck and smashing his face into the overhead compartments. Bone and tissue left a pulpy mess on the unyielding compartments and the man groaned painfully through what was left of his face as he slumped to the ground. Mills stepped over him and moved towards his next opponent. He was short and stocky and Mills jerked back to avoid the rather limited reach of his arms, but another pair wrapped themselves around his neck, trapping him in a merciless chokehold before he could blink. The shorter man wasted no time in landing a few gut shots on Mills as he desperately clawed at the arm crushing his windpipe, fighting for the smallest bit of purchase.

The cabin shook again and the four men were caught in a chaotic mêlée, getting tossed up and down, and side to side as they fought for their lives. The one holding Mills tripped over the writhing man with the smashed face and his grip loosened. With a brutal snap back, Mills felt his skull collide with his nose and shatter it. Blinded with pain and tears that accompany this kind of injury, the man let go of him altogether. With a gurgling breath, Mills straightened and both he and the shorter man reached for their guns. Mills was a fraction of a second faster, firing off a bullet at the center of his forehead. The shuddering cabin threw off his aim and the bullet shot right through the man’s throat and exited out the back in a bloody spray. Mills fired two more bullets in quick succession, putting two more holes into his neck and chest.

Mills whipped around, feeling the hurried steps of the one who was choking him moments ago rear up on him, and he stumbled back just in time to miss the man’s blade burying itself in his chest. Instead, it pierced his side, right under the ribs and he felt each of the teeth on its serrated edge tear through him on the way in and out. He bit down on a growl and felt like his teeth would shatter from the force of it. Like a linebacker, he lunged at his attacker and caught him around the middle, slamming him bodily against the toilet door. Twisting his wrist until he groaned and dropped the knife, Mills grabbed the short hair on top of his head, crusty with gel, and slammed it against the door several times until he saw the man’s eyes begin to cross and uncross.

“Occupied, dude. Can you read?” Mills heard the deadpan voice of his girl inside and smiled broadly.

“Yeah, can you read?” he snarled lowly at the man, exposing his teeth, and gave the guy’s head one last decisive slam right under the Occupied sign to punctuate his question before letting him slide limply down.

The last two came back from their inspection of the cockpit to find four dead or dying scumbags littering the cabin. Mills sucked in a deep breath and smoothed his hair back into place, facing the last two targets as they reached for their guns in a panic.

When she came out of the bathroom, nothing much seemed to be out of place. The cabin still shook, but to the uninitiated, it could have appeared as regular turbulence.

Mills was leaning against the seat with two drinks in his hands, offering her one glass as she approached. She narrowed her eyes at him curiously and groaned as the cabin tilted and sent her hip first into the corner of an armrest.

“You seem…much more calm. Now that the flight is actually getting hairy,” she looked around nervously. Whether she could subconsciously tell there was something eerie and off about the flight, or if it was just the increasingly rough ride they were having, he could not be sure.

“Well, the magic potion helped,” he swirled the cheap vodka and the ice in the glass clinked. “You should take a seat,” Mills announced calmly.

She took the glass obediently and sat, eyes bright and curious on him. No doubt expecting another dumb, entertaining anecdote, or some of that coy, but undisguised flirting.

“I need to tell you something,” he started slowly, almost apologetically. It was not his job to break it to the prospective operatives what exactly they’d gotten themselves involved in. The Curators were in charge of that and they had all sorts of soft language and persuasion and tailor-made platitudes designed to charm the morals off of anyone they set their sights on. He was never trained for that. Now he had to tell this kid that they’re on a plane full of corpses that’s about to crash-land, and then she would be shipped off to a guild of assassins for processing like a piece of meat in an abattoir. Good luck, Mills, you’re gonna need it, he thought, lips pressed into a line as she looked up at him with rather heartbreaking innocence.

Out of some apparent reverence for the moment, even the plane grew quiet, leveling out for the time being and quieting the racket of the last few minutes. The door of the cockpit yawned gradually open and the movement caught her eye. It swung shut just as quickly, preventing her from getting a good look at the two men slumped over in their seats.

“Are we landing?” she frowned, bringing the glass to her lips.

“No, erm, not yet,” he whispered slowly, starting to really feel the wound in his gut. “The situation I’m about to relay to you is mostly contained, so there’s no need to worry.”

She arched a brow at him and sipped. “Contained? What situation?” her words were slightly slurred.

“We lost the pilots.”

“Lost ‘em? Where’d they go?”

“No, I mean, they’re dead. So are the rest of the passengers. I killed them,” he added for extra clarity, finding her eyes void of understanding.

“It’s all in a day’s work for people like me. Maybe you too one day.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Killing people?”

“Yup,” he popped the P into his glass and sucked his teeth as the drink burnt pleasantly down his throat.

She nodded a few times, keeping her face neutral. Then her chin quivered and her eyes crinkled, and out came the laughter. He smiled back, out of basic human instinct, hoping she would get the shock and denial out of her system quickly. The first wave of laughter subsided when he didn’t join in and reassure her that he was just making a bizarre joke. Her expression faltered, eyes seeking, inviting him to give it up and just admit he was trying to trick her. When he didn’t, holding her gaze with an awkward sort of apology on his face, she laughed harder, doubling over and grabbing his thigh for support. It was drunken, gleeful sort of laugh and part of him wanted her to be right. Wanted them to really be just two people who hit it off on a weird flight to nowhere, had too many drinks and made some fun mistakes in a dingy hotel room somewhere. The jostling sent a fresh sting of pain to his wound and he winced, returning to the moment and to reality.

She straightened up, oblivious, and covered her mouth with her hand, mindful not to disturb the people Mills had propped back up into their seats, still not realizing they were dead or dying. Wheezing now, her eyes started to fill up with tears and the laughter lost all sound. It was just a spasm in her gut and a rictus on her face as she struggled to catch her breath.

“I’m thrilled you’re taking all of this in stride,” Mills said and pushed himself up to his feet with a groan. “Makes my job a lot easier.”

“Where are you going?” she managed to ask when he was halfway to the cockpit.

“I’m just gonna land the plane right quick.”

“Sure, you do that,” she nodded, dissolving into more drunken giggles. The chiming noises of her girlish laugh echoed behind him and Mills grinned all the way to the door.

“Would you mind putting your seatbelt on for me? It might get bumpy for a few seconds.”

As a lark, she did, saluting his back as she settled into her seat. She was still sipping what remained of her drink and stifling residual giggles when she felt the plane tilt to one side. Seeking purchase with her feet, she finally dropped the glass into the empty seat next to her as she pushed off the cabin wall, struggling to stay in her seat.

The six men that sat in the seats around her all gradually tipped and eventually rolled out of their seats. At first, they looked asleep or knocked out. Except that on closer inspection, some of them were bloody. One had something sticking out of his chest. Another was doing the full Exorcist with his broken neck turning his face, hideous in death and agony, 180 degrees.

Warning signs flashed and masks dropped down, and it startled her out of her stunned reverie.

Without knowing how, not feeling her legs or the floor beneath her, she stumbled into the cockpit.

Mills was in the pilot’s seat, speaking into a large headset. “Mayday, mayday,” he was repeating dispassionately, “this is US Midland Air 77 heavy. We’re experiencing—“

“What the – everyone’s dead over there!” She stopped suddenly, and he heard the wet squelch in her throat, heralding impending vomit. He paused and turned, looking at her questioningly. She held it in and pressed her back harder against the cockpit wall, knees shivering as they dropped sharply. Good girl, he thought and nodded at her. Most of them retch the first few times.

“Where are my manners?” he picked up the dead copilot off the seat by the scruff of his starched shirt and dropped him to the side, rolling him out of the way with his long leg. “Have a seat, please.” Someone responded to his distress call and he snapped forward, giving her not a moment’s consideration more. “I’m declaring an emergency…”

She looked stubbornly ahead of her, refusing to look down at the two dead bodies cramped into the small cabin, trying with all she had to keep it together. “Are we going down?”

“Well, yeah, technically, I guess,” he shrugged and then tightened his grip on the levers that were shuddering dangerously under his hands. “Every descent is going down, if you wanna get philosophical about it. This one is a little more rapid than most.”

“Who are you? Are you a pilot?” she accused more than asked as she finally relented and swiftly climbed into the seat next to him.

“Sure,” he shrugged and threw her a reassuring smile. “I’m whatever you need.”

She nearly jumped out of her seat as another blast shook the cabin. Mills knocked the useless headset off, and craned his body closer to her, strapping her in. “Shoulder straps, click in here,” he explained out loud, as if to a child. “And voila.”

She watched with trepidation as he pushed levers all the way away or pulled them all the way towards him, with buttons and lights flashing red to the rhythmic blare of warning sirens. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to assess how dire their situation was and she grew deathly quiet.

The fog in front of them cleared and square fields, in lighter and darker hues, delineated by long straight roads cutting through and across them came into view.

They landed roughly on a road and Mills barely managed to keep on it as the wheels under them spun out of control and broke off. Seatbelts held them in place, but cut deep into their chests and punched all their air out as they swerved sharply into a field and plowed through it until eventually their momentum petered out.

Flying down the road in the distance was a procession of sleek black cars, converging on the wreckage. “That’ll be the Custodians – they’ll clean up the scene. And hopefully a few people from Restorations too,” he unstrapped himself and pressed his hand against his hastily dressed wound as he got up.

He went to offer the girl a hand, but she was already out of her seatbelt and climbing out, avoiding stepping on the corpse that lodged itself between the two seats during the crash-land. Mills wondered if it would do any good to tell her that the man whose corpse she was trying to show some misguided respect to was a human trafficker. Best to keep that little tidbit to himself for now, he decided.

“You’re hurt,” she stated the fact without too much concern for him.

Well, gee, don’t sound too broken up about it, Mills snapped in his head, feeling the pain rankle away any genial aspect of his character. “Yeah, how about that?” he rolled his eyes. But all his bravado notwithstanding, he groaned from deep in his bones as he pried open the door to the fuselage and jumped down.

She stood on the edge of the wreck, sparking and guttering out in a groan of metal and electricity, looking for a safe way to exit. Julian held out his arms to her limply, expecting her to do the typical female thing and slap him away, in some useless attempt to show she was no damsel in distress and that he had caused her enough trouble already, yadda yadda yadda, all that usual crap. Engrossed in his mental scenario, he only just had enough time to lock up his elbows and support her weight when, to his utter surprise, she accepted his help and leaped into his waiting arms.

He tottered backwards and they stumbled a few awkward steps as the headlights of the approaching cars caught them in their spotlight glare. She was splayed against him, face inches from him and, with a sinking feeling, he realized she didn’t look scared at all. She had to be, he knew – he certainly fucking was and only an idiot wouldn’t be – but she was far too good already at staying stone-faced during a crisis. He understood then her life had been no cake-walk and mourned the fact that it would only get less easy going forward with the Museum.

“Julian, you hanging in there?” a male voice asked as he stepped out of the car.

“High and tight,” Mills shot a finger gun at the man and flipped his hair out of his face, suddenly at a loss as to what to say in parting to this bewildered young woman in his arms.

“Julian?” she asked, surmising he had given a false name earlier.

“Julian Mills,” he introduced himself, seeing realization dawn in her eyes at the similarity between the false name he had given her and his real one. “First thing they’ll teach you – use fake names with your real initials. John Mitchell. Jordan Malcolm. If you ever get confused or start writing the wrong name on some document by accident, it won’t be such a glaring correction.”

“Miss, if you’ll come with me,” an older operative from Provenance, all social grace and grandfatherly familiarity, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and obligingly showed her to the car that had come to pick her up.

The girl left Mills without a second’s hesitation and, once again, gave him not a single backwards glance as she walked away. She let the operative open the door for her and sat in the back seat of the waiting car. Julian wondered if she jumped in her seat when the plane eventually exploded behind her in the distance, or if she was already inured to such unpleasantries. He was just glad he had managed to salvage her little backpack and her tattered little book. Surreptitiously, when he was sure no one was looking, he flipped it open and found a quote underlined. Act 3, Scene 7. That’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion. With a pained smile, his whole side stiffening up like a board from pain, his eyes searched the distance for the firefly headlights of the car driving her away. He hoped she would prove to be that valiant flea that the Bard talked about.

@thegrislady @safarigirlsp @lumberjack00fantasies @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @vedavan @house-of-cadwyn

#commander mills x reader #commander mills x you

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dreamsallalongthewatchtower · 1 year ago

Text

CH 1. Sin City

Summary: The daggers arrive in Las Vegas and it's just the beginning. Jake sets his sights on a girl he has to get know. Natasha meets an old friend and catches up.

Notes: Mentions of Alcohol, nothing too bad 18+ MINORS DNI

Word Count: 2.3k

Bradley, Jake and Bob were starting to get antsy. Knowing they should wait for the rest of the squad to join, the excitement of Vegas was starting to seep its way into the minds of Jake and Bradley. “We know where we’re all going to end up tonight so we might as well get a jump on the fun and go somewhere. It’s pointless to wait for the other three.” Jake suggested from the bathroom. “For once you are absolutely right Bagman. I heard this place called House of Blues is supposed to be a cool place, let’s start there and see where we are before we meet up with everyone else.” Bradley added. “I don’t know guys it would be fun to get out of the room, but shouldn’t we wait?” Bob asked cautiously. “Come on Floyd, I bet even you get laid this trip, the sooner we start the better chances you have.” Jake quipped. “Yeah Bob, and it’s not like we are going to go score drugs or head to a strip club, it’s the House of Blues, we’ll listen to some music and figure the rest out.” Bradley added. “I guess there is no harm in getting out onto the strip. Alright let’s go” Bob said putting on his shirt “Whoo!” Both Rooster and Hangman cried out. After five minutes the trio headed to The House of Blues.

After finding open seats at the bar the three men settle on a corner that faced the stage. While waiting for the next act Jake ordered beers for himself and Bradley and a ginger ale for Bob. “Here ya go boys,” the bartender said to them “First one is on the house for our fine military men.” the lady said as she walked away. “Looks like our luck has just started boys.” Bradley let out. “Please welcome to the stage long time favorite Maya Atwell.” A voice over the speakers announced. A tall slender women walked out onto the stage. Her unruly hair tucked into a ball cap that was placed backwards on her head let the crowd see her soft features and her blue eyes. “Hi everyone, how’s everyone’s night going?” The sultry voice asked. The crowd responded with a chorus of woos, whistles and hands clapping. “Those of you who are new, I’m Maya and I can play just about any song, for those of you who know the drill welcome on back. Let’s give a huge round of applause to Mike the owner slash manager and to the fine ladies you see around here serving.” Maya waited for the crowd to follow her orders and for the cheering to die down. “Normally I take requests, but I have plans later tonight so I’m going to be doing a short set of covers tonight. This first one” She continues as she tuned her guitar “Is by my favorite man in black. As always if you know it sing along and if you don’t I want you on your feet dancing. This is Walk the Line by Johnny Cash.” The sultry voice that was speaking to the crowd was not the same powerhouse voice that started on the song. Jake, Bradley, and Bob were all amazed. They stood in front of their stools and sang along with Maya. When the song finished the crowd erupted into applause. “I can’t believe a girl like that knows Johnny Cash” Jakes yelled to his counterparts. “Yeah, she’s something.” Bob added. “Alright this next one is one I love listening to growing up, this is for all of you who are infected with Beatlemania.” The singer started playing Hey Jude. “Damn bro, she is versatile. Who goes from Cash to The Beatles!” Bradley asked his friends. By the end of the song the singer had stopped playing and let the crowd finish out the song. “Okay” Coaxed the singer. “Last one for the night, this is one that I hold dear to my heart it was the first one I learned to play, and I hope I do it justice.” As soon as she started the first notes Jake recognized the song right away “Now she’s playing Nirvana! I have to meet this girl!” As Maya finished Come As You Are, everyone was on their feet applauding her. “Thank You House of Blues! Don’t forget to tip your waitresses.”

The singer exited the stage and appeared on the other side of the bar. “Let’s go meet her.” Jake suggested. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to go talk to the girl who can command the whole place like that.” Bob interjected. “Come on Bob, what kind of wing man are you?” Jake asked “I’m not a wing man I’m a weapons system operator” Bob responded dryly. “Look do me this favor and I can owe you anything, anywhere, any time. Okay?” Jake added. “Okay, let’s go talk to her.” Bob said in a defeated tone. The three men approached the singer and watched her finish a bottle of water. “Excuse me ma’am can I get the lady a glass of whatever wine she prefers?” Jake asked the bartender. The bartender looked at Maya, and back at Jake and let out a little chuckle. “This gentleman wants to buy you a glass of wine.” The bartender repeated to Maya. Maya smirked before she responded. “No thanks, I’ll take my usual Lola.” Maya said turning her back to the three men. Lola poured a double neat of Eagle Rare into a glass for Maya. This choice of drink made even Jake blush. A woman who knows her liquor. Jake stepped to the other side of her to talk with her more. “You like whiskey, I like that in a woman. I’m lieutenant Jake Seresin.” Jake said, putting his hand out to shake Maya’s hand. “Well lieutenant, I’m Maya, and Eagle Rare is actually a bourbon and I dont just like it, I love it. Best drink to have after a show.” Bradley let out a cough causing both Jake and Maya to whip their heads in his direction. “How rude of me, this is lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw and lieutenant Robert Floyd.” Jake said as Maya waved to the two other men. “Nice to meet you.” At that moment Maya felt her phone buzz in her pocket. It was a text from her friend that she is ready to meet for dinner. “Looks like that’s my cue. Thanks for coming and seeing the show, hope you boys have fun in Vegas.” Maya said as she threw back her drink. “See you later Lola.” “Wait can I get your number?” Jake asked, blocking her path from the door. “Maybe some other time Ken doll.” Maya side-stepped Jake and left through the front door. Bob and Bradley erupted in laughter. “Oh man, that was almost worth coming over here. So glad you owe me.” Bob said in between his laughs. “Shut up. Who knows maybe we’ll run into each other this week.” Jake said with a hint of hope. “Hey, I just got a text from the others they are at the hotel and want to meet up on the strip.” Bradley said. Silencing anymore laughter him or Bob had left. The three men left the House of Blues and headed back to the hotel.

Maya walked into Bubbas Gump’s Shrimp Co. looking for her friend. The hostess asked if she was looking for someone. Before Maya could respond a pair of hands were spinning her around and embracing her tightly. “Oh Ashes, I can’t believe it’s been three years!” a familiar voice squealed in Maya’s ear. When the girl pulled away, Maya saw her best friend. “Natasha! I can’t believe you’re here.” Maya responded. When the reunion of friends ended the two women were shown to a table on the upper patio. “So, how has Vegas been since the last time I saw you?” Phoenix asked. “It’s been good, still working off a couple of debts but I’m so close to being a free woman.” Maya said looking over the strip. “How has the navy been?” Maya asked, turning her full attention to her friend. “It’s been good to me, I got called back to Top Gun. A special priority mission, the best of the best.” Phoenix said puffing her chest and flexing her biceps. “You’ll never guess who else they called back.” Phoenix started. “Fucking Rooster.” Phoenix finished. “For as much as you talk about him, you either want to be with him or you truly hate him, so, which is it?” Maya asked her friend. Before Phoenix got a chance to answer a waiter came by to take their drink order. “Okay, so what have you got planned for this week?” Phoenix asked curiously about her friend’s plans. “Well first and foremost we’ll have VIP bottle service everywhere we go. But I have a couple nights planned on the strip to keep your buddies happy, then a few dinners, a day at the Bellagio cypress pool bar. I made an appointment for us with a special someone for tattoos and we have the Florida Georgia Line Concert tomorrow night.” Maya finished. “I can’t believe you are opening for them; how did you land that gig?” Natasha asked. Maya looked at her friend and looked out over the strip once more. “Oh, you know me Nix, I have my ways. Besides, the owner couldn’t find someone who was willing to be paid so little. I figured I could just have him put it towards what I owe.” Maya responded as the waiter came back over with their drinks. “What can I get ya’ll started with?” The waiter asked. The two women ordered a few appetizers and a couple cocktails. “What do you plan on doing after you have paid your debt?” Natasha asked, trying to meet her friend’s gaze. Maya looked down trying to search her head for an answer. She already knew what she was going to do. She was going to get the hell out of Las Vegas and never look back. But she didn’t want to let her friend in on the last surprise of her birth week. “Ashes, you know you are always welcomed at my house and I’m sure your aunt would love to see you.” Natasha added when her friend didn’t respond. “HA! The only time she calls is when she wants to update her friends on her pathetic niece.” Maya responded sharply. “Hey! You are not pathetic! You would be pathetic if you stayed with Elijah and kept doing drugs. But you chose to get better, and you chose to make a better life for yourself. The first call I got from you when you got here sounded like you were in your favorite book. Living like Hunter S. Thompson, I was truly worried. But you got help and you are paying back your debt. I couldn’t be prouder. I’m sure your aunt is just worried.” Natasha finished. “Yeah, well you don’t know her like I do, and you definitely don’t want to hear our conversations. But I digress. I might bounce around New York or go visit some friends in Tucson. I’m not sure yet.” Maya said with a smirk, knowing she would be hounded until she gave her friend a real answer. The food and drinks came, and the two women sat reminiscing about their friendship and catching each other up on their current situations.

“So, my place is a little ways outside of town but it’s huge. It’s on loan from a friend of mine who won’t be back until winter. She is this really cool old lady. I wish you could meet her. She would love all the soldiers staying in her house.” Maya said as the two women waited for the bill. When the waiter put the little black checkbook on the table Natasha reached for it. “Um what do you think you are doing?” Maya asked. Snatching the book from her friends grasp. “I want to pay, plus I can get a discount.” Natasha responded. “No let me get this, okay?” Maya asked but was more or less telling her friend she had the bill. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you there was this guy earlier. He tried to buy me a glass of wine and wanted my number.” Maya started. “Was he cute?” Natasha asked. “I mean yeah, he wasn’t horribly disfigured, but he was so cocky and kind of had this fuck boy vibe. The type for hooking up and not anything serious. But him and his buddies looked like they were here for a bachelor party, not the type to come to Vegas to gamble and see the sights.” Maya responded. “Did you give him your number?” Natasha inquired. “Yeah right. No, I told him some other time, then I called him Ken doll!” Maya said laughing. “Poor guy, had no clue he was finished before he even started.” Natasha said. The two women left the restaurant, stepping out into the cool Nevada air. “Text your buddies to meet us at On The Record, by the time they get there they we'll be able to start the birth week.” Maya said, leading Phoenix to her car. After a quick trip to the parking garage behind the nightclub the two women’s spirits were high and ready to party.

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