#I KNOW I HAVE SAID THAT BEFORE BUT SHE CAN RAISE THE DEAD
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novasintheroom · 2 days ago
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068. Lie
♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader
♡ Word count - 0.8k
♡ Warnings - none
♡ Description: You ask about Vash's family. He asks you the same.
Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3
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“So where are you from?”
The question comes on a Tuesday afternoon, under the awning of a shop in a little town you haven’t found the name for yet. Vash is sat to your side, the creaking, rusted metal bench beneath. You pause in chewing your foil-wrapped burger. Vash’s eyes are on you, watching.
Not that there’s much to look at. You blink and shrug. “Podunk town like this. I can barely remember its name anymore, it’s been so long, and I’ve been on the move so much with the librarian stuff.” It’s a lie. You remember the name very well. But, taking another bite of burger, you’re not going to reveal it. Some old, old maps in the archives still have its name printed on them, and you won’t take the chance. “Where are you from?”
Vash laughs quietly, looking off to the side. “Same, I guess. I don’t remember the town, just my family.”
Well now, that’s a new topic. You lean back and look at him. “What was your family like?”
A solemn air surrounds him suddenly; his eyes crinkle, like he’s been pinched. You wonder if you’ve stepped over some line asking about it. But he opens his mouth and says, “I had…my adoptive mom, and my brother.” His hands come together before him, clasping. “My brother and I are twins.”
Are. Does that mean his brother is still alive? Funny that he’s never mentioned him or wanted to visit. You hum, feeling out how to approach this. “Adoptive?”
Vash nods. “Yeah. Our bio mom couldn’t really take care of us, so she – Rem, I mean – she took me and my brother in and raised us.”
A tomas-pulled cart trundles by, kicking up the dry dust of the hard road. You take another bite of your meal. Vash’s hands are empty. He said he wasn’t hungry. Your mind reels, wondering what to ask, how to make this a little less awkward. “What’s your brother’s name?”
Vash takes a breath in, then out. “Nai.”
You swallow and look at him odd. “’Nai?’” You pause. “Was it short for, like, ‘Niles?’”
He barks out a surprised laugh. “Uh, no, it was…just Nai.”
“Uh,” you realize you might be heading into ‘rude’ territory. You’ve only known Vash a few months; it isn’t time to make fun of his maybe-alive-maybe-dead brother’s name, “okay.”
“It’s no more weird than ‘Vash,’” he defends.
Your brows twitch up. “I didn’t say anything.”
“But you thought it,” he laughs.
You smile, hiding behind what’s left of your burger.
Vash brushes a hand through his hair, then turns to you. “What was your family like?” He nudges his shoulder against yours, and his strange, carefree smile is back.
Hm. Should have expected that question. Still, you feel a distant sadness in your chest. “I had a mom and dad. A sister. That was it, really.”
Vash waits for more. When nothing comes, he ducks closer. “What were they like?”
You sigh, finishing the last of your burger and crumpling the foil in your hands, letting them hang between your legs. “My mom was an amateur scientist, Dad was a farmer. My sister’s still alive, somewhere, but it’s been a few years since I’ve seen her, so that might be up in the air.” There. Half-truths are still truths, aren’t they?
He nods, accepting it all. “You ever want to go see her?”
Your lips thin. “Not really. We don’t…have the best relationship. Had a bit of a falling out. You know how it is.”
He sighs and puts his chin in his hand, leaning on a knee. “I do.” A forlorn, empty look overtakes his blues, something you can only see from the side with his glasses on.
Well, this isn’t fun. You feel bad, like you’re the one who brought down the mood. So, you try to fix it. You throw your foiled ball at him, hitting him in the cheek. “I know you’re hungry enough for a donut, right?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up, but he hides it in a bewildered look. “Do you have any?”
“No, but we can go find some.”
He deliberates. You see it in his eyes. Do I want a donut? Do I want to spend the double dollars for one? Do I want to try and find some? Eventually, he agrees. “Alright. Yeah, let’s go find a donut.”
You slap your knees as you stand, bending down to pick up the foil ball and dispose of it properly. “Maybe we can check the post office while we do. See if there’s any packages need delivering.”
That perks him up more. Always looking for something to do, some way to help. Vash stands with you, and, following the dust of another wagon, you start your walk through town.
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eastofthemoon · 2 days ago
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Muppet Holiday Baking Show
Time for my annual muppet fic for the holidays. Enjoy!
Title: Muppet Holiday Baking SHow Rating: G Series: The Muppets Summary: Inspired by popular baking shows, the muppets decide to do one of their own. It goes as well as you expect.
Archive of Our Own
--------------------------- “Okay,” Scooter called as he flipped the camera on and held it up. “We’re ready to go!”
“Alright,” Fozzie cheered as he waved to the camera. “Hiya, folks! And welcome to the very first Muppet Baking Show, which will be hosted by yours truly, Fozzie the Bear!.”
“And me, Rowlf the Dog,” Rowlf said before gesturing behind himself. “But before we go see what our contestants are baking, let’s meet our judges.”
“Drumroll, please, Animal!”
A drum suddenly rolled past them and the camera.
Fozzie sighed. “Hey, come on Animal, I’m supposed to be doing the jokes here.”
“Sorry, Foz, but you know he takes things literally,” Floyd called.
“Mmmm,” Animal called. “Literature tasty.”
“Anyway,” Rowlf said as he directed Scooter and the camera to their right. “Here are our judges, the Swedish Chef and Uncle Deadly.”
The Swedish Chef grinned and waved as Uncle Deadly gave a thoughtful nod.
“Thank you, it is a pleasure to be here,” Uncle Deadly said.
“You know, I can understand why the Swedish Chef volunteered to be a judge,” Rowlf said, “but I'm kinda surprised to see you one too, Deadly.”
Uncle Deadly shrugged. “Oh, it’s not that surprising. I’m no master, but I do make a killer stew...also no one else wanted the job and Kermit offered me fifty dollars in recompense.”
“You're getting paid?” Fozzie asked.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Within the baking tent, Fozzie and Rowlf walked over to the first contestant on their list with Scooter following close behind.
“Hey, Kermit,” Fozzie greeted as the frog looked up from his mixing bowl. “Whatcha making for us?”
Kermit looked up a bit startled. “Oh, you’re starting with me?” He cleared his throat. “Well, this is an old family recipe passed down through the generations. It’s a type of a banana cream pie.”
“Ooh,” Fozzie said curiously. “I do hope it’s a-peeling then!” He laughed at his own joke as Kermit groaned.
Rowlf seemed unfazed as he looked into Kermit’s bowl. “Anything else going in there besides banana?”
Kermit perked up. “Oh, a special family ingredient.”
“Is it oranges?” Fozzie asked hopefully. “I got a good orange joke I’ve been wanting to use, and all our musical numbers have to rhyme.”
“Uh, no,” Kermit replied. “Flies.”
Dead silence followed.
“Flies?” Fozzie said slowly.
“Yup,” said Kermit as he dipped a spoon into the batter. “It’s my great aunt Eda’s sweet fly pie. Want a taste?”
Fozzie gave a nervous chuckle. “Oh, uh, normally, I would love to, but I had a big lunch so I don’t-”
“Sure!” Rowlf exclaimed as he took the spoon, put it in his mouth and swallowing the batter without hesitation.
He licked his lips. “Pretty good, although it might need a bit more sugar.”
Kermit nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Great aunt Eda was always a sweetie, and I was worried about overdoing it.”
Fozzie couldn’t speak as Scooter zoomed the camera on him and his dropped jaw.
“How?” he asked Rowlf.
Rowlf shrugged. “What? I’m a dog. We don’t care where we get our protein.”
Fozzie raised a finger to speak, but seemed to realize he really didn't want to question this further.
-----------------------------------------
After the fly-tasting, Fozzie and Rowlf decided it was time to split up for a bit and thus Rowlf found himself at Piggy’s station.
“Hiya, Piggy how's it - woah! How are you done already?”
Piggy brushed her hair over her shoulder as she struck a pose for the camera. “Oh, when you became an expert baker like moi, it is a trifling thing to whip up the finest of delights in a jiffy!”
“Ah, sure,” Rowlf said as he looked over the very detailed and finely painted cookies that were clearly depicting Piggy’s own face. “What icing did you use?”
“Royal icing of course!” Piggy held up one of the cookies. “I only use the finest of ingredients! I’m certain once our dear judges taste these they’ll-”
“You ordered these from a bakery didn’t you?” Rowlf said flatly.
Piggy gasped in shock. “How dare you?!” She gripped the cookie as if it were a weapon, eyeing Rowlf as a potential target for confectionary wrath. “You accuse moi of trying to cheat-”
“Uh, Piggy,” Scooter spoke up, “you still have the takeout box at your station and it has the price tag on it.”
His camera zoomed in on the box that read ‘Liza’s bakery’ on it.
Piggy chewed her bottom lip and looked up at the both of them.
“Pay you both twenty bucks to keep your mouths shut.”
---------------------------------------------------------------
Fozzie could feel a migraine starting. He was starting to regret not taking his mom’s advice on keeping some ibuprofen on hand.
“Why,” he muttered, “why are you two here?”
Statler handed his wooden spoon to Waldorf. “Well, we wanted to cook and we figure either we risk getting burned by the stove at home-”
“Or we can come here and burn you,” Waldorf finished causing both old men to chuckle. "Dohohohoho!"
Fozzie gave a deep tired sigh. It was fine. He just had to get this over with.
“Okay, what are you two cooking up?” he asked slowly.
“Sourdough bread,” Statler replied.
Fozzie looked up hopefully. Maybe this could be a civil conversation?
“Oh? That sounds tasty.”
“It should,” Waldorf replied. “We’ve found the perfect ingredient to give it plenty of sourness.”
“Oh? What's that?”
“One of your jokes,” the old men said in unison. “Ohohohohohoh.”
Fozzie shook his head and left the table muttering under his breath. “Why do I even try...”
Scooter, however, stayed behind and focused the camera on the two of them. “Okay, seriously, what are you two making?”
“An apple pie,” stated Statler.
Waldorf froze. “I thought we were making a meat pie.”
Statler paused. “Oh...I was wondering why you were chopping those onions. So it wasn't for fake tears?”
Both men slowly looked into the now very questionable mixing bowl.
“No one tell the bear,” they said in unison.
----------------------------------------------
“Hey, Gonzo,” Rowlf called as he approached. “Don’t mean to criticize, but is this really the best time to be looking at your phone? You've only got so much time to bake.”
“No need to worry, Rowlf,” Gonzo said as he put down his phone. “I was merely double checking my recipe for the perfect cake.”
“Oh?” Rowlf asked now very curious. “What’s the perfect recipe?”
Gonzo reached under his station and brought out his ingredients. “A cup of sugar, 2 cups of flour.”
Rowlf nodded. “Yeah, okay.” It didn’t seem anything special so far, but he wasn’t an expect baker, maybe the proportions would-
“Half a cup of baking soda.”
“Say what?”
A loud thud was heard as Gonzo placed a giant jug on his station. “A gallon of vanilla extract.”
Rowlf covered his hand over his mouth as he mulled over what was in front of him.
“Where exactly did you get this recipe?” he asked.
“The most reliable place for all kinds of information,” Gonzo said. “Tumblr.”
“You, uh, really sure you should trust that?”
Gonzo blinked puzzled. “Why? Do you think people would lie on the internet?”
Rowlf raised and lowered his hand. Nope, he didn’t think he had enough time today to explain that answer.
----------------------------------------------
Fozzie had been a bit concerned when he heard that Bunsen and Beaker were also competing. However, he didn’t see anything explosive looking so far, so he carefully approached their station.
“Hey, you two ready to RISE to the occasion. Hahaha,” he greeted as his ears wiggled.
“Indeed we are,” Bunsen said as Beaker was taking a loaf of bread out of the oven. “We at Muppet Labs believe we have concocted the optimal variant of jalapeño bread.”
“Meep!” Beaker said as he removed his oven mitts.
“Jalapeño bread, huh?” Fozzied asked. “Did you need something to spice things up? Huh, huh?”
“Not quite,” Bunsen as he seemed unfazed by the pun. “I don’t care much for sweets and jalapeño is one of Beaker’s favorites.”
“Meep meep!” replied Beaker.
“Speaking of which Beaker,” Bunsen said as he cut into the bread for a small piece. “We need to see if the chemical balance has enhanced the pepper's natural spiciness as hypothesized. Would you do a taste test?”
“Meep, meep,” said Beaker as he popped the piece of bread into his mouth.
He chewed, but then became still. Then suddenly his face turned red and literal flames shot out of his ears.
“MEEP!” he cried out as he dashed to the fridge in the tent. He knocked over Rizzo as he opened the fridge and chugged down a full carton of milk. A low sizzle could be heard as the flames faded to smoke.
Beaker took a long deep sigh of relief.
“Ah,” Fozzie said as he approached. “I guess that bread was too hot to handle, huh?”
Beaker shook his head as he gave a thumbs up.
“Beakie really likes things spicy,” Bunsen explained with a grin.
From a short distance away, Scooter turned his camera around toward Uncle Deadly and the Swedish Chef who both looked very dismayed.
“I'm nut trying zeet,” said the Swedish Chef. “Nu vey.”
“I do concur,” Uncle Deadly stated. “Perhaps I should give one of my enemies a ring...”
---------------------------------------------
“Alright, judging time,” Scooter shouted as he aimed the camera at both Fozzie and Rowlf. “Think everyone is ready for this?”
“Well, I don’t want to sugarcoat it, but I think they’re on a roll!” Fozzie cheered.
“And it looks like Rizzo is up first,” Rowlf stated as he pointed.
Scooter moved the camera so the little rat was in the frame as he carried a giant covered plate over his head.
“All right judges,” he said with a grunt as he placed it in front of the Swedish Chef and Uncle Deadly. “Feast your eyes on this!” He put his hand on the lid. “My Uncle Remy’s famous triple chocolate fudge brownies!”
He lifted the lid.
The judges stared at the plate, then at each other and then again at the plate.
“Zee-a plete-a is impty,” the Swedish Chef said.
“Yes,” Uncle Deadly said as he pointed. “Like the kingdom of Ozymandias, nothing here remains, save chocolate brownie crumbs.”
Rizzo shrugged. “What? I had to taste test it, didn’t I?”
“I’m amazed there even are crumbs left,” Rowlf replied.
--------------------------------------
Uncle Deadly took a nibble on his fork and gave a thoughtful nod. “I will say, Pepe, while your cake is a bit messy it does have a nice coffee flavor, and the nuts elevate the texture.”
The king prawn chuckled proudly. “Hey, it’s only natural. Baking runs in the family, okay? And-”
“No, no, no,” yelled the Swedish Chef and he shook his head. “Der iceenen is too roonynyen und yoo deedn't pooten een enoofen soogar. Elsoo der caken is soo goomgoomee, yoo cooden be cooled keeng oov der peeraten -”
“Okay, okay,” Pepe cried with a growl. “Why don’t you just stab my heart while you’re at it!”
“Yeesh,” Fozzie muttered to Rowl. “Third time in a row, did you ever imagine that Uncle Deadly would be the nice judge? This feels like my last comedy routine with those hecklers.”
“I would,” Rowlf replied with a sigh. “You weren’t at the last pot luck.”
-------------------------------------------
Uncle Deadly barely looked at the cake before staring straight into Gonzo’s face. “I refuse to eat this.”
“Seem heeren,” declared the Swedish Chef. “I radeneer eet Kermeet's pie.”
“Oh, come on, guys,” Gonzo said as he gestured to his very flat looking cake. “I used all natural ingridents.”
“Yes, and I can tell you from personal experience that many poisons are natural,” Uncle Deadly said. “This cake looks so gummy it seems closer to rubber.”
“I doont dinkendink ve cannen cooten dees,” the Swedish Chef said as he poked at the cake.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gonzo said as he got out the knife, swinging it in the air above his cake. “Look you can just chop right through it - arrgh!”
The knife came down, and abruptly bounced back up. Gonzo rebounded with it, tearing through the tent and into the air. Scooter did his best to get the tiny dot that was now Gonzo caught on camera before he started to plummet in the distance. A loud thud was heard outside the tent.
“Oh, my gosh,” Fozzie said as everyone went to look out the tent “Do you think he’s okay?”
Suddenly, the melody of The Rainbow Connection started to play.
“Sorry, that's my phone,” Kermit said as he quickly answered. “Kermit the Frog here. You're sure? You’re where? Right, uh, I'll send Beauregard to pick you up.”
“Was that Gonzo?” Rizzo asked.
“Yeah, he says he’s okay,” Kermit shook his head. “He said he landed in the strategic banana reserve.”
“Why do we have that?” Miss Piggy asked.
Fozzie opened his mouth.
“Fozzie, if you say ‘because it’s a-peeling’ I will shove Kermit’s pie in your face.”
Fozzie shut his mouth.
Scooter swung his camera back to face into the tent where Uncle Deadly and the Swedish Chef were still examining Gonzo’s cake.
“I would suggest throwing it out,” Uncle Deadly said, “but I’m afraid it will bounce back for vengeance.”
-----------------------------------
“Alright, alright, everyone step back,” Bobo said as the fire fighters continued to douse the flames. “Everything’s under control.”
Scooter directed the camera back to the burning tent.
“At least the flames aren’t as high now,” he said before spinning the camera back to the muppets.
“I swear, if any of my hair got scorched, the tent won’t be the only thing on fire,” Miss Piggy muttered as she checked her compact mirror.
“In hindsight,” Uncle Deadly stated, “we should have predicted this would be the outcome when we introduced the technical challenge.”
“Yeah,” Fozzie said, “things got really heated up.”
Several groans were heard.
Scooter pointed the camera at Kermit. “So, is this the end of the contest?”
“Yeah, I don’t think we can use any of this,” said Kermit. “Stop filming, Scooter.”
Scooter turned the camera to himself.
“Happy Holidays!” he said as he cut the recording.
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the-bi-space-ace · 2 years ago
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Me kicking my feet and twirling my hair around my finger:
*sigh* 💜🩶🤍 Merrin 💜🩶🤍
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give-grian-rights · 1 year ago
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i understand miguel has a thick ass but i do NOT UNDERSTAND HOW SO MANY PEOPLE SIMP FOR HIM. man beefed with a fifteen year old and wanted to rip him to shreds. because the boy didn't want his dad to die ?!??/
(Across the Spider-Verse spoiler)
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nereidprinc3ss · 8 months ago
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hi!!! here for a request. can we have a imagine where reader has a wound from surgery or whatever on like in a rib and she hides to change the bandages but then spencer sees her and he’s like ‘lemme help you’ and…
you do you for the rest!
in which spencer helps BAU fem!reader change her bandages in the bathroom at work. it's intimate, and he's adorable and awkward, and it only fuels her terrible, terrible crush.
warnings/tags: fluff, talk/description of wound, brief talk of being stabbed (does not actually occur in this fic lol), reader wears a bra, spencer undoes said bra but not sexually, lots of suggestive humor and teasing, a TINY sprinkling of angst but not really, idiots in love
a/n: i'm picturing early seasons spencer and it is filling me with so much unbridled joy. I. LOVE. HIM. thank you for the request!! and lets not talk about how inconsistent my formatting for requests is pls and thanks!!
It’s not like you meant to bend down so quickly that your wound reopened—but here you are, suffering the consequences of your actions in the women’s bathroom at Quantico as you try to assess the injury before you re-bandage it. And your shoe is still untied. 
Unfortunately, the fact that you had quite literally been stabbed in the back last week makes it hard to reach said injury—especially when you’re at work and so can’t take off your shirt like you normally would. And all this struggling means it’s taking longer than it should, so now you’re focused on the wound and its scabby, wet edges and all the things it’s secreting rather than hurrying to give another statement of the entire event to Hotch since the first one had apparently been too sparse on the details. 
A knock sounds on the open door. Spencer calls your name. 
“You in there?”
The angle of your neck has your voice slightly strained as you call back, “yeah, what’s up? Is it Hotch?” you pause to hiss as you accidentally scratch at the wound with a nail. You don’t even want to know how much bacteria you just introduced to it. “Tell him I didn’t forget our meeting, I’ll be there in—”
“It’s not Hotch. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with your back? I know you said you were going to check on it, but you’ve been in there a while.”
You sigh, dropping your sore arm as you continue to hold up your shirt with the other and regarding the reflection of your back in the mirror. 
“Actually—could you come in here?”
There’s a pause. 
“You want me to come into the women’s restroom?”
“Yes, Spencer. It’s fine. There’s nobody else in here. I just… I need some help, I think.”
The last part is admitted quietly, with an air of defeat. To admit to needing help, is, by your standards, the same as failure. Spencer knows this, which is probably the only reason he puts aside his hesitations and shuffles uncertainly into the tiled room. If you’re asking for help, it’s because you really need it. 
“What do you need help with?” he asks, sweeping his gaze suspiciously around the lavatory as if you were lying about there not being any other women present and this whole thing might be a trap of some sort. 
“It’s gross, and you can totally say no.”
He raises his brows expectantly, before spotting the weeping wound on your back. Unconsciously he steps closer, leaning forward. It’s not your fault, and the gore is not specific to you—anyone’s body would react this way to being stabbed. But you still feel embarrassed by the close attention to such an ugly marring, which nobody besides you and your doctors has actually seen up close.
“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters. The expression on his face is irritatingly familiar—the drawn brows, tightened eyes, barely parted lips—but it takes a moment before you realize what it is. 
“Reid,” you complain. He’s still stooped over slightly to examine the wound, and looks up at you through dark lashes with those infuriatingly warm puppydog eyes.
“What?”
“You’re looking at me the way you look at a dead body on the slab.”
His nose scrunches.
Some might say it scrunches adorably. 
“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”
“Okay, well stop. It’s freaking me out.”
He pouts—actually pouts. Subtle, but bottom lip jutted out and all. It’s ridiculously endearing. 
“My face freaks you out?”
“Wh—no! That’s not what I said! You have—you have a great face! I didn’t mean—” 
You manage to claw yourself out of the hole you’re digging when you see the dopey smile growing on his face. 
Oh. He was fucking with you. 
He never used to do that. It’s unnerving to be the fucked with instead of the fucker for a change. Especially when it’s Spencer. 
“What did you need me for?” Spencer asks by way of peace offering. You close your eyes and sigh, attempting to collect your thoughts without his presence re-scrambling them.  
“Um—I just need you to put this bandage over it. I can’t reach without taking my shirt off.”
And now you’re forced to wonder if he’s thinking about you shirtless as much as you’re thinking about you shirtless.
“Yeah—don’t do that,” he says absentmindedly, stepping again closer to get a better look before turning to the nearest sink.
For some reason, this offends you. 
“Why not?”
Spencer pulls another face as he washes his hands—you love the constant flow of expressions he always seems so unconscious of. Even when they’re not pleasant and directed at you.  
“Are you asking me why shouldn’t you take your shirt off?” he clarifies. 
“I know why I shouldn’t take my shirt off, but I want to know why you think I shouldn’t take my shirt off.”
“Because we’re at work?” he observes astutely. You frown deeply at his completely logical reply. Spencer chuckles as he dries his hands and approaches once more, taking the square of gauze pre-lined with medical tape from your hand. “I mean, I can’t stop you. But it would be kind of a weird choice.”
“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”
Cool fingers meet the comparatively hot skin of your back—where everything is still sensitive because the wound wreaked havoc on your nerves there. You flinch slightly. 
“Sorry,” he murmurs gently. Though his touch is so incredibly light it doesn’t really hurt—it hurts much less than when you’re tending to the wound, anyway. It’s almost soothing. After a moment he continues, a bit louder. “And that is not what I was saying. But I am completely comfortable asserting that it would be weird for you to be shirtless at work.”
The gentle touches contrast with his teasing words and serve to disorient you as you’re shaken back in to your usual dynamic. Which is markedly more sarcastic. 
“Well—”
Before you have to think of something to say, Spencer interrupts you. 
“Your, um—I think your… brassiere… is in the way.”
As soon as he says it you burst out laughing. It echoes through the room. 
“My brassiere? Are you actually 70 years old?”
His brows knit even tighter and his face gets very pink very quickly. He can’t meet your eyes over your shoulder. 
“That’s what it’s called.”
“Spencer, you may be the first person to use that word since 1952. Say bra.”
“I don’t want to,” he complains. Your laughter only grows as your head tips back. 
“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”
“It’s—it’s too colloquial! I’m trying to be professional!”
“Call it a bra or I’m going to rub my dirty hands all over my back,” you threaten, adopting a poker face so he knows you mean business. His eyes widen immediately. 
“Oh my god! Bra! Do you want to introduce staph and meningitis and g—do not do that!”
“See? How hard was that?”
“I hate you,” he mumbles, face still flushed and adorable. “And you still have to take it off.”
“Excuse me?” you grin, pretending to be affronted because you know he didn’t mean it like that but it’s fun to pretend he did. Fun for you, of course. Not so much for him. He's utterly flustered by this point.
“Or at least undo it! It’s in the way.”
With a deeply bored sigh, you go to unclasp your bra—but as you go to do it your shirt drops down. You grimace, humor briefly forgotten as the fabric brushes the damaged skin. 
“I can’t—”
“Okay, just—I’ll do it,” Spencer says. “Just move your shirt again.”
So you do, watching his reflection as he works.
And you have not one joke to break the heavy silence with as you feel his knuckles gently pressing into the middle of your back, as he unclasps the bra with his characteristic tenderness and a surprising amount of agility. It’s quiet except for your pulse in your own ears as he carefully pushes it out of his way, holding it down with a hand to your rib cage and fingertips slipping just under the fabric of your shirt—unintentionally and certainly non-sexual, no doubt, but skimming under your heart in a way that still feels so intimate you’re realizing how touch-starved you are. 
“You do that often?” you find yourself asking, because you’re stupid, and you need to cool the tension before it chokes you, and you can’t help yourself even though you don’t actually want to know the answer. 
“I,” he begins, voice quiet as rustling paper, tongue darting over his lip and eyes narrowed. The sentence stalls as he focuses on placing the patch just so. “Do not think that is an appropriate workplace question.”
Something aches in the pit of your stomach. 
Something resembling jealousy. 
It was not the timid evasive linguistic maneuver of someone who is insecure about the thing they’re discussing. It was not the awkward fumbling no but I don’t want to tell you that which you were expecting from Spencer Reid. 
Nor is it an easy yes—an admission between friends. He doesn’t want to tell you. 
You swallow and try to act like yourself. 
“Yet here you are, in the woman’s restroom at our place of employment, undoing my bra. I think we’re past professionalism.”
“When you decontextualize it like that it sounds like something it’s not. This is professional, because I’m helping you with a wound you sustained on the job. I’m being a good colleague.”
Your lips twist into a smile he can’t see. 
“A great colleague would kiss it better.”
“It's almost like you want me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR," he says through a little smirk as he smooths the bandage over. Before you can snip back, he steamrolls over his own teasing—you’ve both been speaking in almost reverent tones since he started but his voice loses the sarcastic edge from a second before and reverts back to concerned and sweet. “Does that feel okay?”
You rotate your shoulders best you can without letting go of your shirt or flashing the good doctor to check if it feels secure.  
“It’s good. And hey—if I were going to sexually harass you I would do a lot better than that. You think that’s my best material? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I keep so many inappropriate comments to myself. You’d be shocked by some of the things I have almost said to you.”
He laughs, secures the band of your bra and begins fitting it to the clasp you’d had it on—and at that precise moment Emily walks in. 
“H—woah.”
“It’s—I’m—I was helping her!” Spencer panics, immediately removing his hands from you like his palms are burning and holding them up defensively. 
“Oh, you helped me alright,” you tease, pulling your shirt back into place. 
“Don’t say it like that!” And then, to Emily, “I was changing out her bandage!”
“Changing my bandage,” you emphasize, winking more than is advisable. 
“That’s—this is a hostile work environment! I feel unsafe!” Spencer almost yells, half laughs, as he scampers towards the door. “I’m going to HR!”
“Shut up! You love it!”
His laughter audibly travels farther away for several moments as he presumably goes back down the hallway to do his actual job. 
You have the stupidest grin on your face, but you wipe it off when you notice Emily staring. 
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away, moving toward a stall. “You’re just… you guys are funny.”
“What do you mean funny?” You demand, standing right outside her stall as she closes it. 
“Wh—I mean funny! Are you going to listen to me pee, you weirdo?”
You frown. 
She makes a good point. 
Unfortunately, giving Hotch a more detailed statement is just as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Despite how cheery you’ve tried to remain about the whole situation, despite the way you insisted that the wound was so shallow you didn’t need more than a few days off work, despite the jokes you make about forgetting it’s even there because it’s on your back—it’s hard not to remember exactly how the glass felt twisting under your skin, how you’d felt suddenly so hot and lightheaded and sick to your stomach and the way Morgan hollered because he didn’t know how deep it had gone after you crumpled quick from shock, when you’re asked to describe it all in excruciating detail. 
It only takes ten minutes, but they seem to drag on and on and by the time you’re leaving Hotch’s office you feel utterly drained. You hurry back to your desk, covertly wiping away moisture that you refuse to allow to become tears. Once seated, and having dodged sympathetic looks and avoided any do you want to talk about its, you allow yourself a few deep breaths with your eyes shut. 
When you open them, you realize there’s a fresh cup of your favorite tea on your desk, in the Snoopy mug the team is always fighting over. Now his little black nose is covered by a square of yellow paper. You’re already smiling as you peel away the sticky note and hold it closer. 
On it is an adorably odd smiley-face, and a note in familiar, messy looping scrawl. 
I would never report you to HR beautiful
That would be a stab in the back!
You snort loudly and clap a hand to your mouth—but you’ve already drawn the attention of almost everyone in the bullpen. 
When you turn to look at Spencer, he’s not looking back. Instead, his eyes are firmly trained on his computer screen. But he’s got his chin propped on his fist over the desk, and his knuckles are doing a poor job of concealing a giant self satisfied grin. He is the only person on the team who knows you well enough to make such a distasteful joke. And he also knows you well enough to know that it would make you feel so much better after your meeting with Hotch than all the well-meaning sincerity in the world ever could.
Funny. 
Maybe that is the right word for what you two are. 
7K notes · View notes
tender-rosiey · 3 months ago
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Can u do a drabble with jjk men where their child gets into a physical fight?
"MY KID IS NOT GUILTY, YOUR HONOR!"
— when your kid with gojo, sukuna, nanami, geto, and toji gets into a fight (f!reader)
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GOJO SATORU:
your husband happily swings your hands together, as you walk to the principal’s office. meanwhile, you’re worried sick about s/n and what happened to him.
satoru rubs your hand reassuringly before slamming the door open and yelling, “did you win?!”
your eyes widen, but before you interject, s/n replies back enthusiastically, “yes, I did!”
you hurry to your son, kneeling in front of him to check him thoroughly.
you let out a sigh of relief when you see that he isn’t hurt in any way. sensing your distress, he hugs you. “I missed you, mama,” he says, snuggling into your neck.
“me too,” you smile and almost get lost in the moment, but then you hear a camera shutter. you look back and see your husband, holding a camera.
“oops, don’t mind me, hun.”
the dad of the other boy—who you didn’t notice was even there—stands up, livid, “can you take this a bit more seriously?! my son is injured!”
you’re about to reply yourself, but then satoru beats you to it. he stands right in front of the man and looks down at him, “surely, you’re not yelling at my wife, right?”
the man stumbles back into his chair, and satoru stares him down, making him sink even further into the chair.
the mother then speaks to you, “what your son did is unacceptable! look at how my baby is right now!”
looking at the other boy, you decide that the mother has every right to be mad. his nose is bleed profusely. you’re pretty sure it’s broken.
you look at your son and quirk an eyebrow, “s/n? what happened?”
“I was showing my friends the picture I got of you, and he said you were ugly! he can’t do that!”
your husband turns back and gasps, “he did what?!”
as if the dad himself is the one that is getting scolded, his eyes get teary.
meanwhile, you see the mother whispering to the boy, and he nods, ashamed. she looks back at you and says, “however, what your son did is not acceptable.”
“I know that the reaction was a bit much, but what your son did is also unacceptable,” you answer with your son nodding behind you.
“well—can you not be so close to my husband?” she snaps at satoru, whose cursed energy is increasing.
“you and your husband need to get taught a lesson if you raise a kid that’s so stupid he thinks my beautiful, divinie, and drop dead gorgeous wife is ugly,” he states, and the lady finds herself shrinking back beside her husband.
the little boy also scrambles into his parents’ embrace.
you place your hand on satoru’s forearm, and he immediately relaxes.
you smile and press a kiss to his cheek then pat your son’s back before instructing him softly, “you have to apologize for hurting him so much, though, s/n, okay?”
your son, ever the obedient sweetheart when it comes to you, looks at the boy, “I am sorry, but you should be sorry too!”
the other boy nods, crying, “I am sorry!”
your son nods, satisfied with the answer. your husband then picks s/n up and spins him around as he sings his praises, “I am so proud of you for defending mama like that! so so proud!”
the boy grins happily and hugs his dad. satoru then raises his finger, “but you gotta know that people are weak, so we can only do this to them all the time.”
your son nods eagerly, before wiggling to the ground. he runs to you, excited to tell you about his day. you grin and listen to him happily, ignoring the crying family on the other side.
your husband kisses the top of your head before turning to the principal with a smirk, “so, principal, is there anything you would like to say?”
“I am gonna piss myself.”
RYOMEN SUKUNA:
you dragged sukuna to the principal’s office, after you got a call of a major incident happening involving him. your husband insisted on dismissing it, but you just had a feeling that something is seriously wrong.
you both enter the office, eyes immediately falling on your son who is sitting unbothered on the chair. meanwhile, the principal is resting his elbows on the desk and striking a pose that could only be described as trouble.
when s/n sees you two, his eyes light up, and he runs to give you—and only you—a hug. sukuna scowls, “what about me?”
“you said you don’t like my hugs,” your son huffs, averting his eyes away. sukuna stares at him for a second, before picking him up by the scruff and placing him in his arms.
the boy looks at his dad, shocked, before snuggling into his embrace.
your husband leans his head just a bit on s/n’s head. you both then direct your attention to the waiting principal.
the principal taps his fingers together, but sukuna grumbles, “are you not gonna talk?”
you stifle a giggle—which sukuna notices and you notice the slight smirk now present on his face. the principal looks up at the three of you then speaks slowly, “well, you see…”
he looks up, “your son set my car on fire.”
a few beats pass.
then your husband barks out a laugh, one so hearty that it catches everyone but you off-guard.
the principal looks incredously at sukuna. your son tilts his head in confusion, before sukuna ruffles his hair, “how did you even do that? seriously, that’s my son for you!”
the boy thrives off his dad’s praise, and they get lost in their world, as your son details how he orchestrated everything.
the principal frowns, vexed. he clears his throat to speak up, “sir, I think you might have misheard. I am saying your son—”
“did I ask you to repeat yourself?”
the tone leaves no room for discussion, and it also sends shivers down the principal’s spine. your little boy snickers, and you side-eye him, effectively shutting him up.
the principal shakes his head slowly, then he looks at you for help.
truthfully, the man has every right to be both terrified and offended cause what the hell kinda is able to set a car on fire and act so nonchalant about it? it’s the kinda kid with a dad who backs him up for it.
however, the man assumes that voice of reason is you.
you want to help, but you’re just too tired. so, you smile, “I understand that what happened is harsh, sir,” he lights up, then you continue, “but surely, you can get a new one, right?”
the man pauses and looks at you with wide eyes, before spluttering, “wha—ma’am, you can’t be serious—"
“surely, you. can. get. a. new. one. right?” you glare.
the man nods frantically.
sukuna smirks pridefully, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. he leans his face near your ear and whispers, “my kinda woman.”
you smile and wrap your arm around his waist and squeeze his hip in return. you both exchange affectionate bedroom looks, forgetting about the frightened principal.
meanwhile, s/n looks at you guys, wrorried, and murmurs, “mom, you’re scarier than dad.”
despite what he says, s/n jumps into your arms and nuzzles against your cheek. your husband rolls his eyes with no real annoyance behind them.
with all the courage left in him, the principal smiles nervously and stutters, “you—you can leave now; I sincerely and deeply apologize for the hold up.”
nobody moves an inch.
“…please leave.”
NANAMI KENTO:
you, your husband, and your daughter are now seated in the principal’s office.
you are waiting for the other kid and her parents to come in as well. you’re tapping your feet, restlessly, but kento lays his hand on your knee and rubs it gently.
he nods at you, and you smile.
you know your daughter would never fight unprovoked. said daughter gets off her chair and climbs into your lap. she hugs you tightly, and you instantly start petting her hair.
she lets a small sigh, but then the principal enters the office with the other parents in toe. you see your husband’s eyes narrow, before he leans close to d/n and asks gently, “isn’t that the girl you said was bullying your friend?”
your daughter nods intensely and whispers back, “she was about to hit her today, and you told me not to let people bully others! that’s why I hit her.”
you pat her head, and she grins. kento hums then nods, “I get that, but couldn’t you get a teacher, sweetheart?”
“the teacher would’ve taken too long!” your daughter huffs, and she is right. but, there still is a lesson that she needs to understand.
the principal clears his throat and sits in his chair. “well mr. and mrs. nanami, your daughter has inflicted pain on a friend of hers—”
“bullies aren’t my friends!”
good saying, but this probably isn’t the time. you pat her back, and she instantly understands what you mean, so she—begrudgingly—calms down.
the principal continues, “as I was saying, she hit her classmate, and as you can see, it left a bruise. such violent acts are prohibited in this respected establishment.”
“shouldn’t bullying be prohibited as well?” you ask, and the man splutters.
“that doesn’t happen—”
“i can assure you that my wife is speaking the truth,” kento backs you up, “if you would like, we can check the cameras or what the teachers say regarding the environment you’re fostering.”
your daughter’s head starts spinning from the big words.
your husband places a hand on the top of her head before resuming, “while I acknowledge that my daughter shouldn’t have been physical in defending her friend, you ought to acknowledge that what the other girl did was also unacceptable.”
“and since you want to solve the root of the problem, shouldn’t you punish the one that did the bullying and warranted my daughter to act in defense?” you press on, and the principal gulps.
the father of the girl stands up, “my princess would do no such thing—”
“your record isn’t that pretty either, so I suggest you sit down,” you say with a smile, and it does the trick. the man immediately sticks to his wife—who has said nothing, and you assume it’s because she knew what her daughter did.
everybody keeps staring at each other for a while, with your daughter having a staring contest with the other girl.
“we will deal with our daughter accordingly,” kento speaks up as he stands up, straightening his suit, “but we expect that the girl is also held accountable for her shameful actions. thank you.”
you and d/n get up, and the three of you exit the office—like icons. kento holds your hand and d/n’s, and you giggle, “did you see how they looked?”
“should you be encouraging d/n about laughing at others?” your husband asks with a small quirk of his eyebrow. you nod confidently.
“if they’re rude then yes!”
he shakes his head helplessly with a smile. then your daughter looks up to kento as you are walking and says excitedly, “dad, I won!”
your husband looks down at her then smiles gently, nodding as he gives her a thumbs up. you raise your eyebrows and gasp lowly, “hypocrisy?”
“hmm, I don’t know.”
GETO SUGURU:
your daughters hang off their dad’s back as you guys head to the principal’s office. they squeal and giggle, and suguru has an ever-permanent smile.
he is holding onto your hand gently and says, “don’t worry; I doubt that the girls actually caused damage.”
“I know, but what I am curious about is why they would get into something,” you reply, pensive, “I know my daughters very well,” you smile, and the girls grin.
they start chanting your name, clapping, and saying I love you a million times.
you open the door slowly and are met with the principal standing in front of his desk and a girl standing on top of it. your eyebrows furrow in confusion, as you all enter.
your husband wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close. he tilts his head, “so, what’s wrong?”
the man drums his fingers on the desk, leaning back, “your daughters have ganged up on my daughter.”
the both of you take a moment to examine the girl from afar. there seems nothing wrong with her: no bruise, no blood, no nothing.
you exchange looks, and you take the turn to speak up, “your daughter looks okay to me.”
the man huffs and crosses his arms, “she was hurt emotionally! severely too!”
the girl nods strongly and pouts. her dad gasps and hugs her. he then starts coddling her before asking her, “what did they say to you, sugarplum?”
“they said that I looked like a mole rat, daddy!” she replies, hand on her chest as she ‘falls’ to her knees, “and—and that’s only one of the many bad things they said!”
the man gasps yet again and starts comforting her.
you and your husband let out a snort, barely containing your laughter. the girls puff their chest in confidence. you and suguru look at each other with a poorly hidden grin, and you get caught.
the man fumes, “you’re laughing at my dear sweet princess sugar?!”
“no, we are laughing at the insult,” you reply.
“it’s quite creative,” suguru chuckles before turning to the girls who have long let go of him. he kneels down and asks them, “why did you guys do that?”
“she pulled my hair!” one of the twins spoke.
the other chimes in, “and she made fun of me.”
“oh.”
just from that word alone, you can tell which path your husband is gonna take in continuing this conversation. you have a half a mind to make him summon rainbow dragon to take you home.
you just wanted to know the reason, and suguru is probably never going to leave it at that. forget how ‘calm’ he usually is, his family should never be insulted.
“…see, this why you’re all a bunch of monkeys.”
“monkeys!!” the twins scream in unison.
this time both the principal and the daughter gasp incredulously. your secretly a diva of a husband carries your girls then holds your hand before exiting the office.
he walks in silence, and you quirk an eyebrow, “so, what are you going to do, mister ‘filthy monkeys’?”
“I have a feeling that you’re making fun of me, honey.”
“and that feeling would be right.”
the girls settle on his shoulders, freeing his arms, and he takes the chance to tickle you. you squeal, “suguru, stop! I am serious! not in public!”
“but you’re being mean, sweetheart,” he mock pouts, “such bad things you’re saying.”
your roll your eyes, and you guys continue on your merry way back home.
that event passed by like a breeze, but for some reason, the school has been appointed a new principal because the last one went missing.
I wonder why.
FUSHIGURO TOJI:
“relax, ma,” your husband says as he rubs your shoulder in hopes of comforting you, “the kid is surely fine; he is our son after all.”
“I know, toji! but what if he did get hurt?” you fret then scowl, “I swear to god, if they harm a single hair on megumi’s head, I will make them wish they were never born!”
toji smirks lightly and ruffles your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, before opening the door. he sees megumi sat, arms crossed and frowning.
involuntary, toji lets out a sigh of relief, and you waste no time in going to your son and checking on him, bombarding him with questions.
“did you get hurt?”
“no.”
“did he hurt you?”
“no.”
“are you okay?”
“yes.”
“are you sure?”
“yes, mom, I am fine,” megumi murmurs, cheeks heating up at your affection. toji chuckles at the display before looking at the principal.
the man purses his lips before sighing, “your son has beaten up jay.”
you and your husband blink silently. then your husband tilts his head, “who?”
the principal grits his teeth before standing up. he crosses his arms before huffing, “jay, the son of the town’s mayor! that boy is as important as his father, yet your son has so brazenly hurt him!”
you frown, “I don’t care who he is, and I am sure that my son won’t hit somebody for no reason!”
megumi nods, and you smile at him.
you pat his hair gently, and he reluctantly leans into the affection. meanwhile, toji has been listening silently before turning to megumi and asking, “who the hell is that?”
“the one with the sea slug hair,” he replies instantly. you let out a hum of recognition.
your husband stares blankly before he clicks his finger, “oh,” he then looks at megumi and ruffles his hair with a small grin, “I hated that kid’s dad—good job.”
megumi lets out a small smile before giving his dad a thumbs up. you roll your eyes with no real annoyance behind them and side-eye toji.
toji chuckles then looks at the fuming principal. the man, now red in the face, yells, “mr fushiguro, that is unacceptable behavior from both you and your son!”
“…okay?”
you shake your head and usher megumi out of the room. you and toji share a look, before you close the door. the moment it clicks, your husband turns to the principal with a blank face.
he takes a few steps, stopping right in front of the man. toji grabs the principal’s shoulder then speaks lowly, “you won’t speak of this, ‘kay?”
he nods frantically, face contorting as he tries to compose himself. toji smirks and heads to the door with a small wave, “see ya never, teach.”
your husband finds you and megumi in the school’s garden.
he sees megumi and yuuji—his friend—playing together, while you relax on the bench. for some reason, toji feels a wave of warmth flood his chest as when he sees you and megumi smiling.
yuuji yells something to you that makes you laugh heartily. toji feels himself relax and smile just slightly. it’s moments like these he feels ever so grateful to have you in his life.
and he swears to forever protect you and megumi. he has acknowledged a long time ago that his only wish is to be by your side.
that’s why, in no time, he is behind you, effectively blocking the sun. you look up from where you’re sat to your husband.
“hey pretty,” he hums.
you chuckle as he rests his elbows on the bench, “slain?”
he grins, “slain.”
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3K notes · View notes
pucksandpower · 6 months ago
Text
Baby Girl Norris
Lando Norris x pediatrician!Reader
Summary: you know what you have to do — track down a world-famous Formula 1 driver, tell him about his newborn daughter, and maybe, if he’s willing, help him navigate single fatherhood — falling in love with their little family was not part of the plan … but doing so changes all your lives for the better
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You take a deep breath as you enter the nursery, steeling yourself for the task ahead. As a pediatrician at the Princess Grace Hospital in Monaco, you’ve cared for thousands of babies over the years. But this case is different.
Baby Girl Norris, born just two hours ago, is now legally parentless after her mother signed away all parental rights. Hospital protocol demands you track down and notify the father before assuming guardianship. Easier said than done when the father is Formula 1 superstar Lando Norris.
Approaching the clear bassinet, you gaze down at the sleeping newborn. Wispy dark hair peeks out from under her pink cap. Ten tiny fingers curled into fists. She has no idea how complicated her life is about to become.
You flip through the chart again, verifying the details. Mother is French, here on a student visa. Refused to even look at the baby after a 27-hour labor, immediately signing away rights. Father listed as one Lando Norris of the United Kingdom.
You sigh, picking up the phone to dial the number listed. It rings five times before disconnecting. You try the landline for his Monaco residence with the same result. Probably outdated.
Time for plan B. You search the McLaren Racing website until you find a generic service line. Heart pounding, you dial.
“McLaren Technology Centre, this is Marie speaking.”
You take a breath. “Hello, I apologize for the strange request, but I need to reach Lando Norris as soon as possible. It’s … it’s regarding a private family matter.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Norris does not accept unsolicited communications. Have a nice-”
“Wait!” You interject. “Please, I am calling from Princess Grace Hospital in Monaco. We have a newborn baby girl here, and we believe Mr. Norris may be the father.”
Marie hesitates. “Hold please, I’ll transfer you.”
Your pulse quickens. This may actually work! But your hopes are quickly dashed.
“This is Andrew from McLaren Racing public relations. May I ask who I’m speaking with?” His tone is suspicious.
You explain again about the baby, her mother, and the situation.
Andrew sighs loudly. “I’m sure you understand we get calls like this constantly. Lando isn’t even in the hemisphere right now. I’m afraid we can’t help you.”
“No, wait, please!” But the line goes dead.
You frown, gears turning. The team must think you’re some obsessed fan or scammer. You’ll have to get creative.
Over the next two days, you call every related number you can find. Each time you’re met with more resistance. They must have flagged your information as a nuisance caller.
On the third day, you’re signing charts at the nurse’s station when a colleague walks by. “Did you hear? Lando Norris is coming to take a tour of the hospital next week. Some charity thing.”
Your eyes widen. This is it — your chance to intercept him in person!
You spend the next few days obsessing over what to say, how to convince him. Baby Girl Norris needs her father.
The big day arrives. Heart hammering, you lurk near the lobby, peering around the hallway corner as Lando walks in flanked by handlers. He looks exhausted but flashes his winning smile at the staff welcoming him.
You watch them start down the opposite hallway for the tour when you make your move. Rushing forward, you plant yourself firmly in his path.
“Mr. Norris! Sorry, I need just a minute of your time, it’s urgent-”
A member of his team immediately swoops in, pushing you back. “Ma’am, please. We kindly ask that you step aside.”
“No, wait!” You raise your voice over them. “Mr. Norris, my name is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. I’m a pediatrician here. I’ve been trying to reach you for days now regarding your newborn daughter!”
The team looks exasperated, but Lando holds up a hand. “It’s okay, let her speak.” His eyes bore into yours warily.
You take a breath. “I know this sounds insane. But a baby girl was born here last week to a French student named Celeste Dubois. On the birth certificate, she named you as the father before signing away parental rights.”
You continue explaining the situation rapidly, watching Lando’s eyes widen in shock.
One of his handlers steps in. “You honestly expect us to believe this wild story? We’re on a timeline.” He tries to tug Lando along.
“No, it’s okay.” Lando stands firm, studying you intently. “What proof do you have of any of this?”
You hold his gaze. “I can show you the birth certificate, but a DNA test would confirm if you’re the father. It’s hospital policy to notify and provide the father an opportunity to assume custody.”
Lando chews his lip nervously. His team murmurs among themselves.
After a long pause, he speaks. “Even if this is some scam or mix-up, that poor child deserves to have answers. Please, lead the way for a test.”
You breathe a sigh of relief. Wordlessly, you turn and lead Lando to the lab. His team protests but he insists on following through.
In the lab, you supervise as the technician takes a simple cheek swab. “24 to 48 hours for results,” she confirms.
Lando nods, looking dazed. “Right. Okay. If she’s really mine, I want to step up. Just call me, yeah?” He extends his number on a slip of paper.
You smile and promise to be in touch. As he turns to leave, you feel swarmed with emotions. One major hurdle down, but nothing certain yet.
The next 48 hours pass at a snail’s pace. When the lab calls, your fingers shake as you unfold the results. Positive. A 99.99% match.
You pass along the news and arrange a meeting at the hospital. The press can’t know about this yet.
Approaching the secluded waiting room, you pause to observe Lando through the window. He paces nervously, running his hands through his hair again and again. His usual polished veneer is gone, replaced by a young man anxiously awaiting life-changing news. Your heart goes out to him.
Finally knocking, he whirls around as you enter. “Well? Is she really mine?”
You nod, holding out the results. He accepts them with unsteady hands.
“I’m sorry I ever doubted you,” he says quietly. “This is just ... a lot.”
“I understand. It’s a complicated situation. But you’re here now.” You offer an encouraging smile.
Lando takes a deep breath. “Can I meet her?”
You lead him to the nursery viewing room. He presses against the glass, eyes scanning until they settle on bassinet D7. His brows knit together.
“That’s her?” His voice wavers slightly.
You nod. “Would you like to go inside and hold her?”
He hesitates. “I don’t want to confuse or upset her.”
You gesture reassuringly. “Newborns seek warmth and a gentle touch. She’ll appreciate the contact.”
Looking uncertain, Lando follows you into the nursery. You lift the swaddled baby, carefully transferring her into Lando’s awkward embrace. He peers down at her, his expression unreadable.
“She’s so tiny ...” he murmurs. The newborn girl yawns, eyes still shut, snuggling instinctively into his chest.
Lando’s guarded facade finally cracks, eyes glistening. He adjusts his arms to cradle her more securely.
“Hi there,” he whispers. “I’m your ...” He trails off, not quite able to say it.
You touch his shoulder gently. “You’re her father. And she needs you.”
He nods, never breaking his gaze from the newborn’s face. “I’ll do right by her, I promise. Whatever it takes.”
Relief sweeps over you. While an arduous legal process awaits, this sweet child will finally have a real family.
As Lando rocks the baby gently, he suddenly laughs. “She’s a real beauty, isn’t she? Look at that hair. Thick and curly, just like her old man.”
You chuckle. “It appears so. Have you thought about a name?”
He hums contemplatively. “I’ve always been partial to Georgia. Gigi for short.”
“Georgia Norris,” you say with a smile. “It’s perfect.”
The new father beams down at his daughter. “Welcome to the world, little Gigi. I can’t wait to take you home.”
As you observe this tender moment, your heart swells for both father and daughter. With someone as loving and dedicated as Lando by her side, Gigi’s future looks bright indeed.
Watching them meet for the first time — seeing a family begin to blossom out of hardship and uncertainty — is the greatest reward of your job. As you quietly slip out to give them space, you can’t hold back a smile. Everything, after all, is turning out exactly as it should.
***
After spending over an hour bonding with his newborn daughter in the nursery, Lando reluctantly hands her back to the nurse for feeding time. He turns to you, smiling but still looking dazed.
“I can’t thank you enough, Y/N. Really. You’ve given me and Gigi a new start.”
You touch his arm warmly. “Of course. I’m so glad I could help connect you two. She’s absolutely beautiful.”
Lando grins proudly. “She really is perfect. I already love her so much, it’s mad. I just ...” His face falls slightly. “I don’t have the first clue how to actually take care of a baby. Let alone with my job, traveling all the time for races and training. What have I gotten myself into?”
He runs an anxious hand through his curls. Your heart goes out to him.
“Hey, it’s okay.” You gesture for him to follow you out to the waiting room for privacy.
Lando collapses onto the sofa, head in hands. “Sorry, I’m just now fully realizing what this means. A baby, she’s completely dependent on me! I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’m barely an adult myself!”
You sit beside him. “Lando, look at me.” He lifts his head reluctantly. You offer an encouraging smile.
“It’s normal to feel overwhelmed. But you stepped up when Gigi needed you most. That’s what matters. With some guidance, you’ll be an amazing father.”
He doesn’t look convinced. You continue gently, “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll give you all the essential information for first-time parents. I’ll even set you up with parenting classes, and we have a support group-”
Lando groans loudly, letting his head fall back. You suppress a chuckle.
“Okay, forget classes for now. Just focus on learning the basics. Things like feeding, changing, bathing. Infant CPR. I’ll give you my cell to text with questions anytime. Day or night.”
You jot down your number and hand it to him. He nods, looking slightly encouraged.
“We’ll also get you connected with services that can assist first-time parents with supplies, nutrition consultants, and childcare options.”
His eyes widen again. “God, I haven’t even told my family yet! Or bought anything she’ll need!” He scrubs at his face anxiously.
You lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Breathe. Setbacks are expected. But you’ll get there.”
Lando takes a deep breath, regaining some composure. “You’re right. Sorry for the meltdown. I really appreciate you talking me down.”
“Don’t apologize. I’d be more concerned if you weren’t at all anxious about this huge life change.”
You smile warmly. “But you accepted your daughter unconditionally when it mattered most. Not every man in your position would do that. I know you’ll figure the rest out over time. It’s a process.”
He nods, starting to calm down. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. We’ll take it step by step.”
You spend the next hour walking Lando through all the basics — safe sleep, feeding schedules, hygiene, developmental milestones, and pediatrician visits. He takes vigorous notes on his phone, determination returning to his face.
“Clothes, blankets, nappies, bottles ...” He mumbles to himself as he types. “Maybe pick up a parenting book or two as well ...”
You grin, happy to see him growing more at ease and optimistic. When the nurse returns with a sleeping Gigi, Lando immediately takes her back into his arms.
“We’ve got this, little one,” he whispers to her. “I’ll give you the absolute best in life … starting with a nice new flat for us here in Monaco.” He looks back at you questioningly.
You nod in approval. “Giving Gigi a stable home should be your top priority.”
He smiles down at the baby, gently stroking her cheek. “Daddy will take good care of you. I promise.”
Your heart swells at the natural bond already forming between father and daughter. In this moment, any lingering doubts fade away. However difficult the road ahead, together they’ll be just fine.
After another hour visiting together, it’s time for Lando to head out. He’s clearly still anxious but also radiating love when he gazes at Gigi.
“Thank you again for everything,” he says sincerely, shaking your hand. “I’ll call my parents when I get home. Figure out how to break the news and beg for their help.”
He chuckles and you join in. “Don’t hesitate to text me anytime. About anything.”
Lando glances down at your scrawled cell number, then back up with a crooked grin. “Careful or I might take you up on the anything part.”
You blush slightly, waving him off. “Get out of here, you charmer. Go buy a crib and get some rest. Your life is about to get very busy.”
With a laugh, Lando walks backwards toward the exit, pointing finger guns at you. “Yes ma’am, Dr. Y/L/N. Catch you later.”
You stand shaking your head as he disappears from view. What an interesting patient case this has turned out to be.
Over the next several weeks, you and Lando text constantly. He sends cute videos and photos of Gigi along with his near-constant questions about her care. You don’t mind at all — you’re happy to guide him through this life transition.
True to his word, he quickly finds and furnishes a family-friendly luxury apartment in Monaco. He introduces Gigi to his stunned but excited parents via video call. He adjusts his training schedule to maximize time with her.
When his race travel resumes, he arranges for his parents or a local nanny to assist with Gigi full-time. Still, being apart takes an obvious toll on him.
The day before he’s set to fly to Australia for the first race of the season, Lando texts you a selfie looking forlorn, with Gigi snoozing on his chest.
Can you believe she’s already a month old? I don’t want to leave her!
You grin down at the photo. Gigi’s little rosebud lips are slightly parted as she sleeps. Lando’s staring at her adoringly despite the bags under his eyes.
I know it’s hard being away from her. But Gigi knows she has a father who loves her so much. Focus on making her proud out there!
You always know just what to say, doc. I’ll text you after the race!
You smile softly as you set down your phone. Over the past weeks, you’ve found yourself looking forward to Lando’s frequent messages and photos. He’s relieved when you reassure him he’s doing a great job as a new dad. And seeing Gigi thrive and grow under his doting care makes your heart fuller.
Professionally, your work is done now that Gigi and Lando are connected. But you can’t help feeling personally invested in this little family you helped create. You make a silent vow to always be there for them both, as long as they need you.
***
Weeks later, you’re jolted awake by your ringing cellphone. Bleary-eyed, you check the time: 2:37 am. Who could be calling at this hour?
You don’t recognize the number on your buzzing phone. But you answer anyway, just in case it’s an emergency.
“Hello?” You mumble into the phone.
“Y/N? Oh thank god!” The panicked voice on the other end makes you sit bolt upright.
Lando.
“Lando? What’s wrong?” Worry floods your system, instantly washing away any grogginess.
“It’s Georgia,” he cries. “She woke up crying and felt so hot. I took her temperature — it’s 39 degrees! I think she has a fever?”
You’re already throwing off your blankets, phone tucked against your shoulder. “Okay, stay calm. How is she acting otherwise?”
“She’s crying and really fussy. Won’t take her bottle. I don’t know what to do!” Lando sounds near tears himself.
“Shhh, deep breath,” you soothe. “Fever in babies this young is serious. You need to take her to emergency department right away.”
“Right, emergency, of course-” Lando rambles nervously.
“I’ll meet you there ASAP. Princess Grace Hospital, yes?”
“Yes, please hurry!” He ends the call abruptly. You scramble for clothes with adrenaline pounding.
In under ten minutes, you’re peeling out of your driveway towards the hospital. Even at this hour, Monaco’s streets remain congested. You drum your fingers anxiously on the steering wheel, praying Georgia will be okay.
Once you’ve parked, you race inside the ED doors. Your eyes scan the crowded waiting room until you spot Lando pacing in the corner, Georgia whimpering against his shoulder.
You rush over. “Lando!”
He turns, relief washing over his features. “Y/N, you came. Thank you.”
“Of course.” You squeeze his arm comfortingly before looking Georgia over with practiced eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, eyelids fluttering as she whines. Definitely not well.
Lando bounces lightly, trying to soothe her. “They told me it’s at least an hour wait. She’s getting worse though.” His eyes glisten with tears.
Your protective instincts flare, seeing them both so distraught. Striding to the check-in desk, you put on your most authoritative voice.
“Excuse me, I’m Dr. Y/L/N. I have an infant patient here who needs immediate evaluation.”
The nurse scans the packed waiting room. “I’m so sorry doctor, we’re doing our best. If you could just wait-”
You interrupt firmly. “This is a seven week old with a spiking fever. She requires urgent triage and treatment, not a waiting room. I must insist we be seen next.”
The nurse purses her lips, but can’t really argue with your reasoning. “Of course. I’ll let the charge nurse know to get you back immediately.”
You nod curtly before returning to Lando, who looks awed. “Blimey, remind me not to get on your bad side.”
The hint of a smile on his lips relieves you. Georgia’s still fussy as you both follow a nurse back moments later.
In an exam room, you help transfer the baby from Lando’s arms to the table. Her pitiful crying tugs at your heart.
Lando hovers anxiously as you take Georgia’s vitals and change her into a hospital gown. 39.1°C — higher than the concerning range for an infant. You frown in worry. Poor little love.
Soon the attending pediatrician arrives to assess her. You explain the situation from Lando’s frantic call to racing over. The doctor asks questions while examining Georgia’s ears, throat, and reflexes. Lando clutches your hand tightly the entire time.
After what feels like an eternity, the pediatrician steps back. “Given the fever with no apparent source, I’m concerned this could be a serious bacterial infection. We’ll run labs to check for things like meningitis. Start IV antibiotics and paracetamol to bring her fever down quickly.”
Lando pales, swaying slightly at the onslaught of medical terms. You slip an arm around him supportively.
“You’re saying she might have meningitis?” Lando chokes out.
The doctor holds up his hands. “It’s just one possibility. We’re not sure yet. The labs will tell us more.”
Lando buries his face in his hands. Your heart breaks seeing his shoulders shaking.
After the doctor departs to order tests, you guide Lando to sit down, keeping an arm around him. “Hey, try to breathe. Georgia needs her daddy calm and strong right now.”
Lando drags a hand over his wet eyes. “God, I’m trying. But she’s so little and sick. What if … what if it’s something serious?” His voice breaks again.
You turn him gently to face you, hands on his shoulders. “Listen to me. Whatever is going on, we will figure it out, okay? I’m right here with you both.”
He searches your face before nodding unsteadily. You draw him into a fierce hug.
“We’ve got this,” you whisper.
A nurse entering startles you apart. “Alright, time for labs.”
You both watch anxiously as she collects blood and other samples from a deeply unhappy Georgia. Her shrieking cries at the poking and prodding are harrowing. Lando has gone deathly pale.
Once finished, the nurse situates an IV line in Georgia’s tiny hand, securing it with tape and popping a pacifier in her mouth. Her eyelids droop, cries fading to soft whimpers as medication starts flowing.
You glance at Lando. “Why don’t you hold her again? Skin to skin contact will help soothe you both.”
Looking relieved by the suggestion, Lando strips off his shirt and takes Georgia, nestling her against his bare chest. You drape a blanket over them before rubbing his back comfortingly.
Georgia’s fussing settles as her father hums softly, eyes never leaving her face. The pure love between them makes your throat tighten.
Despite the uncertainty ahead, you know Georgia couldn’t be in better hands. And you silently vow to remain steadfast by their side, for whatever comes next.
Eventually Georgia drifts to sleep. The pediatrician returns shortly after with test results. “Good news. All the cultures are negative so far. With the antibiotics and paracetamol, her fever is already decreasing.”
You and Lando both sigh in relief.
“So no meningitis?” Lando asks hopefully.
The doctor shakes his head. “Doesn’t appear to be. We’ll repeat testing tomorrow, but likely just a minor bacterial infection. She’ll need to stay a few days for monitoring and fluids.”
Lando clutches Georgia closer. “Anything she needs. Thank you, doctor.”
Once you’re alone again, Lando gazes down at his sleeping daughter. “I was so scared,” he admits softly.
You nod, squeezing his shoulder. “I know. But she’s getting great care now. Try and rest — it’s been a long night.”
Lando glances at the empty cot along the wall. “Stay? Please? I … I don’t want to be alone right now.” His voice sounds so small and vulnerable.
Your chest tightens. “Of course.”
You help shift Lando and Georgia onto the little bed. She stirs slightly as you both get settled on either side of her.
Lando strokes Georgia’s cheek tenderly. “My brave girl. You’re going to be just fine.” Glancing up, his eyes meet yours. “Thank you, Y/N. For everything.”
You offer a tired smile, taking his hand. “That’s what I’m here for. Get some sleep.”
Exhaustion quickly pulls you under. But Lando’s hand remains wrapped firmly in yours until morning.
A strong bond has formed between the three of you. And you know that whatever the future brings, you’ll be facing it together.
***
A few weeks after the scare, you’re finishing paperwork at your desk when your cell rings. Lando’s name pops up, making you smile.
Since the hospitalization, you and Lando have fallen into a routine of near daily calls and texts about Georgia. You don’t mind at all — you adore hearing the latest antics and milestones of your special little patient. Not to mention Lando’s voice tends to brighten your day.
You answer warmly. “Lando! How are my favorite patients today?”
He chuckles. “Well, Georgia just mastered holding her head up while on her tummy. She’s getting so strong! But uh, that’s actually why I’m calling ...”
You detect the hesitancy in his tone. “What’s up?”
Lando sighs. “So McLaren just sprung a mandatory sponsorship meeting on me last minute. It’s in like an hour. I don’t have any childcare lined up though.”
You frown sympathetically. The demands of Lando’s career often collide with new parenthood. “Oh no. Can you reschedule or bring Georgia with you?”
“I tried, but it’s impossible to postpone. And definitely not an ideal environment for a baby,” he laments. “I don’t have any family nearby and my usual nanny said it’s too short notice.”
Your thoughts race, heart sinking at imagining his distress. “Hmm. Well, do you happen to have any trusted neighbors or friends there who could babysit?”
Lando makes a frustrated noise. “I’ve barely met my neighbors. And my mates, well, most are even less qualified than me for childcare. I’m stuck.” Defeat colors his tone.
You bite your lip, hesitating only a moment before saying gently, “Lando, I could come watch her.”
“What? Really?” He sounds stunned. “But isn’t it your day off?”
“It’s no problem, truly,” you insist. “I don’t live far. Be there in fifteen?”
“I-I don’t know what to say. You’re a lifesaver, Y/N. Thank you, thank you!” Lando gushes gratefully.
You smile, already grabbing your keys. “Anytime. See you soon!”
On the drive over, butterflies flutter in your stomach. You adore Georgia, of course. But something about visiting Lando’s home, being fully immersed in his world, feels monumentally intimate.
Taking a deep breath, you remind yourself that your priority is helping a friend in need.
You park outside Lando’s sleek modern condo building and take the elevator up after checking in with the concierge. Before you can even knock, the front door swings open.
“Y/N, thank god,” Lando sighs in relief. He looks unfairly attractive despite being slightly disheveled in a dress shirt and slacks. “Please, come in.”
Stepping inside the open concept condo, your eyes sweep over minimalist furniture and racing memorabilia decorating the shelves. Cozy baby items like a playmat and bouncer provide stark contrast. It’s uniquely Lando.
“Nice place,” you remark sincerely.
“Thanks. Still feels empty sometimes, but slowly making it a home for Gigi.” He smiles softly. “Speaking of which ...”
You follow Lando down a short hallway to the nursery. Your heart melts at the sight of Georgia kicking on a playmat, wearing a pink romper with a giant bow.
Lando swoops her up, blowing raspberries on her cheek. “Daddy’s got a big important meeting, princess. But Y/N is going to play with you instead.”
He passes the baby over. Georgia gives you a gummy smile, cooing.
“There’s my sweet girl.” You tickle her belly, eliciting a giggle. Lando beams proudly.
“Alright, her bottle is prepped in the fridge, and there’s clean nappies on the change table. Call if you need anything at all.”
Lando leans down to kiss Georgia’s head. “Be good for Y/N, monkey.”
With a final grateful smile your way, he heads out. You settle on the nursery floor with Georgia. “What adventures shall we have today, miss?”
The next few hours pass in a blur of playing, feeding, changing, and rocking little Georgia. You even manage a nap time by singing softly, something that always seemed to soothe her in the hospital.
Watching her sleep, you feel a rush of tenderness for the tiny being who has depended on you since her first moments. You vow to always be there when Lando and Georgia need you.
Soon enough, Lando returns home looking drained. But his whole face lights up seeing you and Georgia on the floor.
“How’d it go?” He asks, crouching down to tickle her toes.
“Perfect. We had lots of fun, isn’t that right, lovebug?” You hand the baby over for cuddles.
“Daddy missed you.” Lando nuzzles Georgia, before giving you a grateful smile. “I can’t thank you enough. Truly. You’re a natural with her.”
You wave off his praise, but can’t deny the warm spark his words ignite.
After chatting a bit more about Georgia’s afternoon and Lando’s meeting, it’s time for you to head out.
At the door, Lando halts you with a gentle hand on your wrist.
“Hey, let me take you to dinner this week — a proper thank you,” he entreats. “Anywhere you like.”
Your pulse quickens. It sounds suspiciously close to a date. But Lando’s smiling hopefully, and you find yourself nodding before overthinking it.
“I’d love that.”
Lando grins, looking both relieved and excited. “Brilliant! I’ll text you details. Have a safe drive home.”
Strapping into your car, your thoughts race wildly. This man and his daughter have captured your heart. What started as a professional duty has grown into so much more.
As you drive away, Lando and Georgia waving from the window, you can’t keep the giddy smile off your face.
Your lives are intertwining in the most marvelous ways. And you can’t wait to see what adventures are in store next.
***
The following Saturday evening, you stand in front of the mirror, fussing with your hair and makeup. Glancing at the clock, you feel butterflies swarming. Lando will arrive any minute to pick you up for dinner.
You smooth non-existent wrinkles from your knee-length black dress. It’s daringly low cut for you, but you want to feel beautiful tonight.
A buzz from your phone makes you jolt. Lando is here! Taking a deep breath, you grab your purse and hurry downstairs.
Stepping outside your apartment building, you freeze in awe. Gleaming in the golden hour sunlight is a sleek dark blue vintage supercar unlike any other you’ve seen before.
The driver door opens, and Lando steps out looking devastatingly handsome in a tailored suit. He beams. “Wow, Y/N. You look absolutely stunning.”
You blush at the sincerity in his warm gaze. “Thank you. This is … quite the car!”
Lando grins, patting the hood affectionately. “She’s my baby — a Lamborghini Miura. Isn’t she a beauty?”
You take in the aerodynamic lines and what you can only assume is a very powerful engine. “Gorgeous. And probably costs more than my yearly income.”
Lando laughs. “But she’s perfect for impressing a lovely date.” He winks before opening the passenger door for you.
You carefully climb in, hyper aware of the tiny black dress riding up your thighs. Lando’s eyes trace your legs appreciatively as you smooth your skirt.
Soon you’re zipping through the seaside city, wind whipping your hair through the open windows. Lando navigates the roads expertly.
He glances your way. “Hope this is alright! Wanted to take the fun car out while the weather holds up.”
You grin at him. “Are you kidding? I feel like a movie star!”
He looks delighted, picking up speed as you both relax into the ride.
Before long, you pull up at the legendary Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo. A uniformed valet opens your door. Taking the proffered hand, you step out feeling like a princess.
Lando offers his arm. “Shall we?”
Inside the opulent restaurant, you’re quickly shown to an intimate table beside a window overlooking the glittering Mediterranean sea. Soft piano music fills the space.
“Lando, this is incredible,” you breathe, taking it all in.
He smiles, eyes never leaving your face. “Only the best for you.”
You blush again at his sincerity. A waiter appears to take your drink order. When you request just water, Lando insists you pick any wine on the menu.
You settle on a creamy chardonnay that pairs perfectly with your scallops and Lando’s steak. Thoughtful touches like him pulling out your chair or refilling your wine glass make the lavish meal all the more special.
The conversation flows effortlessly from racing to traveling to favourite films and music. More than once, Lando’s foot brushes yours beneath the table, sending sparks skittering across your skin.
After dessert, you both linger over coffee, hands unconsciously joined on the pristine tablecloth between you. The connection humming between you feels profound.
When Lando finally checks his watch with a reluctant sigh, you’re surprised to see you’ve been there for over three hours. It felt like mere minutes.
On the drive back, you steal glances at his sharp profile in the fading light. Joy bubbles inside you. The evening exceeded your wildest expectations.
Too soon, you’re pulling up outside your building. Lando hurries around to open your door, ever the gentleman. Clasping his hand, you step out onto the curb together.
Turning, you find him watching you closely. “I had the most wonderful time tonight,” you say sincerely.
Lando’s face breaks into a grin. “Truly magical. Thank you for coming, Y/N.” He squeezes your hand, thumb tracing delicate circles.
On impulse, you lean up and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Lando.”
With a final squeeze of his hand, you turn and walk inside, casting a coy look back to see him touching his cheek in wonder.
Safely in your apartment, you kick off your heels, collapsing onto the sofa with a giddy smile. The evening played in your mind like a movie — the fancy car, exquisite dinner, effortless conversation. And that powerful connection with Lando blossoming into something new and tender.
What started as a professional relationship has organically grown into a deep friendship over your shared love of little Georgia. But tonight awoke a yearning for more. You sensed the same from Lando in the way he looked at you — with affection, wonder, and desire.
You drift off on the couch still reliving each vivid moment. This feels like the start of something life changing.
Meanwhile, Lando remains fixed outside your building, fingers brushing the spot your lips graced. The soft press seared an imprint deep within him.
People had warned him pursuing anything romantic with Georgia’s physician was unwise. But from the instant he saw you holding his fragile newborn girl, instinct told him you were special. That only grew each day as your compassion and devotion soothed his frightened heart.
Tonight confirmed what he felt blooming for weeks now — he’s completely enchanted by you.
With your laughter still echoing in his mind, Lando finally drives off into the night. He knows his future, wherever it leads, must have you and Georgia in it. He’s falling, fast and hard.
And for once, recklessly chasing his heart feels entirely right. He just hopes you’ll take this leap with him.
***
On a sunny afternoon, you’re sitting cross-legged on Lando’s living room rug playing with Georgia. At nearly four months old now, she’s mastered rolling over and absolutely loves tummy time.
You grin as she determinedly pushes up on her hands, rocking back and forth. “That’s it, clever girl! You’ve almost got it.”
Georgia gives you a gummy smile before toppling over with a huff. Behind you, Lando chuckles from the couch where he’s on hold with a takeaway place.
“I swear she gets more stubborn every day. Definitely takes after me,” he remarks fondly.
You smile. “She knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to work for it. Sound familiar?”
Lando laughs. “Too right. At this rate, she’ll be racing cars herself soon.”
You’re about to respond when the sound of the front door opening makes you both freeze. Before you can react, an accented female voice calls out excitedly.
“Lando, darling! Surprise, we’ve come to visit!”
Lando flies off the couch just as his parents round the corner. “Mum! Dad! What are you doing here?”
He embraces them both tightly while you hover awkwardly behind Georgia. What must Lando’s family think finding a strange woman playing with their grandchild?
But before you can open your mouth to explain, Lando’s mum spots you. Her face lights up. “Y/N! How wonderful to finally meet you in person!”
To your shock, she swoops down and hugs you like a long lost relative. Bewildered, you return the embrace.
Over her shoulder, Lando rubs his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, I may have told them a fair bit about you and Gigi ...”
His father approaches next, politely shaking your hand. “Lando speaks very highly of you, Y/N. Thank you for taking such good care of our boy and the little one.”
“Oh, um, of course!” You manage to stammer out. Lando mentioned you to his parents? The thought makes your heart flutter wildly.
Before you can dwell on it, Georgia lets out an impatient shriek from her abandoned tummy time.
Cisca gasps, immediately scooping her up. “Oh my goodness, look how big you’ve gotten, baby girl!” She tickles Georgia’s belly, eliciting sweet giggles.
Lando smiles softly at the sight. You feel privileged to witness this intimate family moment.
Soon you’re all seated around the living room, chatting comfortably. Adam keeps throwing not-so-subtle winks Lando’s way whenever you and Cisca fawn over Georgia together. Lando just shakes his head, cheeks slightly flushed.
Later, his parents insist on taking you both out to dinner at a nice restaurant. Over the meal, you observe how Cisca’s animated mannerisms and Adam’s dry wit remind you so much of Lando. He clearly inherited the best of both.
Walking back to the car afterwards, Cisca links her arm through yours fondly. “I’m just thrilled Lando has you looking after him and little Georgia. It takes a very special woman to so selflessly love and support someone else’s child.”
You squeeze her arm, touched. “Well, they make it easy. I’d do anything for those two.”
Cisca pats your hand knowingly. “I can see that, dear. Don’t ever let my son take that for granted.”
Glancing ahead, you watch Lando swinging a sleepy Georgia in his arms, gazing down at her with pure adoration. Your heart clenches.
“I don’t think that’s possible. He’s the most devoted father imaginable,” you reply softly.
Cisca follows your gaze, smiling. “He is at that. Just like his own.”
Adam wraps an arm around his wife, kissing her temple. Cisca leans into him with a contented sigh. Their easy intimacy and abiding love is relationship goals.
You find yourself sneaking another peek at Lando, imagining strolling arm in arm like that one day. But it’s too soon for such daydreams.
Still, meeting his wonderful parents today, seeing how he talks about you … it feels like things are shifting into place.
That night, as Lando walks you to your car, he stops you with a hand on your wrist. “Thank you again for today. You were brilliant with my parents — they’re absolutely smitten.”
You grin. “They’re lovely. I see where you get it from.”
Lando rolls his eyes but smiles bashfully. An impulse has you leaning in to kiss his cheek.
“Goodnight, Lando.” With a little wave, you slip into your car before he can respond.
But the awestruck look on Lando’s face stays with you the whole drive home. Something big is on the horizon, you can feel it.
And if the way his family embraced you today is any indication, you have their full support too. You’ve never been more excited about what the future holds.
***
A few days later, you’re rushing around your apartment getting ready. Lando invited you over for dinner and a movie tonight while his parents watch Georgia. You’ve been looking forward to the rare child-free evening all week.
After debating outfit options, you decide on form fitting jeans and a silky camisole. Casual yet flirty. Dabbing on a bit of perfume, you check yourself in the mirror. You want to knock his socks off.
Precisely at six, your phone chimes with a text from Lando that he’s waiting outside. Taking a deep breath, you go meet him.
As expected, he looks effortlessly handsome leaning against his flashy car grinning at you. “Well don’t you look gorgeous tonight,” he remarks, opening your door.
You smirk, settling into the low seat. “Not looking too bad yourself, Mr. Norris.”
Lando just winks before speeding off into the golden hour sunlight. You chat easily throughout the short drive about your days apart. When you mention missing Georgia, Lando smiles softly.
“Me too, constantly. But she’s in great hands with my parents tonight.” Reaching over, he gives your hand an affectionate squeeze that makes your heart race.
Soon you pull up outside Lando’s sleek condo building. He leads you upstairs, fingers entwined.
Inside, mouthwatering aromas fill the air. You follow Lando to the kitchen where pots bubble away on the stove.
“I hope you’re hungry. My dad’s recipe for chicken curry.” Lando stirs one of the pots before glancing at you shyly. “I may have been practicing all week.”
You grin, touched that he went to such effort. “It smells incredible! I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Full of surprises.” Lando winks. “Now you just relax while I finish up.”
You perch at the kitchen island while Lando works. The domesticity of it all makes your chest feel warm. You could definitely get used to this.
Soon dinner is served along with a crisp white wine. You compliment Lando between bites, making him preen. Everything is delicious.
Over dessert, your feet become entangled beneath the small table. The simmering looks passing between you leave no doubt this is a date.
With dishes cleared, Lando leads you to the living room. “Now, the entertainment portion of the evening.” He gestures grandly towards the large TV.
You settle onto the plush grey sectional while Lando queues up your chosen rom-com. Before pressing play, he pauses.
“Do you maybe want to get more comfortable?” He gestures to the blanket and abundance of throw pillows nearby.
You smile, touched at how he’s trying to create a cozy movie watching environment. “That sounds perfect.”
Working together, you both strip down to t-shirts and lounge pants, then arrange the pillows and blankets into a comfy nest. Your heart races at the intimacy of it all.
Lando opens his arms for you to curl against his chest. You sigh, breathing in his comforting scent. His steady heartbeat thrums beneath your ear as the movie starts.
About halfway through, you glance up to see Lando staring down at you tenderly, movie forgotten. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers trailing down to tilt your chin up. Eyes fluttering shut, you lean in as his lips meet yours in a soft, lingering kiss.
Everything around you fades away. The only sensation is Lando’s gentle lips moving with yours, laced with warmth and affection.
When you finally break apart, faces lingering close, he exhales shakily. “Wow. That was ...”
“Perfect,” you whisper, caressing his stubbled cheek. Lando nuzzles into your touch.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time,” he admits with a crooked smile.
You grin. “What took you so long?”
Lando laughs, pulling you closer again. Your lips find their way back together naturally. With your legs entwined and his hand trailing up and down your back, you lose all track of time and space.
Eventually you pull back just to catch your breath, lips pleasantly swollen. Lando strokes your hair tenderly.
“Y/N, you must know by now how truly special you are to me. From the moment we met, I felt fate bringing us together. And I never want to let you go.” His eyes search yours intently.
Your pulse quickens. “Lando ...”
“What I’m trying to say is ...” He takes a deep breath. “Will you be my girlfriend? Officially?”
Joy erupts inside you as you throw your arms around his neck. “Yes, I’d love nothing more!”
Lando’s delighted laughter vibrates against you as he squeezes you tight. You stay locked in an embrace, trading giddy kisses until sleepiness inevitably sets in.
Lando carries you to bed, tucking you both under the covers with your head pillowed on his chest. You drift off smiling, his steady heartbeat your lullaby.
Waking wrapped in Lando’s arms the next morning feels like pure bliss. He stirs, blinking awake to see you watching him fondly.
“Morning, beautiful.” Lando caresses your cheek before capturing your lips in a tender good morning kiss.
You hum contentedly. “I could get very used to this.”
“Well luckily, you’re my girlfriend now. So you’re stuck with me.” He grins playfully.
You snuggle impossibly closer. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”
***
On a sunny spring morning, you’re in Lando’s kitchen pureeing some bananas for Georgia’s breakfast. At nearly one year old now, she’s mastered eating soft finger foods.
Lando wanders in with Georgia propped on his hip, her dark curls tied up in adorable pigtails. “Someone’s ready for her breakfast!”
You grin, smoothing Georgia’s hair back to kiss her chubby cheek. “Morning, my darling! Got your bananas all ready.”
Lando settles Georgia into her high chair, handing you her baby spoon shaped like a rabbit. “Not sure who’s more excited about mealtimes now, her or me,” he jokes.
You laugh. “Gotta get our girl fed so she has energy to get into everything!”
Georgia bangs her hands impatiently on the tray until you scoop up a spoonful of bananas. “Alright, here comes the Formula 1 car!”
You zoom the spoon around playfully before popping it in her mouth. Georgia squeals in delight, kicking her little feet.
Lando leans against the counter smiling as you continue taking turns feeding her. When the last bites are finished, he grabs a washcloth to wipe Georgia’s sticky face and hands.
“Who’s my big girl eating like such a pro?” He coos, tickling her belly. Georgia dissolves into adorable giggles.
Setting the washcloth down, Lando brushes a stray banana strand from her hair. “You’re the sweetest, most beautiful girl in the whole world. Yes you are!”
Georgia beams up at him, waving her hands excitedly. Then clear as day, she exclaims “Mama!”
You freeze in shock. Did she just ...
Lando’s eyes fly to yours, equally stunned. An awkward tension instantly permeates the room.
“I-I never encouraged that, I swear,” Lando rushes to explain, panicked. “I always call you by name when I talk about you to her.”
“No no, of course, I didn’t think-” You halt, flustered. “I would never try to make her call me ...” You can’t even say it, heart pounding wildly.
A heavy silence falls. You avert your eyes, anxiously twisting the washcloth between your hands.
Lando scrubs a hand down his face. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why she ...” He trails off helplessly.
After a long pause, Lando touches your arm gently. “Hey, look at me?”
You reluctantly meet his earnest gaze. Lando takes your hands in his, tone serious.
“Y/N, you must know how much I respect your role in Georgia’s life. We’re partners in this, fully. I would never try to force a maternal label on you.”
His obvious sincerity makes you instantly relax. Offering a small smile, you squeeze his hands.
“Of course. I didn’t think that. It just took me by surprise is all.” You take a deep breath before continuing hesitantly.
“But, well … the idea of Georgia seeing me that way doesn’t scare me. Not if it happens naturally.” You chance a glance at Lando through your lashes.
His eyes soften. “Truly?” At your shy nod, a smile spreads across his face.
“Because, well, I was thinking the same.” Lando cradles your face between his palms. “You already are a mum to her in every way that matters.”
You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Joy and relief flood your system.
Georgia makes an impatient noise, breaking the tender spell. You both chuckle.
Lando lifts her from the chair into his arms. “Don’t worry princess, your mama isn’t going anywhere.”
Hearing those words from Lando sends your heart soaring. You join the cuddle, Georgia nestled happily between you.
“Our sweet girl,” Lando murmurs, meeting your gaze over her little head. The pure love reflected back at you erases any lingering doubts.
You place a soft kiss to Georgia’s curls, then lean up to capture Lando’s lips. The promise of your future together never felt stronger.
Many more milestones await, for Georgia and your relationship both. But you know without question that the bonds between you three will only continue growing deeper.
Of all the twists and turns on this journey, your little family is the sweetest gift of all.
***
The day of the Monaco Grand Prix dawns bright and clear. You finish braiding Georgia’s hair as she babbles happily. At 18 months old now, her vocabulary expands daily.
“There we go, pretty girl! All set to cheer on Daddy!”
Georgia grins. “Dada race!”
You smile, smoothing her dress. “That’s right, darling!”
A knock sounds right before Lando pokes his head into the nursery. “My two favorite girls about ready?”
Scooping up Georgia, you turn so he can admire her race day outfit. “Well don’t we look beautiful!” Lando tickles Georgia’s tummy before pulling you both into a hug.
“I can’t tell you how much it means to have you both here today,” he says softly.
You squeeze him tight. As a pediatrician, getting full weekends off for races proved nearly impossible. But for Monaco, you moved mountains.
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you assure him. Lando’s responding smile warms your heart.
The energy at the track is electric. Georgia’s eyes widen taking in all the sights and sounds. You carry her through the paddock towards the McLaren garage, Lando greeting various people along the way.
Inside, Lando steals a quick kiss. “I better go get suited up. See you after?”
You nod, adjusting a squirmy Georgia on your hip. “We’ll be cheering the loudest!”
Lando changes into his race suit, then leads you both over to his car. Georgia is mesmerized, reaching a tiny hand towards the shiny machine.
“That’s right munchkin, this is what Daddy drives!” Lando points out key features, then grabs a helmet from a crew member.
“Want to try it on?” Not waiting for an answer, Lando gently fits the helmet over Georgia’s curls. She immediately shrieks in delight.
Laughing, Lando scoops her up, zooming her around like she’s driving. “Look at you, a future champion in the making!”
You snap some photos of the adorable scene until it’s time for Lando to go off with his performance coach. After one last kiss for both of you, he disappears into the controlled pre-race chaos.
An assistant escorts you to the McLaren hospitality suite overlooking the pit lane. The view of the gleaming harbor and yachts reminds you this race is unlike anywhere else.
As start time nears, you cuddle a restless Georgia close, pointing out Lando’s car lined up on the grid. “See? There’s Daddy! He’s about to go racing.” Her little brow furrows, not quite understanding.
When the lights go out, Georgia startles at the loud roar of engines. Rubbing her back soothingly, you keep your eyes glued to the screen as the cars hurtle towards the tight first corner bottleneck.
“Come on Lando,” you murmur under your breath. He emerges from the chaos in 4th position. Off to a promising start.
Over the next 90 minutes, you fluctuate between pure elation and anxiety as the race unfolds. A collision forces Lando to pit unexpectedly. Just as your heart rate settles, another car spins right in front of him, spraying debris across the track.
But Lando holds his nerve, keeping the car under control to cross the line in P3. You leap up, cheering loudly with Georgia.
Soon Lando emerges, hair damp from the obligatory champagne shower.
His race suit is unzipped to the waist as he sweeps you both into an exuberant hug. “You did so good,” you murmur into his neck. Pulling back, Lando caresses Georgia’s head where it rests heavily on your shoulder.
“Little one tuckered herself out cheering for Daddy, hmm?” He takes her gently as she nuzzles into his chest with a yawn.
“Let’s get my best girls home.” With Georgia cradled in one arm and the other around your waist, Lando leads you out of the paddock like a proud family man. Your heart feels fit to burst.
That night after Georgia is tucked into bed, you curl up together on the couch. The TV plays highlights of the race you lived firsthand.
Lando absently strokes your hair. “You know, the lads invited me out to celebrate tonight.”
You lift your head. “Oh really? You should go have fun!”
But Lando just smiles, pulling you closer. “And miss this? Not a chance.” He kisses you tenderly. “Partying in Monaco holds nothing on being with my two favorite people.”
You kiss him again, touched. However far Lando’s career takes him, you know his heart will remain right here with you and Georgia.
***
Summer finally arrives, bringing a short respite between races for Lando. Eager to make the most of it, you suggest visiting your hometown to introduce him and Georgia to your parents.
“They’d love to finally meet you both,” you say over breakfast one morning.
Lando smiles, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “That sounds brilliant, love. I can’t wait to see where you grew up.”
You grin excitedly. “It’s nothing glamorous like Monaco. But I have so many good memories there.”
With plans made, you set off early one sunny Saturday morning, boarding a flight with Georgia securely buckled into her carrier. She babbles happily for most of the flight, enchanted by the clouds and miniature landscape passing below. Lando keeps one hand firmly clasped in yours the entire time.
Late afternoon, you finally pull up outside the cozy house you grew up in. Taking a deep breath, you unbuckle a sleepy Georgia from her seat.
“We’re here, Gigi! Ready to meet Grandma and Grandpa?”
She rubs her eyes with a tiny fist, still drowsy. Lando comes around to lift her into his arms.
“Someone’s a bit tired from all the traveling, huh? Maybe a quick nap first?” He kisses Georgia’s fuzzy head as she snuggles into his shoulder.
You nod, smoothing down her rumpled sundress. Taking Lando’s free hand, you head up the front walk.
Before you can even knock, the front door swings open. Your mum stands beaming at the threshold.
“Y/N! Oh, let me see her!” She sweeps you into a tight hug before immediately cooing over a now awake Georgia. “What an absolute darling!”
You grin. “Mom, meet your granddaughter, Georgia.” Saying it out loud sends a little thrill through you.
Your mother gently strokes Georgia’s dark curls. “Look at all this beautiful hair! Those eyes are all her daddy though.” She smiles warmly at Lando.
“It’s lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Y/L/N,” Lando says politely, shaking her extended hand.
“Oh please, call me Y/M/N! Now come in, come in!” She ushers you both inside the familiar cozy house.
Your dad appears from his office to exchange hearty handshakes and hugs. Lando looks slightly overwhelmed by the enthusiastic welcome.
Sensing this, you squeeze his arm reassuringly. “Why don’t I put Georgia down for her nap? You guys chat.”
Lando shoots you a grateful smile. You disappear down the hall to your childhood bedroom, now converted to a cozy nursery space. Georgia is out like a light before you’ve even finished tucking her in.
Returning to the living room, you pause in the doorway, heart swelling at the scene. Lando sits between your parents on the sofa as they animatedly show him your baby photos. His eyes shine taking it all in. This is the sense of family he’s long craved.
Eventually Georgia wakes, cranky and clingy. You scoop her up, breathing in that sweet baby scent as you rub her back.
“I know, lots of new things happening today. But you’re being so brave.” Dropping a kiss to her curls, you return to the living room.
Your mother immediately reaches for Georgia, who goes willingly into her arms. “Come sit with Grandma, sweetheart.”
Settling on the couch between your parents again, Lando slips an arm around your shoulders. Georgia babbles happily from your mother’s lap.
The rest of the day passes comfortably as your parents dote on their new granddaughter. Watching your mom help Georgia toddle around the yard, your dad pushing her on the tree swing, Lando’s arm stays wrapped securely around you.
That night after Georgia is down, you find Lando out on the back porch gazing up at the stars. You join him on the steps, leaning your head on his shoulder.
“You okay?”
Lando looks down at you with a soft smile. “More than. Today was really special.”
He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Seeing how your parents just immediately welcomed us into the family … it means everything. I never expected to find this.” His voice turns thick with emotion.
You lift your head to meet his sincere gaze, heart brimming over. No words needed, you convey it all in a tender kiss.
When you eventually pull apart, foreheads touching, Lando exhales shakily. “Being here with you and Gigi, it just feels so right. Like we were always meant to be a family.”
Joyful tears prick your eyes hearing him voice the same feeling living inside you. You cradle his face gently.
“We were, Lando. From that very first day in the hospital, I knew fate brought us together for a reason.”
Lando’s responding smile could outshine the moon and stars overhead. He kisses you again, soft and unhurried, arms encircling you on that familiar back porch.
***
Two years to the day after that fateful first meeting, you’re finishing rounds in the maternity ward when your supervisor requests you in her office. Brow furrowed, you make your way down the hall and knock lightly.
“Come in!”
You step inside to find her beaming behind her desk. “Y/N! Please, have a seat.”
Perplexed, you settle into the plush chair across from her. “Is everything okay?”
“Better than okay, I’d say.” She grins and slides an official document across the desk towards you. “Take a look at this.”
You scan the letter, eyes widening. It’s a notice of a 250,000 euro donation to the hospital’s maternity ward and nursery … made in your name.
“What? This must be a mistake, I didn’t ...” You trail off, completely baffled.
Your supervisor laughs. “Oh it’s quite real, I assure you. In fact, the donor himself insisted on being here today to celebrate.”
Before you can respond, a knock sounds. You turn to see Lando stroll in, right on cue, with a grinning Georgia perched on his hip.
“Lando!” You gasp. “Did you … is this from you?”
He smiles almost shyly, setting Georgia down so she can toddle over to you. “Wanted to do something meaningful to mark the anniversary of when we first met.”
You stand frozen in shock as Georgia crashes into your legs. Scooping her up, you turn back to Lando with tears in your eyes.
“This is too much, I … I don’t know what to say.” You glance between him and your equally emotional supervisor.
Lando moves closer, taking your hands in his. “Say you’ll come with me for a proper celebration? Just the three of us?” He brushes his thumbs over your knuckles, eyes twinkling.
Unable to form words, you simply nod. Lando’s face lights up with that smile that still makes your heart skip.
After signing some paperwork and hugging your supervisor profusely, you allow Lando to lead you out to the car, Georgia babbling happily between you. But instead of heading home, he drives to the glittering harbor front.
There, you gasp to see a magnificent yacht floating ready at the dock. A crew in crisp white uniforms wait nearby.
Lando grins at your stunned reaction. “Told you we’re celebrating in style today!”
The staff smiles warmly as you board, cooing over Georgia toddling around excitedly. She especially loves watching the foam trail behind the yacht as it pulls away from shore.
You stand wrapped in Lando’s arms, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I still can’t believe you did all this,” you murmur.
Lando presses a kiss to your temple. “You deserve it all and more, my love.”
You pass a blissful afternoon on the water, enjoying a gourmet lunch and each other’s company. Lando is attentive as ever, making sure you want for nothing.
As the sun dips low, a crew member approaches. “So sorry to interrupt, but we’ll be arriving shortly. Please follow me downstairs to prepare.”
You glance questioningly at Lando, but he just smiles and urges you to follow with Georgia. Down in your luxurious cabin, an elegant evening gown awaits on the bed alongside a tiny version for Georgia.
Your heart flutters wildly now. Lando is clearly planning something major. You help Georgia into her dress, your hands shaking slightly with anticipation.
A knock at the door announces the crew member has returned. “We’ve arrived back at port, whenever you’re ready.”
Back up top, Lando stands waiting in a sharp suit, holding a bouquet of roses. He looks devastatingly handsome.
Taking your hand, he leads you down the gangplank onto the dock where a car waits to whisk you away into the hills overlooking the sea. The sunset bathes everything in golden light.
When the car stops at a secluded lookout point, Lando helps you out then retrieves a sleepy Georgia. Hand in hand, you approach the cliff edge.
Down below, a massive light display flashes to life along the shoreline. You gasp as the glowing words become clear:
Y/N, will you marry me?
You clap a hand over your mouth, spinning to Lando with tears pooling in your eyes. He’s down on one knee, Georgia sitting next to him playing with flower petals.
“Two years ago, you came into our lives and changed everything,” Lando begins emotionally. “Your compassion and selflessness as a doctor saved my fragile new family.”
He takes a shaky breath. “But you gave me so much more than that. Your kindness, your beauty inside and out, your incredible love for me and Georgia … you’re my dream come true.”
Tears spill freely down your cheeks as Lando pulls out a glittering diamond ring. “So Y/N Y/L/N, nothing would make me happier than for you to officially become my family. Will you marry me?”
A joyful sob escapes you as you sink down, throwing your arms around him. “Yes, Lando, a million times yes!”
His relieved laughter vibrates against you. When you pull back, Lando takes your hand gently to slide the exquisite ring onto your finger. A perfect fit.
Georgia seems to sense the significance of the moment and toddles over to wrap her little arms around your legs. You lift her into a fierce hug between you.
“I love you both so very much,” you whisper emotionally. Lando’s responding smile outshines the luminous lights along the shore.
Cradling your faces in his hands, he seals his proposal with the sweetest kiss as the sunset fades to twilight.
You linger wrapped in Lando’s arms, Georgia nestled between you, as the first stars emerge overhead. Right here, surrounded by your little family, you’ve never felt happier or more at peace.
It’s extraordinary what two short years can bring — unexpected joy, profound purpose, and a love greater than you dared dream.
The brightest days are still ahead. But tonight, in this perfect moment, you know you’ve already found everything you’ll ever need.
***
The day of your wedding to Lando dawns bright and sunny — perfect weather for an outdoor ceremony overlooking the glittering Mediterranean sea.
Inside the bridal suite, your mother puts the final pins in your elegant updo while your bridesmaids fuss over the train of your lace gown.
A knock at the door announces your father’s arrival. When you turn to face him in your wedding finery, his eyes well up.
“Oh sweetheart … you look absolutely beautiful.”
You immediately tear up too, embracing him tightly. “Don’t make me ruin my makeup before I’ve even walked down the aisle!”
He laughs wetly, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Couldn’t help it! My girl is all grown up.”
Looking in the mirror, you hardly recognize yourself in the exquisite dress and pinned-back curls. But the overwhelmed bride staring back has the same little girl dreams you harbored all those years ago. Dreams that are finally coming true today.
Another quick knock precedes Georgia toddling in, chubby legs pumping. Your flower girl is absolutely angelic in her silky dress.
“Mama, pwetty!” She declares, rushing over for cuddles. You scoop her up, breathing in that sweet baby scent you adore.
“You look so beautiful, my love.” Blinking back fresh tears, you smooth down her unruly curls. “Ready to walk down the aisle with flowers?”
Georgia just grins and reaches for your necklace. You tickle her belly, making her dissolve into adorable giggles. Your heart swells with love for your daughter.
Too soon, the wedding coordinator is poking her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s just about time!”
Butterflies erupt as everyone hustles to line up. Your father tucks your arm through his, beaming with pride. Just outside the doors, Georgia toddles down the petal-strewn aisle ahead of you both.
Then the soaring orchestral processional begins, and you step out into the golden afternoon sunlight. Gasps and murmurs rise at the sight of your dramatic gown trailing behind.
But your eyes lock instantly on Lando under the flower-woven arch, looking devastatingly handsome in his slate grey suit. His face lights up, and you know that your own mirrors the same wonder and joy.
The ceremony passes in a blur of emotions. Before you know it, the officiant instructs you and Lando to face each other and take hands. Time for the vows.
You go first, hands shaking as you pull out your prepared words. But speaking from the heart comes easily.
“Lando, when we first met under the most unexpected circumstances, I had no idea of the amazing journey we’d go on together. My job was to ensure your new daughter received the care she deserved.”
Your voice wavers slightly. “But so quickly, you both became so much more. Being welcomed into your family was the greatest gift. Watching Georgia grow, guiding her first steps and words ...”
You have to pause, blinking back more tears. Lando squeezes your hands encouragingly.
Composing yourself, you continue thickly, “I vow to always provide that same nurturing love and support. I promise to be your safe place to call home after long days apart. And I pledge to show our daughter daily what it means to be a strong, compassionate woman.”
Taking a shaky breath, you finish softly, “You two are my entire world. Loving you is life’s greatest joy.”
Lando’s eyes glisten as he brushes away the single tear trailing down your cheek. His thumbs linger, cradling your face tenderly.
Clearing his throat, he begins his own vows, voice wavering with emotion. “Y/N, you appeared in my life like an angel that frightening day at the hospital. I was so lost, overwhelmed by the massive responsibility of suddenly having Georgia.”
He glances down at your joined hands. “But your compassion and wisdom guided me through those uncertain early days. You made us feel safe.”
Looking up, his eyes pierce yours intensely. “What started as our doctor-patient relationship grew into the most important friendship I’ve ever known. And then, miraculously, into true, deep love. Thank you for loving Georgia as your own and showing me what true partnership means.”
Lando’s voice cracks. He pauses to take a shaky breath. “So I vow to spend every day reciprocating that love and support. I promise to shield you from the chaos of my world and provide a peaceful home for our family.”
Then he turns, taking a folded paper from the best man. “I asked Georgia if she wanted to say anything to her mama today.”
He opens it to reveal a drawing of three stick figures, one much smaller than the others. Scribbled hearts surround you all.
Lando’s voice thickens. “She said to tell you she loves you ‘this much’ and that you’re the best mama ever.”
A sob escapes you as Lando refolds the cherished drawing and hands it over. You press it to your heart, blinking back a fresh wave of tears.
Finally, you slip the wedding bands onto each other’s fingers with whispered words of eternal love and commitment.
When the officiant pronounces you husband and wife, Lando sweeps you into his arms for the kind of kiss that steals your breath and stops time.
You are finally, officially, wholeheartedly one.
The reception flies by in more happy tears, moving speeches, delicious food, and dancing under the stars. Watching Lando twirl Georgia around the floor tugs at your heart.
Later, as you slow dance wrapped in your new husband’s arms, Lando kisses your hair and whispers, “Ready for this new adventure together, Dr. Y/L/N-Norris?”
You beam up at him. “Absolutely. Lead the way, Mr. Norris.”
No matter where life takes you next on this journey, your family will thrive and grow stronger. Lando’s love lifts you up in ways you never imagined possible. And you vow to cherish and repay that gift until your last breath.
***
Returning home from a blissful honeymoon, you settle back into domestic life with Lando and Georgia. Mornings are spent over pancakes, playing hide and seek, and dancing around the living room. The pure joy of your little family never ceases to warm your heart.
One evening after putting Georgia to bed, you curl up with Lando on the couch and hesitantly broach something you’ve been thinking about.
“So I wanted to discuss something with you. It’s just an idea, and please don’t feel pressured at all.” You take a deep breath. “What would you think about me officially adopting Gigi?”
Lando’s eyes widen in surprise. You rush to continue explaining.
“I don’t want you to think I need a piece of paper to love her with my whole heart, because I already do. More than anything in this world.” Your voice cracks slightly.
Reaching out, you grasp his hands. “I just want to make sure that no matter what, I have a legal right to take care of her. But only if you’re completely comfortable with it!”
Lando is quiet for a long moment, studying your anxious face. Then a smile spreads across his face. “Love, I think it’s a beautiful idea.”
You sag in relief. “Truly? I wasn’t sure if it was too much ...”
Lando silences you with a tender kiss. “Gigi is the luckiest girl in the world to have you as her mum. I want the whole world to know that too.”
Tears prick your eyes as Lando caresses your cheek. “The day you promised to love Georgia as your own was the moment I knew you were different. I see how you are with her — the time, the care, the unconditional love ...” His voice cracks slightly.
“You gave us the greatest gift. I want you to have the same security that she’ll always be yours.”
A single tear traces down your cheek. Lando brushes it away gently before drawing you into his arms. You cling to him, heart overflowing with love and gratitude.
When you finally pull back, Lando is dabbing at his own eyes. “So,” he says with a watery chuckle, “How do we make this official?”
You explain the process — paperwork, a hearing, lawyer fees. He waves it all off.
“Whatever it takes. I’ll call our attorney first thing tomorrow.” Lando squeezes you tight. “Soon you’ll legally be Gigi’s mum too!”
You grin and kiss him soundly. With Lando fully on board, excitement takes root.
Over the next weeks, you go through the steps — filing petitions, scheduling court dates, and explaining the process in age-appropriate ways to an occasionally grumpy Georgia when she can’t go play outside instead.
Finally, the big day arrives. You dress Georgia in her favorite pink checkered dress and do her hair in perfect pigtails.
“My beautiful girl,” you murmur, smoothing down a flyaway curl. Her answering smile melts your heart.
At the courthouse, you all meet the social worker assigned to your case. She questions you and Lando gently about your relationship, home life, and approach to parenting. You cling tight to Lando’s hand the entire time.
Finally, it’s time for the hearing before a grandfatherly judge. He smiles warmly, peering over his glasses at you all.
“Well, I must say, this is one of the more straightforward cases to come before me. I can see clear as day how much love exists in this family.”
Relief floods you. The judge continues, “Therefore, I am more than pleased to grant the petition to finalize the adoption of Georgia Senna Norris by her mother, Y/N Y/L/N-Norris.” He bangs his gavel with an air of finality.
Joyful tears pour down your face. Lando whoops and sweeps you into a spinning hug. Even Georgia seems to realize something momentous just occurred, clapping her little hands.
In a daze, you sign the final paperwork making it official before emerging from the courthouse into the warm sunlight, your family now fully complete.
That evening, after Georgia is asleep, you curl up with Lando in bed, reliving the special day. He kisses your hair and murmurs, “I’m so proud of you, Mama.”
You grin against his chest. “I never thought I could feel so much love. She’s changed my life in every way.”
Lando tilts your chin up, eyes glowing. “That’s exactly how I feel about you. My girls who make life beautiful.”
***
One sunny afternoon, you’re in the kitchen prepping a snack for four-year-old Georgia when she comes bounding in from preschool.
“Mummy, guess what? My friend Amy at school is gonna be a big sister!” She hops up on her stool, eyes bright with excitement.
“Oh really? That’s fun!” You slice an apple into bunny shapes.
Georgia nods vigorously. “Yeah! Her mum has a baby in her tummy. Can I have a brother or sister in your tummy too?”
You freeze, knife hovering over the apple. Slowly setting it down, you turn to face her. “You want a little sibling?”
“Yes yes yes!” She bounces in her seat. “I asked Daddy already and he said I should ask you too.”
Your mind spins. A baby … it’s something you and Lando have only vaguely discussed as a someday possibility. But with Georgia asking so eagerly, the concept suddenly feels very real.
Just then, Lando walks in from his office. Georgia immediately appeals to him. “Daddy, tell Mummy we should have a baby! I wanna be a big sister.”
Lando meets your startled gaze, scrubbing a hand through his curls. “Well, uh, what do you think, love? Could be kinda nice to add to our crew.”
You glance between their hopeful faces, heart swelling. “I think … that could be really special for our family.”
Georgia cheers while Lando grins, coming over to wrap you in a hug. “A mini you running around? Sign me up.” His smile falters slightly. “Only if you want to though, truly.”
You squeeze him back. “I really do. We’ve come so far since the days of newborn Georgia. I’d love to go through it all again with you.”
The joy lighting up Lando’s face erases any lingering doubts.
That night after Georgia is asleep, you curl up together to discuss logistics. “I’ll need to give notice at the hospital once I’m pregnant so they can find someone to cover my maternity leave.”
Lando waves dismissively. “Don’t worry about any of that. Focus on growing our little muffin and I’ll handle the rest.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Our little muffin?”
“Or crumpet. Jellybean. Peanut.” Lando grins. “Take your pick, I’ve got a million terrible nicknames ready to go.”
Laughing, you swat his chest playfully. Sobering, you add, “It won’t be easy juggling a newborn and busy four year-old. But I can’t wait to see Georgia as a big sister.”
Lando smiles tenderly, threading his fingers through yours. “You’re already the most incredible mum. Our kids are so lucky.”
Your throat tightens at the absolute faith in his voice. No matter the challenges ahead, you’ll get through them together.
When you share the news with Georgia, she screeches loud enough to wake the neighbors. Her enthusiasm never wanes over the following months.
Finally, the big day arrives. After a long but relatively smooth delivery, your son enters the world screaming indignantly. The sound is music to your ears.
Lando cuts the cord with shaking hands before your little boy is placed in your arms. Love surges fiercely and instantly.
“Hi Maddox,” you whisper through joyful tears. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Lando presses a kiss to both your heads before going to bring Georgia in. She gasps softly, climbing up to peer at her new brother with wide eyes.
“He’s so little!” Reaching out a gentle finger, she strokes Maddox’s downy cheek. Your heart clenches watching your babies meet.
Georgia cuddles close as you adjust her arm to help cradle Maddox. “I’m your big sister Gigi! I’m gonna help take care of you.” She drops a sloppy kiss on his forehead.
Blinking back a fresh wave of tears, you meet Lando’s equally wet gaze. The road that first led you to Lando has become so much more than you ever imagined. But you wouldn’t change a single unexpected twist or turn.
***
You link arms with Lando as you make your way through the familiar Silverstone paddock. The distinctive smell of race fuel hangs in the air, mingling with the buzz of excitement rippling through the crowd.
Georgia skips ahead, her brunette curls bouncing with each step, while Maddox clings to Lando’s free hand, his eyes wide with wonder. Alexa, your two-year-old, nestles securely in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching the McLaren teddy bear she insisted on bringing today. A small smile tugs at your lips as you glance down at her cherubic face, so much like Lando’s. Your heart swells with love for your beautiful family.
“Mummy, look!” Georgia calls out, pointing towards the McLaren garage suite. “Can we go in and see the car later?”
“We’ll see, darling,” you reply with a wink, knowing full well that Lando will ensure a special tour for the kids.
Lando squeezes your hand, his warm eyes twinkling with adoration. “Anything for my favorite girls … and Maddox,” he teases, ruffling Maddox’s hair playfully.
Maddox giggles, his freckled cheeks dimpling. “I’m your favorite boy though, right?”
“Of course,” Lando assures him with a conspiratorial wink.
As you continue down the bustling pathway, a Sky Sports reporter spots your family and rushes over, microphone in hand.
“Lando! Dr. Y/L/N-Norris! Do you have a moment for a quick interview?” He asks, his cameraman already rolling.
Lando nods, ever the professional. “Sure, mate. Go ahead.”
The reporter flashes a bright smile at the camera. “We’re here at the Silverstone Circuit with McLaren driver, Lando Norris, his wife, Dr. Y/N Y/L/N-Norris, and their children, Georgia, Maddox, and Alexa. It’s the weekend of the British Grand Prix, and the Norris family has been a fixture in the paddock for years.”
He turns to Georgia and Maddox, crouching down to their level. “So, you two must love coming to the races with your dad. What’s your favorite part?”
Georgia’s eyes light up as she launches into an enthusiastic explanation about the cars and the pit stops, her hands gesturing animatedly. Maddox, the quieter one, simply mumbles “the colors” with a shy grin.
The reporter chuckles, clearly charmed by the children’s responses. Straightening up, he addresses you and Lando. “And how about you two? Managing a hectic F1 schedule with three young kids can’t be easy. What’s the secret?”
Before either of you can respond, Georgia pipes up, “But it’s not three kids, it’s five!”
You tense, shooting Lando a panicked glance. This wasn’t how you’d planned to share the news of your pregnancy.
“Five kids?” The reporter’s brows furrow in confusion.
Georgia nods matter-of-factly. “Yep, there are two more babies in Mummy’s belly!”
A hush falls over the small crowd that has gathered nearby, and you can feel dozens of eyes trained on your still-flat stomach. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you instinctively place a protective hand over your abdomen.
The reporter blinks, clearly thrown off-script. “Well, I … congratulations! That’s certainly going to be a handful.”
You force a laugh, leaning into Lando’s solid frame. “Yes, well, Lando’s always said he wants a football team.”
Your husband grins, that cheeky grin you fell in love with, and wraps an arm around your waist. “What can I say? I like to keep things interesting.”
The crowd titters with amusement, and you can feel the tension dissipating.
“I can only imagine,” the reporter replies with a smile. “Well, thank you all for chatting with us today, and congratulations again on your growing family!”
As the reporter and his crew move on, you turn to Lando, your eyes shining with unshed tears — a heady mix of residual mortification and overwhelming love.
“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, stroking his stubbled jaw. “I know we wanted to share the news on our own terms.”
Lando silences you with a tender kiss, his lips warm and achingly familiar against yours. When he pulls back, his gaze is soft, adoring.
“Are you kidding? There’s no better way to announce it than through Gigi,” he says with a wink. “Besides, I’m just happy the whole world knows that I have super sperm.”
You laugh despite yourself, shoving his shoulder playfully. “You’re impossible.”
“But you love me,” he counters, that infuriatingly irresistible grin stretching across his face.
“God help me, I do,” you sigh, melting into his embrace.
Georgia bounds over then, Maddox and Alexa in tow, her expression a mixture of exhilaration and uncertainty.
“Was I not supposed to tell, Mummy? Did I do something wrong?” She asks, her eyes wide and questioning.
You quickly kneel down, gathering all three children into your arms and peppering their faces with kisses.
“No, my darling, you didn’t do anything wrong. You just … surprised us, that’s all.” You share a look with Lando over their heads, a look that conveys a thousand words — your hopes, your dreams, your boundless love for this incredible little family you’ve created together.
Lando reaches down, ruffling Georgia’s curls with one hand while gently squeezing your shoulder with the other. A silent promise, a vow to always be by your side as you navigate the beautiful chaos of your life together.
Rising to your feet, you adjust Alexa on your hip and take Georgia’s small hand in your own. Maddox slips his hand into Lando’s, and you set off once more, the television crew long forgotten.
This is your life — a whirlwind of races and airports, photoshoots and interviews. But it’s also quiet nights cuddled on the sofa, re-watching Disney movies for the millionth time. It’s family hugs and sloppy baby kisses, skinned knees and endless giggles. It’s laundry piled to the ceiling and sleepless nights spent pacing the nursery.
It’s messy and magical, exhausting and exhilarating. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
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corkinavoid · 3 months ago
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DPxDC John Constantine's How To: Ghost Kids (pt.2)
[<- part 1]
"Oh, yeah," John jerks his head up like he just remembered the fact people are supposed to have names at all. He gestures to the kids, pointing to each of them as he introduces, "Daniel, Daniel, and Danielle."
This time, all three kids flip him off simultaneously. Bruce clears his throat, trying to figure out if Constantine is messing with him and, if so, in which parts. Since, so far, everything the man has said sounds like a poor attempt at pulling his leg.
"I don't think they like those," he cautiously says, and the kids whip their heads at him, nodding furiously. Bruce can't help but be just a little enamored with the way they behave.
"Of, sod off, at this point I don't care what they like," John straightens up with a dismissive, albeit weak, wave of his hands, and rubs his face, "They are menaces. Sometimes by accident, but mostly on purpose. Their grandfather thought it would be easier to handle them if they were not teenagers, and while I agreed with his reasoning at the time, I-" he glances at the kids, who all have displeased grimaces of various levels on their faces, "I have been made to reconsider. I swear that ancient bitch is laughing his ass off wherever he is now."
The kids suddenly grin. They are not very friendly, nor polite smiles - if anything, they look a bit nightmarish. An old grandfather's clock in his study makes a very loud ticking noise.
"See?" John whips his head to look at said clock, the expression on his face bordering on insane. His eye twitches.
If Bruce doesn't do anything now, he might become one of the very few people who managed to witness John Constantine, the Laughing Magician, have a meltdown. So he sighs and decides to solve the problems one at a time.
Which means that no matter how alarmed or suspicious he is, his first move would not be to interrogate either the man or the kids.
"You can sleep in one of the guest rooms, I trust you can find it on your own," he tells John, almost softly, as he catches the girl from slipping away from his lap, "Is there anything I need to know about children before you fall unconscious?"
John slumps with relief, so obviously that Bruce almost smiles. Hardships of raising - or, watching, for that matter - kids, he understands.
"Yes," he breathes out with an air of exhilaration and turns to the kids again, pointing to the middle child, "Danny is the original. He is from this dimension and timeline, that is. Dan," he turns his finger to the older boy, "is in the wrong timeline, he's Danny's future evil self redeemed into older bratty brother. Dani," he switches to the girl, "is Danny's clone, made by his arch-nemesis of a godfather. If she starts melting at any point, wake me up immediately. If any of them start floating, sprouting tentacles, speaking to walls in static, or glowing, don't."
Bruce looks down to the kids. So, definitely metas, that would explain the government trying to get them... Or, no, it wouldn't because he is fairly certain no government is going to blatantly ignore the Meta Protection Acts.
"Don't let them raise the dead, and if you give them food, make sure it doesn't have a face. If you find more than three of them, it means one of them has duplicated, don't worry, they will absorb it back later. Absolutely don't let them touch any guns," Constantine is backing down to the door as he speaks, his gaze flickering from the kids to Bruce and back every second. Like he is leaving a ticking bomb in Bruce's lap, and not three children. "Danny is, comparatively, the most responsible one, the other two are up for any dubious trouble they can get to at any moment. Oh, and their memories are wonky because of de-aging, they remember some things but not others, so if they say something particularly disturbing, it's most likely some random piece of knowledge they managed to keep."
Bruce raises an eyebrow. He did get the part about the kids being, well, abnormal in the matters of their origins, but the disjointed set of rules and advices doesn't help as much as Constantine probably thinks it does.
"Allergies, preferences, ages they were before?" He tries to get at least some more info down before John disappears through the door. Actually, maybe he should send someone to handcuff the man to the bed lest he disappears completely.
"None, but don't let them eat cutlery. Danny likes space, Dani has a thing for exploring, and Dan likes violence." The older kid stirs in Bruce's lap and says something in the direction of Constantine. No sound comes out, but the man seems to get what he's trying to say anyway, "Okay, yes, that was rude of me, sorry. Dan likes... exercise," he ends up with, and that placate the boy enough to slump down and cross his arms. John sighs, "They were seventeen, fourteen, and twenty respectively. Now," he snaps his fingers, and suddenly Bruce can hear the girl - Dani - humming a tune under her breath. So, he lifted the silence spell, it seems.
"Good fucking luck," John wishes to Bruce, earnestly, and all but vanishes away.
Bruce sighs and looks down to the kids.
"Are you hungry?" He tries, and all eyes are on him at once, attentive and unblinking.
"Fruitloops," Danny says, and while Bruce is positive that's the name for a cereal, he gets a feeling that's not what the kid meant.
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hazelfoureyes · 10 months ago
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The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice (a Valentino production)
⟢ part1♡̶sidestory♡̶part2♡̶part3♡̶part4 ⟣
Valentino has acquired a living, breathing human in hell. But at the begging of Angel, Alastor makes a deal in exchange for her soul.
tags: Alastor x reader, smut, dubcon, mentions of assault (Val intended to "fuck you to death”), Val's existence, overstimulation, forced (?) orgasms, bondage (shadow tentacles), choking (sexy kind, not murdery kind), cervix wrecked, your aunt is a bitch
(author's note: I've been in Japan for like 7 years and my English has suffered, but your fucking smutty writing on this site has inspired me to write for the first time in years.)
Minors DNI
Angel burst into the hotel lobby, winded. “Please, you gotta do somethin’!” 
To the surprise of everyone, he ran straight to Alastor, tears forming in his eyes.
“Val’s gonna hurt her real bad. I don’t know who else to ask, please. I can't—-“ he cradled his head in his hands, “I can't watch him break any more people.”
Alastor didn’t seem to react at first, but Charlie appeared at Angel’s side and pulled him into a hug, “Angel, take a deep breath. He’s gonna hurt who? What’s wrong?”
“He got a new soul. Some fucking cultist offered her up as sacrifice. But she's not dead yet Charlie—- he dragged her down here alive.” His voice cracked, “He wantsta— he said he’s gonna fuck her to death on camera and wait for her to respawn in hell. He’s convinced he’ll make a fortune off the tapes. Please, for fuck’s sake someone has to do something.”
A human in hell? Well, that was something interesting after all. With a raised brow Alastor spoke, “And how exactly can I help this poor, unfortunate soul?”
“Make a deal or– rip his arms off, I don’t fuckin’ know! There has to be something you can offer Val worth her soul. I’d give you my soul if I could!”
Well that’d be worthless.
But a human? A living, breathing human? Intriguing.
“Alastor you have do something. This isn't right! Hell isn’t for the living.” Charlie’s hair flew upward as her eyes flashed red for a second, “I’ll repay it somehow.”
Well there's no harm in taking a look. 
The demons and sinners who saw Alastor walking into the Vee’s tower oscillated between fleeing for their lives and live tweeting the event. Either a truce or a war would be breaking out and they knew they’d be fucked regardless.
“Alastooor”, Val exhaled,  letting the name drag out lazily, “Come to ruin something, I’m sure.” Val hadn’t seen Alastor since his fight with Vox 7 years ago, and he hadn’t expected to see him in his studio— ever. 
“Ha! No, not today. Word got around that there's a special little guest hidden in your studio.” Alastor’s eyes darted about the room, uninterested in the various parts and bits of the actors changing.
Val glanced at Angel, who’d suspiciously returned some 30 minutes before Alastor appeared. 
“I didn’t say nothing, Val.” Angel’s hands went up in defense. “He came to me askin’ about her.”
“And what exactly do you want with my “little guest”?” Val dropped any pretense of politeness. 
Alastor leaned forward on his microphone, and with a pop of static he practically cooed, “To see the poor creature, of course.”
Val ashed his cigarette into a cameraman’s hair and walked off, “Fuck it, sure. She’s back here.”
The back room was dark, perhaps some would call it mood lighting but what mood exactly it conveyed fell somewhere between dungeon and power outage.
You sat on your knees in the center of a round bed. Arms held above your head by a large clip attached to wrist restraints. Your body swayed slightly, a long rope anchored to the ceiling and tied to the clip above you.  Your body was slightly suspended, knees barely making contact with the bed beneath you. The white nightgown you wore was bloodied and ripped at the collar, causing it to slip down your left shoulder. Jaw clenched, your eyes were covered with a red satin tie. 
Alastor took the scene in. Your lip was cut and swollen, bruises peppered your cheek and exposed shoulder. Yet, you were breathing heavily, like a bull about to rush them. You were clearly defenseless, but somehow still defiant. His smile grew to his ears. It had been decades since he had a human in such a prone state.
“Have you …. broken her in yet?” He asked delicately, eyes never leaving your face.
“Nah, just roughed her up a little. I want to capture her raw reaction on camera when she takes her first demon cock.” Valentino clenched his fist to emphasize the word “first”. 
Your head fell forward as you pulled down on your wrist restraints, a growl rising in your throat.
Alastor felt his breath get caught in his own, your nightgown riding slowly up your legs as you struggled. 
“Hey!” Val snapped his fingers in your direction. “Don’t embarrass me. Our guest came to see you. He’s considering making an offer for you, I’m sure, so say hello like a good girl.” Val rolled his eyes, “Sluts always fucking embarrassing me.”
You tried to gather enough saliva to speak, finding the taste of blood still on your tongue. “Fuck you and your friend.” barely made it from your chapped lips. When was your last drink of water? Last meal? How long had you been unconscious before this all began?
“Not friends.” Alastor was quick to retort, “The name’s Alastor, my dear. It’s a pleasure.”
You sneered, a pleasure? What a sick joke. 
“Alastor.” you repeated it, disdain dripping from your lips.
The absolute contempt with which you said his name did something to him. His eyes darted from your mouth back to your inner thighs, exposed from the rising dress. Your mouth was so rude but your body looked so sweet. A little lamb– no, a doe.  
“Say it again.” It wasn’t a request, Alastor himself was surprised to hear himself say it with such demand.
You thrashed. “Oh is that what gets you off? You wanna hear your name in my mouth?” You said mockingly. “You’re just as FUCKED as him.” The nightgown rode up even further. Alastor’s tongue stuck to his teeth as his mouth went dry. Had you been delivered to Val without panties? Offered to him in just this sheer cotton night dress? What was happening to him…
 Static bit your skin as a low hum filled the room. 
“Say it.” Alastor’s voice dropped an octave, eyes suddenly taking on a slight glow. You couldn’t see the danger before you, but you felt it. Something primal in you knew you were in the presence of a predator.
No, you couldn’t see him, but his presence was pressing in all around you. 
“Alastor.” You seethed, “ALASTOR.” Pulling down on the restraints yet again you tried to find the strength to stand, “ALASTOR! ALASTOR!!” Your legs buckled under you having gone numb hours ago, his name devolving into a gutteral scream. All of your anger and despair ripped from your chest as you shouted his name. The nightgown had now ridden to your hips but you couldn’t find an ounce of shame in you to care. 
You were so full of rage, so defiant still. You were so…. alive.
He felt the blood rushing to his crotch in an all together forgotten sensation, and knew immediately his decision. “Let’s make a deal.” His eyes didn’t leave you, but Valentino knew he was talking to him.
Val let out a laugh, “I have some time to waste while they finish the set. Why not.”
Seated in his personal quarters, Val motioned for Alastor to sit opposite him. You had been left in the dark of that room, only knowing you were alone when the static died down and the hair on the nape of your neck relaxed. 
“Listen, Radio Demon. There’s nothing you have that could tempt me to hand over the little bitch.” His long arms rested over the back of his sofa, a heart shaped puff of smoke leaving his lips. Alastor swatted at the air as it approached. 
“What do you even need her for? You don’t deal in souls, but flesh. Surely you can find another toy to break on camera.” Alastor waved his microphone away.
“Hmm”, Val brought a finger to his chin in thought, seriously considering what Alastor could possibly offer him. “Oooh, I know.” His head lolled to the side,  “People have seen me fuck a thousand times. But no one’s ever even seen you with a partner. ‘Radio Demon fucks human sacrifice’” He motioned from left to right as if reading the words off an imaginary marquee, “Now THAT would make money. Real money. Fuck GOD levels of money.” A red liquid leaked from his lips as they were stretched across clenched teeth, his hips involuntarily humped at the air, “oh fuck. Yes. You do the porn, and I’ll give her to you. Soul and body.”
Alastor was looking at Val but his mind was still in front of you, his name tumbling from your lips. The uninterrupted skin where your thighs met your hips. The desperation in your scream. How absolutely soft and fragile you were. He adjusted his hips, trying to calm the twitching of his cock at the thought of you helplessly before him. 
“What exactly are you proposing?” His fingers came to rest entwined on his knee, one leg over the other.
“First, I have full rights to the video to do as I please.” Val counted out on his fingers, “The porno has to show penetration. No dry humping or some bullshit like that. I need you fucking that whore if I’m gonna sell this shit. Aaand”, A sickening grin grew on Valentino’s face, “She has to cum. And I’ll know if she’s faking it. If you don’t manage all three, the deal is off. I keep the human and all rights to the video for per— no, *in* pep-“ he sputtered, “perpur- forever! Fuck.” 
Alastor’s default grin was now so wide his gums could be seen peeking past his lips, his eyes flashing to dials, “It’s a deal.” He extended his hand to Valentino as he stood. A green light was shining from the open palm but Val shook it regardless, confident the deal's conditions wouldn’t be met. He’d seen a lot of fucked up shit on his set, but the Radio Demon, famously uninterested in sex, wasn’t going to make a battered human cum. How stupid could Alastor be, he thought. And he’ll have the video of Alastor failing to please someone to broadcast all over the pride ring and beyond. “May I have a moment alone with her before the filming?”
Val rolled his eyes, “yeah but don’t fuck her off camera.”
The sudden feeling of a hand on your hip startled you so intensely you let out a yelp. 
“Hello, my little doe.” Hot breath tickled the shell of your ear, then your neck, then your collar bone… “Unfortunately your shoot will still continue today. But if you do as I say, I promise you’ll leave the studio alive.”
You felt the nightgown being tugged back down your hips, hiding your exposed sex.
“I will be taking that pompous moth’s place. I will be as gentle as I can, but he will want to see you suffer. You must still fight me, must act pained. Can you play along?”
Your eyes darted behind your eyelids. He sounded— gentle? His voice was soft against your skin. Maybe he was truly the lesser evil of the two. You nodded. You’d heard all the gory details of what the other demon had planned for you, this sounded infinitely more tolerable. You dare thought you’d suffered worse before. 
“And, one more little caveat, darling. I will bring you to orgasm, so please don’t fight so hard as to delay your release.”
You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath until his words punched you in the gut. 
“I-“
“Yes?” Alastor’s mouth was nearly on your neck, his smile ghosting your skin.
“I’ve never—- I mean I can only do that by myself. No one else has managed to-“
A large hand patted your head, cutting your train of thought off. How big was he? His hands could palm a basketball. Could he really be gentle? Was he capable of it? Were those hands going to be on you soon? Your mind was running away with the thought of this strange demon fucking you on camera. 
“Oh don’t worry about that. Just focus on your performance. We have to put on a good show!”
Angel was practically chewing his fingers off as he watched the crew finish the set.
“Alastor what the fuck, I thought you were gonna help her!”
“I am, my effeminate friend. Have a little faith in me.” He adjusted his bowtie and took his place on set.
“I have none. I have negative faith, Alastor. Fuuuuck”, Angel slumped against the wall behind him and sank to the floor. 
The stage was set. A red sigil was painted on the floor of a cabin, candles lit around the room as the only source of light (except the stage lighting hanging above the scene). Of the three walls they’d made, the far left wall had an altar haphazardly filled with flowers, a golden bowl, and small plaid satchel.
Someone — something? — led you by the restraints to the stage. Blindfolded, you were pushed down to the floor, forced to sit on your still numb legs. The leather cuffs on your wrist were unbuckled, allowing you to flex your hands. When you reached for the blindfold a hand smacked at yours.
“No no, keep it. I want you to look exactly how I found you.” The familiar voice of Val instructed. 
Someone handed a script to Alastor, but he pulled his hands away from the demon as if the paper itself was an angelic weapon, “Oh, no thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
“I’ll tell you what to say” Val said, clearly to you.
“It’s—- it’s fine. I’ll just do it like before. I don’t need any help.”
You really didn’t.  There was no improv needed. You could repeat exactly what you said yesterday evening when you awoke on the floor of an unfamiliar place. You’d been visiting your aunt one moment, and alone in a weird room what felt like moments later. Groggy, but alert enough to know something bad had happened. 
You heard “action”, and then silence. You could feel eyes on you.
“Aunt Sara….” You whispered. “I don’t understand what’s happened… Are you still there?” You rubbed your wrists trying to regain some blood flow, readjusting your legs to do the same. 
You heard a strange sound, both yesterday and now. 
“Aunt Sara isn’t here. She’s made an exchange, she gets extraordinary power….and I get your soul.” The way Alastor said it, the way his breath seemed to almost hitch, surprised you. Something cold touched your ankle, causing you to flinch, “But I want more than that. I need more than that.”
You felt that something-unknown snake up your leg toward your center. Crawling backwards on your butt to create some distance you collided with the altar. The golden bowl rolled to the edge and spilled its contents across the table. You could smell the iron tang of blood before you felt the pitter patter on your shoulder. Alastor inhaled quickly before letting the air back out with as much control as he could manage.
“Who are you?!” You’d asked this already. But this time the disembodied voice of your captor replied, “Alastor, the Radio Demon! Pleasure to meet you.”
The right side of your face smacked against the floor of the makeshift cabin as you were dragged suddenly across the room and into the red sigil. The cold appendage on your leg now tightly coiled up your calf.
“No— you have to fuck her with your fucking dick! You can’t use shadow tentacles!” Val shouted, nearly falling out of his chair.
“Now now, the deal didn’t specify with what, only that penetration must occur. Plus, I won’t show up on your video recording device anyway.” Alastor took several steps back, ensuring he was not in frame, “Rest assured, your audience will know it is me.” His words cracked and stuttered like someone had changed the station midway through his sentence.
A small, “fine, whatever.” was grumbled and the scene continued, the tentacle snaking its way up your thigh as Alastor chuckled softly at how you flinched against him.
You rolled onto your stomach and tried to kick off the shadow but it held firm. Letting out a groan you used your hands to drag yourself back towards the altar. Before you could reach the table your other leg felt the pressure of a new tentacle twist around your knee as you were dragged back toward the Radio demon once again.
Your nightgown was forced up, your ass now exposed and in the air as your legs were pulled open. That was as far as you had really gone yesterday, before a flash of light delivered you into the Pentagram City studio. 
Surprisingly, you felt embarrassed, self conscious knowing there were other people in this room. But as if he could read your mind, or perhaps just noticed the tremble in your legs, Alastor softly said, “It’s only us now, darling. There’s nowhere to hide.”
Third and fourth appendages appeared around your waist and neck. Effortlessly your hips were lifted off the floor, your cunt on full display to the man who now owned you. The tentacle on your neck slipped between your shoulder blades and pressed your chest firmly to the floor. You squirmed and struggled against the restraints but only accomplished to draw another chuckle from Alastor.
“Relax. We have forever, after all. We can take our time.”
You felt pressure at your entrance, and your pleas to stop were cut short as a shadow tentacle pushed its way inside you. It was cold, but quickly began to warm as your heat enveloped it. Your body was resisting it, too tight to take it all in one thrust, but you could feel it slick against your lips easily enough to make its way inside.
“Ooh, my dear, your wet little cunt betrays you.” He cocked his head to the side, antlers doubling then tripling in size, “Have my words affected you so much?”
You could feel the tentacle’s shape shift slightly inside you as if it were adjusting to you and not the other way around. True to his word, there was no pain except from the burning stretch of your hole against the girth of his shadow self.
Hissing, you thrashed against the sigil, “get OFF OF ME!” Pushing against the floor you barely got your shoulders an inch off the ground when you felt a nth appendage graze sloppily over your clit. You stilled, suddenly remembering your end of the deal. Your promise to the demon now circling your clit with his shadow. If you couldn’t do this, then the entire filming was for nothing.
“Don’t forget to breath. I can’t have you dying on me just yet, sweetheart.” The static was slowly building in the air around you again, a silent threat.
Your hand shot to your mouth, trying to smother the depraved sounds being fucked out of you. The tentacle in your pussy was now ramming against your cervix, curving and bending as it repeatedly forced its way in and out of you. The room was quiet, except for the slick, sticky sound of the tentacle coated in your fluids pulling nearly completely out of you before smashing back in. The pace was slow and cruel, but the pressure on your clit was fast and hard. Your mind was starting come undone, your thoughts splintering. You couldn’t focus on anything anymore, all over your body was pressure, pleasure, massaging, pushing, and pulling. 
“Ah ah, that won’t do.” Alastor practically sang the words as an appendage pulled your hands from your mouth and brought them to the small of your back. 
You whimpered, trying to find a balance between the overstimulation and the need to not let them see how much you were getting off on this. You needed to hate it more. Hate him more. Your cheek stuck to the wood of the floor as drool leaked from your open mouth, unable to keep it closed any longer. 
“I’ll—” Your strength was nearly gone, but you managed to knock your upper body around the sigil, smearing the still wet blood across your chest. You only managed to whisper into the flooring a quiet, “I’ll fucking kill you for this.”
The tentacles stopped, for a second you felt tears sting your eyes at the loss of friction. A loud screech made you wince, but you had no time to question it as your body was violently flipped. Your hips were slammed down onto the ground, held tightly by a tentacle around your waist. The back of your head ached as it was jostled in the turn. The shadows on your thighs now seemed determined to bruise you as they constricted around your skin. 
“What was that, dear?” The tentacle in your pussy seemed to swell inside you, the force of the thrusts picking up in intensity. He was ramming into your body with such fervor you felt the skin of your ass chaffing on the wooden grain beneath you.  “Speak up, now”, you heard him exhale forcefully, his controlled appearance hanging on by a thread.
“I-”, your mouth opened to continue your resistance when a new sensation stopped you. A second tentacle was trying to squirm its way into your heat, just above the now uncomfortably thick one twisting around inside of you. The pressure on your stomach from the force made you feel sick, but the devoted ministrations on your clit had your legs twitching against the restraints. “Ah–! no, wai-” It managed to slip itself into you, and with no hesitation it was pressing against your g-spot in a matching rhythm to the tentacle swiping over your swollen clit.
You’d never before made a sound like the one that was pulled from your throat. It was ugly and animalistic and took you by surprise. Still struggling to catch your breath, you threw your head back. You were losing control. As your body was rocked against the ground, the blindfold got caught in the friction and slipped down your nose. 
Bringing your head back up, you finally locked eyes with your new master. 
“Alas-” Another chilly tentacle came to your neck and began to lightly squeeze. You could only breathe out the rest of his name as your eyes met with his. He stood some feet from you, just outside of the sigil, barely on the set at all. He seemed nonplussed, antlers looming over you and suit perfectly neat, except one detail. His pupils dilated when you finally set your eyes onto his. The grip on your neck only stopped tightening when you stomped your foot down in fear of passing out. You didn’t break eye contact, a fire burning in you that told him no matter what he did you wouldn’t be broken. That look in your eyes, the contempt mixed with overwhelming pleasure made Alastor shift one foot in front of the other in an effort to better conceal the erection straining against the zipper of his pants. 
“Mmmhhh–” You finally broke contact as your eyes rolled back into your head, the pressure beneath your belly was building, a tightness threatening to snap. But this wasn’t like before, this wasn’t like when you were alone in your bed with your own hand. It felt like too much, your heart was pounding so hard you thought you’d really die. There was no way your body could continue this much longer, your heart would surely give out.
“Please–” You needed him to stop, the ghostly hand on your throat, the two tentacles pressing against your cervix and g-spot, the unrelenting pressure on your clit. It was too much, it was too sensitive. “I’m sorry, please. Pleeea-” you gritted your teeth, thighs twitching as the muscles in your core tightened.
“Going to cum, my little doe?” Through gritted teeth of his own Alastor asked you as if you had any choice in the matter. He forced your knees up to your shoulders, allowing the tentacles to reach new depths. 
“AaaaHH” You convulsed, “I’m yours, Alastor!” You moaned, willing to say anything to stop the overwhelming feeling as the coil snapped, you were orgasming on this demon’s shadow and for the love of all that was unholy he wouldn’t fucking let up. You did what he said, but he wasn’t stopping. His thrusts didn’t slow, your clit was throbbing and your body shaking uncontrollably. All defiance was dead, your fire snuffed out. Your eyes were glazed and unfocused. Your head hit the floor again as you struggled to keep your thoughts straight, “It’s all yours. My soul is yours! Please- sto-” Another orgasm was being fucked out of you, no recovery from the first. “I can’t, I can’t” Your jaw locked, the way your cunt was spasming and tightening around his shadow appendages nearly pushed them out of your body with the strength of your first forced orgasm. The lights in the room flickered and popped, the candles blew out with a sudden gust, static drowned out your voice from everyone but Alastor as you screamed through the second orgasm. A green light erupted from the smeared sigil beneath you, blinding the crew and onlookers. “My body is yours! My soul! It’s all yours. I give you all of me, Alastor! Alastor!!” Your vision went spotty, and your throat seemed to close around your voice. Your face was red with the strain of your orgasm. You’d never felt unrelenting pleasure like that before and in that moment you’d have given him absolutely anything he wanted from you. Everything. It was his. You were his. He owned you inside and out.
The bullying of your cunt finally calmed after your orgasm began to edge away, your breath no longer stuck in your throat. He didn’t stop, but he slowed down to a lazy pace as what few lights managed to survive flickered back to life. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you looked over your wrecked body to Alastor. His eyes were wild, his bangs damp and clinging to his forehead. His smile was manic, sinister almost. He looked truly demonic. A wave of fear carried a chill down your spine.
The tentacles withdrew, the sudden loss making you feel colder somehow now than before. They had taken on your own heat and matched your temperature so perfectly, now your body felt empty. You felt naked. Your cunt was still clenching, but around nothing at all. It felt…like something was missing now. Your body seemed to be upset at the loss of contact. It made your stomach turn.
You flinched when the radio demon approached you, but instead of tearing you to pieces like his grin had promised, he slipped his suit jacket off and laid it over your body. You hadn’t realized the dress was torn and lying beneath you in a wet pile of blood and sweat. The confusion must have been evident on your face, because Alastor’s appearance shifted. Antlers now small, if not tiny between his ears. His eyes a red and pink, lids half closed. His smile was just a line across his face, no teeth at all. He looked like a gentleman, had you not known what he had just done to your pussy you’d have thought him incapable of such impropriety. 
“Good job, my little doe.” He whispered before you were handed a glass of water by a tall stranger. 
“Wow, you’re kind of natural at this babe. I haven’t seen a performance like that in ages.  Are you okay?” You took the water from him but didn’t open your mouth to reply, instead transfixed on his appearance. You’d only seen Val and Alastor until now. “You can call me Angel. We’ll get you home soon. I swear.”
Your eyes flitted to Alastor’s, did he know? He must have, he must have felt it. Of course he knew. In those final moments, you hadn’t been acting. Not an ounce of your pleasured responses were disingenuous. Not a single word a lie.
Alastor helped you to your feet as Angel placed a robe over your shoulders. Alastor hummed as he put his jacket back on, a satisfied sound coming from his chest that almost sounded like a song. 
Val sat in his director’s chair with his legs crossed, mouth open. His cigarette was mostly ash, delicately lingering on the stub.
Alastor placed a hand on the small of your back as you were guided to the door. Looking over his shoulder he grinned to Val, “It seems our deal is done here, Valentino. She’s mine, in perpetuity.”
(Part two)
༻Masterlist༺
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teaandspite · 4 months ago
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The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 1)
Context: For many years now, I have been collecting funny lines from Goodreads reviews to share with my coworkers. (I do collection development, reader's advisory, and weeding at a public library, so I read a LOT of reviews)
Are some of these, perhaps, rather mean? Yes, but they are also very funny, and come from a place of honest frustration. In the tradition of Bargepole threads and lists everywhere, names and titles have been censored.
"First, I want to say that I understand how hard it is to write a book and how amazing it is when it is actually published. Congrats to the author for that accomplishment. That said--"
"Warning: This review will be lengthy due to pure hatred."
"I found myself feeling really, really annoyed with the world that this book is allowed to exist. We live in a universe where the passenger pigeon is extinct but this book goes along merrily being read by unsuspecting lovers of words and ideas and stories? It just seems like too much, you know?"
"Don't do it. Don't spring the cash for the hardcover. Instead, eat an entire bag of Twizzlers, spend some money you don't have at a high-end department store, look up on Facebook the shady college boyfriend that made you cry, research the current value of your home or 401K and then read all about how the big hedge fund managers are faring during the economic crisis. You'll feel about the same stomach pain if you waste your time reading this book."
"This wretched novel begins with the mugging of an old lady and it appears I may be in the process of repeating that loathsome crime as [author] was 78 when she wrote it. It is not nice to put the boot into such a poor defenseless old creature lying there with only a damehood, a Booker Prize and a few million quid. It’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it."
"I think this is the way dead people would write, if they could."
"I am considering setting up SPABB: Society for the Protection of Accurate Book Blurb. This blurb appears to have been written by someone from the publishers who met [the author] the night before, got very drunk, lost his notes and then constructed something in a fug of hangover the next morning."
"I congratulate [the author] on the early half of his book, which was thoroughly fun and made me laugh and think. I congratulate [the author] on the second half of his book, for finishing it. It reads like that was difficult."
"…a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League."
"The author is a pompous windbag."
"Recommends it for: No one. Recommended to me by: A friend who apparently wished to cause me great suffering."
"Makes me wonder: is it possible to obtain similes at a volume discount?"
"The repeated phrases made me want to mail a thesaurus to the author."
"I'm disappointed in myself for finishing this book."
"if the author described [character's] eyes as "obsidian" one more time I was tempted to write her and ask if her thesaurus broke."
"They say that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters would, if given infinite time, eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. [This book], on the other hand, would probably take the average monkey just under two hours."
"I can't imagine what the author had to do to get this nadir of Western literature printed on innocent trees, but he does seem to know a LOT about being well-connected in New York."
"This book is so bad it is almost worth reading just to make you appreciate the other books you are reading."
"Reads like it was written by a brilliant author, the night before it was due."
"raises interesting questions, like: can a book be so bad as to constitute an act of terrorism"
"has this author ever spoken to a human woman"
"This acorn has fallen so far from the tree that it can’t even see the forest."
"I’m guessing they are touted as ‘beach reads’ because no one will care if they get dropped into the ocean."
"This book begins with all the energy of a hand vacuum near the end of its battery life, and the pace doesn't quicken much from there."
"At least everybody’s eyes stayed the same color this time around.”
Part 2
Part 3
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pathologicalreid · 2 months ago
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prisoner | s.r.
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in which you and Spencer conduct a custodial interview with a serial killer - Spencer's first since he was released
margotober masterlist
who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: post prison reid, fwb but also mutual pining, serial killers, prison, panic attack, chiromancy word count: 3.66k a/n: i originally came up with this idea in 2023 😭 😭 it's about time i finished it lol. definitely suffers from exposition overload but i don't caaaaare.
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Fourteen times.
You had asked him fourteen times if he thought he was going to be okay doing the custodial interview. No one else was available to do it, but you still had your reservations. Sending Spencer to a prison felt wrong, even if he wasn’t on the inside of the bars anymore.
Without telling him the reason, Emily elected to send you with him to the facility, she said it was because you had never done one before, but you knew it was deeper than that. “How many victims?” You asked, not taking your eyes off the road as you drove to the destination.
“Eight,” Spencer answered, looking through the case file. The killer had asked for the interview, hoping to be transferred to a minimum-security facility. The odds weren’t good, but you needed to oblige the request even if it wouldn’t prove successful.
You hummed, turning down the road, you pulled up to the security station. Presenting your credentials to the guard, he lifted the gate for you, and you found your reserved parking. “Do you want to take the lead?” You asked him, trying to gauge how he was doing.
Nodding, Spencer got out of the SUV. You shut off the engine and followed suit. “Unless it doesn’t seem like he’s responding to me, I’d rather not present him with someone who fits in with his victim pool.”
“And they say chivalry is dead,” you said sardonically, grabbing your bag from the backseat before locking the car and following Spencer inside.
The two of you went through security, locking up your weapons and going through metal detectors. It wasn’t until you went inside the first gate that you noticed it; Spencer was fiddling with the belt loop of his slacks. “I can feel you staring,” he whispered so only you could hear. You watched his posture relax when the gate buzzed and opened in front of him.
You smiled softly, “I can see you fidgeting,” you responded. At work, the two of you were merely coworkers who knew each other really well, so you couldn’t just reach out and take his hand. Not that you’d want to, in a prison full of serial killers.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, implying that he wasn’t right now. The smile fell off your face as the two of you followed the guard into the warden’s office.
At the sight of you, the warden stood and smiled, “You must be Agents Y/L/N and Reid, thank you for making the trip down here.”
Raising your eyebrows, you reach out your hand for the warden to shake, “He’s Dr. Reid, actually.” You corrected, seeing as Spencer didn’t seem to have noticed.
“Ah, my apologies, Dr. Reid,” he responded kindly, gesturing for the two of you to follow him.
Spencer gently brushed your hand as you followed the warden. It was so subtle that someone else could’ve brushed it off as an accident, but Spencer Reid never did anything without purpose.
“Marshal Lukins is the most prolific killer we’ve had in my time here, we aren’t expecting anything to come of this, but you know as well as I do that we have to humor the psychos,” Warden McCall told you, stopping in front of a gate and calling out for it to be opened.
You raised your eyebrows, deciding against telling the warden that Lukins profiled as a sociopath, not a psychopath. “How’s his behavior been here?”
The warden shrugged, “He won’t be winning any merit badges any time soon, that’s for sure. Spends most of his time in solitary, really.”
“His file said he had gotten into an altercation with another prisoner, what was that about?” Spencer asked.
McCall cleared his throat, “turf war. You know, prison gangs can get rowdy. Especially when they find out the feds are coming.”
You raised your eyebrows, grateful you couldn’t see Spencer’s expression. “Oh, yeah,” he said quietly.
Then you were in front of a serial killer, someone who had been put away years ago, but the way he looked at you sent shivers down your spine. “Marshal Lukins?” You confirmed.
“Why hello, pretty lady,” Lukins responded, rising from the chair. His legs were chained to the ground, but his hands were free.
Behind you, Spencer cleared his throat, “Sit down,” he ordered. Taking a tone of authority that you weren’t sure you’d ever heard from him.
Taking your seat across from Lukins, you looked him in the eyes, “You may call me Agent Y/L/N.” 
Your interviewee shrugged, “I’ll call you whatever I want in my mind later.”
Ignoring the hairs that stood up on the back of your neck, you rolled your eyes at the skeevy pervert. “If you want to be transferred, you’re not making a very good first impression,” Spencer intervened, likely aware of your discomfort.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first criminal to make a pass at you, and in your line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last.
“I’m not much worried about first impressions, people usually have a first opinion about me before they even hear my voice,” he responded, leaning back in the chair.
You had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from responding, yeah, that happens when you murder eight women. “What would you rather our opinion of you be? That you’re misunderstood? Did you find god in prison, Marshal?” You asked him.
He leaned over the table ever so slightly, yellowed teeth flashing beneath the fluorescent light that hung above the interrogation table, “Would you like me to show him to you?”
Raising your eyebrows, you maintained a bored disposition while flipping open your files, “No.”
With custodials like this, you weren’t allowed to have photos in your files. Lukins was a sexual sadist, and the profile that Aaron Hotchner had put together was damning, describing the man in front of you to a T. He even got the age correct, right down to the receding hairline. Even though Lukins was in prison, you’d never provide him with visual aids to relive his crimes.
“Why did you request this interview if you weren’t interested in playing nice?” Spencer asked, setting his own files on the table in front of him, but he refrained from opening them. He managed to memorize their contents on the drive from Quantico, enabling him to weaponize his memory.
Lukins put his hands up in mock surrender, “I was hoping they’d send me someone nice to look at, make a good conversation with, and boy am I glad I took that chance.”
Spencer clasped his hands together and set them on the steel table, “Thank you,” he responded, keeping himself stone-faced in the presence of the killer.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the criminal in front of you snapped, jutting his chin in your direction.
Bored, your partner spoke up again, “Yes, you are,” he corrected. You were unable to communicate with Spencer without tipping off Lukins, so you let him continue, trusting that he knew where he was going with this. “In your trial, you said all of your victims were your sheep,” Spencer recalled from the file, “Is that why you shaved their heads before gutting them?”
Lukins scoffed, bored easily within the confines of the interview, “My sheep were my friends, but every sheep needs a wolf. Isn’t that right, Bo Peep?” He asked you, meeting your gaze despite the fact that Spencer all but told him not to engage with you.
You narrowed your gaze at him, tilting your head innocently, “Would you have let me be one of your sheep?”
He gave you a look that made you feel like you needed a shower, “You would’ve been a nice addition, could’ve rounded out my numbers.”
He reached out a hand, trying to take a piece of your hair between his grimy fingers, but you stood up quickly, stepping back from the table and almost tripping over your chair in response.
A few prison guards came in at the sudden movement, and Spencer had a vice-like grip on Lukins’ wrist, keeping him away from you. Tossing his arm back at him, Spencer glared at the killer, “No touching,” he instructed, looking back at you to check-in. He opened the door to the room, ushering you out before looking at the guards, “I want him in cuffs.”
With a hand on the small of your back, Spencer herded you to the private space that the two of you were expected to inhabit for the day. “Hey,” you spoke to him once the door was shut behind you.
Spencer was filled to the brim with nervous energy, shaking out his hands in an attempt to expel his nerves, “We should just go back to Quantico.” He shook his head, brown curls fanning out around his face, “There’s no way he can tell us anything that will get us to endorse his transfer.”
Watching him like this made your chest ache, and you had no idea what to do with that emotion. Your relationship with Spencer was strictly horizontal—usually—and you found yourself floundering when it came to how to act outside of bed. You wanted to take his hand, desperate to run your fingers over his knuckles and find the familiar callus from where his pencil rests on his finger, but you just couldn’t get yourself to reach out.
You hadn’t known Spencer before he was arrested in Mexico, but you made your mark on him without ever letting him lay his eyes on you. You sent letters to him along with the rest of the team, refraining from talking about cases and instead choosing to use your letters as a personal diary, chronicling your first three months with the Behavioral Analysis Unit with your prison pen pal. Periodically, you put money in his commissary account, despite the rest of the team telling you that you shouldn’t feel inclined to.
Pressing your lips into a thin line, your eyes tracked his pacing in the conference room before you started to voice your concern, “We have to go back in, Reid.” You grabbed a water bottle from the counter and twisted the cap off before handing it to him.
He took the water begrudgingly, glaring at you as he did so, “Why do we have to go back in, exactly?” After taking a sip of the water, he handed it to you so you could have some. You could’ve grabbed your own, but surely this was quicker.
“Lukins said I would’ve rounded out his numbers,” you told him, nervously fiddling with the cap of the water bottle as you waited for him to get it.
Spencer adjusted his tie, pulling the silk fabric further from his neck, “Yeah, I heard him.” It bothered him, the slightest implication that you were endangered in that interview room put him on edge, but all you could do was sit down and watch him.
You sighed, “We only have a record of eight victims. We don’t know what he’s rounding to, but that’s at least two more bodies that we don’t know about.” Lukins could be rounding up to ten, which would be the closest option, or you were looking at the possibility of a considerably higher body count. Your fear was that he would use those additional kills as a bartering tool to get a transfer.
He stopped in his tracks while he processed what you were telling him. Spencer turned to you, lips parted before he nodded, eventually agreeing with you even if it pained him to do so. “We should call Emily and let her know what’s going on,” he told you, taking a seat across from you and placing his head in his hands. “I’m gonna step outside for a second,” he said, getting up just as quickly as he took a seat and swinging the door open, leaving you alone in the conference room.
Holding your tongue, you stopped yourself from voicing your approval, even though you did think some fresh air would be good for him. Instead, you watched the door click shut before fishing your phone out of your pocket, tapping on Emily’s contact before bringing the phone to your ear.
“How’s it going?” Emily asked you as soon as she answered, and you couldn’t help but picture your unit chief waiting by her phone, hoping to hear from you or Spencer.
You sighed, inadvertently cluing her into how the custodial interview was going, “We might have a problem,” you told her. Continuing on to explain what had happened between you and Marshal Lukins, all the way up through your discovery that he might have a higher victim count.
Prentiss clicked her tongue on the other end of the line, “What does Spencer think?”
The question didn’t come as a surprise to you, neither did the fact that her inflection told you that she was sneakily trying to ask you how Spencer was. Wiping your free palm along the fabric of your pants, you leaned against the table, “Reid thinks Lukins is out for blood.” You opened your mouth to continue but were interrupted by an alarm being tripped, your head snapped up as lights started to flash on the walls.
“What’s going on?” Emily questioned you over the phone, but you could barely hear her over the blare of the alarm, a low-pitched buzzing sound that made your brain feel like it was vibrating within your skull.
Clambering to your feet, you grabbed your water bottle and walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind you as you looked aimlessly around the prison for someone who could offer you an explanation. “I’ve gotta go,” you blurted into the receiver, stuffing your phone in your pocket and making your way to the front of the prison, ignoring the men who shouted at you from behind bars.
You looked down the walkway, watching as the failsafe on the doors was triggered and they slowly started to shut, triggering you to try and make a run for it. “Y/N,” Spencer called out your name, picking up his own pace from the opposite direction.
It didn’t take you long to realize that you weren’t going to make it, skidding to a halt as the bars clicked shut in front of you. You weren’t scared until you watched Spencer pull at the door, frantically trying to slide it open, “Reid,” you said his name, trying to get his attention. “Reid,” you shouted that time, trying to make sure he heard you over the alarm.
He didn’t pause to look at you, he simply continued to pull at the bars.
“Spence,” you said desperately, and that time his eyes snapped to yours. Wide brown eyes bore into yours as you placed one of your hands on his, both of them encircling the bar. “It’s not going to open,” you reminded him. A fact he was well aware of but didn’t want to acknowledge.
Silently, he leaned back into the wall, sliding down the side of it and looking up at the ceiling, pulling at his tie again, this time taking it all the way off. “It’s a lockdown,” he panted helplessly, “They’re in a lockdown.”
You nodded softly, having drawn that conclusion on your own, “It’s okay,” you told him softly, reaching through the bars and taking one of his hands in yours. “You’re alright, Spence,” you continued, your tone bordering on a coo.
He pulled his knees to his chest and slung his free arm over his legs, hugging himself.
It broke your heart to watch him like this. You pointed in the direction he came from, “Look. Hey, you could be free to leave, I’m the one who’s locked in,” you told him, highlighting the fact that the bars were blocking you, but Spencer could make his way back to the entryway.
“Not helping,” he told you, his voice almost a gasp as he tried to regulate his breathing.
Your shoulder’s slumped forward slightly, “I’m sorry. What can I do?”
Spencer just shook his head, squeezing your hand in response when you started sweeping your thumb over his knuckles. You ignored the buzzing of your phone in your pocket as you watched him, completely focused on making sure he was okay before you did anything else.
With your free hand, you grabbed the water bottle that you took from the conference room and slipped it through the bars. “Here, take this,” you murmured, setting it on the ground next to him when he didn’t take the bottle from you.
He visibly relaxed when the alarm stopped going off, but the lights were still flashing, which offered somewhat of an explanation as to why the door hadn’t opened yet.
You fiddled with his hand, opening up his palm and tracing the lines on his hand with your index finger, “Have you ever had your palm read?” You asked him, twisting your head to get a better look at it.
He looked at you, the panicked look in his eyes had subsided, promptly replaced with incredulity, “When have I ever struck you as the kind of person who would get my palm read?”
Shrugging, you slowly traced his love line, “You like Halloween, I thought maybe you’d let your curiosity get the best of you.” Although you supposed if Spencer really wanted to have his palm read, he’d just do it yourself. “When I was in college, my summer job was reading palms in a booth at an amusement park,” you informed him.
Spencer chuckled at your revelation, and the sound made your heart sing, “That is… oddly endearing.”
Nodding, you looked at his hand again, “Chiromancy says men were born with their left hand, and their right is what they accumulate throughout life,” you told him softly, sliding your other hand through the bar.
“Actually, I was born with both of my hands,” Spencer responded, a teasing lilt in his voice.
You rolled your eyes, studying his left hand intently, “You have water hands,” you said, showing him his own palm as if he’d never seen it before.
Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, “Well, now you’re just making things up,” he openly teased you that time, but he didn’t pull his hand away.
Humming, you furrowed your brows and pointed at his hand, “This is your head line,” you explained. “See how it’s long and straight? It sort of tapers off before the end of your palm—that means you tend to think realistically.”
“I could’ve told you that,” he challenged, but his eyes were following along as you pointed at his palm.
You shook your head and sighed, “Here’s your life line,” you said, pointing to a different line and tracing it with your fingertip. “It’s straight and goes down to the edge of your palm, which means you’re cautious about relationships,” you continued softly, leaning your head against one of the bars of the door.
He was silent after that one, briefly taking his bottom lip between his teeth and looking down at his hand. You could tell that even though he didn’t quite believe what you were saying, he was perfectly fine with humoring you.
“This is your fate line,” you told him, entirely expecting to lose him the moment you began discussing fate. “It’s broken down the middle and curved in different directions, and that means you’re prone to a lot of changes in life. Changes influenced by external forces.”
Gently, Spencer pulled his hand away from yours, flexing his hand before looking down at it, “You’ve officially lost me.”
The corner of your mouth quirked up, “I’m surprised you lasted this long.” Just long enough apparently, the doors buzzed soon after, and you withdrew your hands from the slots as the bars slid into a hole in the wall.
Spencer got up first, dusting off his hands before he extended a hand to help you up. Your hand lingered in his for just a moment too long, the exchange oddly intimate for the two of you before his arms dropped to his side, “Thank you,” he murmured, a shy smile on his face.
Shrugging, you crossed your arms in front of your stomach, “There’s nothing to thank, Reid.”
If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that it was disappointment that flashed across his face at your reply.
The warden had rather unceremoniously asked the two of you to leave, citing security concerns and letting you know that he’d be in contact with Emily to reschedule. Emily had called you six times during the lockdown, but you’d texted her once everything was clear.
Which left you heading back to the SUV with Spencer, there were prisoners out in the yard, so he walked on the inside, blocking your body from the view of the inmates. “Are you alright?” You asked him, feeling more free to inquire now that you were in the open air.
He nodded, “I’m fine, I just really wasn’t expecting something like that to happen when I asked Emily to send me on this custodial.”
Your footsteps faltered at his words, “You asked to go on this custodial?”
Spencer frowned, “I was on this case originally ten years ago, so I asked Emily to let me go.”
“And she said yes?” You asked incredulously.
Spencer opened the back door for you to place your bag in, “Not initially, but eventually she realized that I’d be her only option if she wanted to get it done today.” He shut the door and shoved his hands in his pockets, “It’s a lot earlier than I thought we’d be getting back, do you want to stop and get lunch on the way back to Quantico?”
Your eyes went wide and you were grateful that he couldn’t see your expression, “Uh, sure. Why not?”
“Perfect,” he said, “Maybe I can get you to tell me why you avoided reading my love line.”
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copperbadge · 15 days ago
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So, I got tagged in a post, and I wrote a bit of a novel in a reblog in drafts, and then I realized that probably it wasn't for the best to post up All That Nonsense when the OP was just making a funny post about Wikipedia's fundraising. And it is a funny post! So I'll link here to the post and where I was tagged but I decided to put my thoughts here. Please take this as a hint to be respectful of OP and the person who tagged me both :)
I will say my initial reaction to seeing Wikipedia selling merch AND asking to be in your will was "Well, they're trying something." It's just such a weird topic to bring up, it's hard to be graceful about it, so I think what they were doing was probably the best you can do.
And the response did make a lot of the points I'd make about making a will and such. In fact, FreeWill is what I made my will with and we recommend them to our donors.
There was a study that came out a decade ago or more, so my numbers probably aren't accurate, but the statistic that knocked me back was that most donors who leave surprise large bequests (gifts to charity in their will) give an average of $17 a year during their lives. So there's likely a reason that Wikipedia is targeting users and not huge donors.
It's an ongoing issue that most people also don't document their bequests. By all means, leave money to charity in your will, they will be happy to have it, but they will be even happier to know ahead of time.
Perfect example, THIS WEEK we got a check for six figures from a woman's estate. It was an eyebrow-raising amount of money for us. My boss, who handles both "eyebrow raising money" and "gifts from dead people", immediately went to look her up in our database.
Which she is not in. We had no idea this woman existed. Never gave to us before.
Had we known she was leaving us this money, my boss would have made sure she understood how grateful we were and like, bought her lunch a couple of times a year, and when she did pass we would have known who to reach out to in order to offer our support.
Instead, he came to me and said, "I have a name and an address," and I set to work to find out why she gave and who we could thank. I found her obit, but she didn't die of anything related to our work. Using information from the obit, I confirmed none of her family were in our database either. I looked up her second husband, mentioned in the obit, and his obit said he died of lung disease, which told me that this gift is because she lost her husband.
This helps because I knew from her obit that they had a blended family; they didn't have any kids together but they each had kids when they married, all of whom are now like, my age. So we want to thank her kids but we want to make sure her stepkids, who lost their dad, get a specific kind of outreach as well. I told my boss their names and he said one of the husband's kids was listed as the executor of the will, but there was nothing (surname-wise) to indicate they were related. I found contact information for that person, and my boss was able to reach out to her. She didn't realize we didn't know about the bequest, and now she and her siblings are talking to us about their dad and their own health while her stepsiblings, whose mother left us this very generous gift, are getting condolences and thanks and getting to say how she will be thanked in our documentation.
And I mean, that's why my job exists, to fill in those blanks. We just...would really like to have told her thank-you while she was alive.
SO! The moral of the story is: please consider leaving money to charity in your will if you can, use FreeWill to make your will (they will also help you document your gift) and let the charity know you're leaving them an estate gift. Not only will you maybe get cool swag but especially if it's a concern close to your heart, you'll get to build your relationship with the charity.
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tojirights · 10 months ago
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Prompt “❛ i love that no one else has seen you like this, that no one else has felt you before, been inside you. they don't get to have you, but i do. ❜” with alastor :3
Likke reader has been with multiple people but alastor is the first person to make her cum 0.0
prompt: Hii I really like your work! Can you do face sitting with alastor like reader mentions that she wants to sit on alastor face to angel and alastor overhears or angels says outlook to husk while his wasted thank youu
a/n: combining these two prompts!! ^ thinking maybe alastor overhears you talking with angel about your woes and offers to uhhh assist 👀
"the guys down here suck, angel." you sigh, sitting next to angel in the hotel lounge. you crack open your beer and hand him one as well. "yer tellin' me, babe." he chuckles. "whats got ya worked up this tIme?" he hums, reaching an arm around your shoulders. "thats the thing! nothing!" you groan, leaning into his body. "you know how many times i've tried hooking up with someone just for them to bust in 30 seconds and rub my inner thigh?" angel almost chokes on his drink.
"they're the worst. no one down here has been able to make me cum but myself." you mutter, taking a sip of your drink. "who do you want, hm?" angel asks. "maybe i can hook ya up with someone good." he wiggles his eyebrows, earning a giggle from you. the alcohol is making you feel a little brave, so with a sigh, you let your words free. "y'know who i think about all the time?" angel's eyes widen with interest, anticipation building.
"alastor..." you admit for the first time out loud. angel does choke on his drink this time before he laughs. "bitch! the radio demon?!" he barely contains his cackle. "stop! i mean, have you seen him? god, angel. i'd get down on my knees and bark if he told me to. i wanna sit on his face, hold onto his antlers for support. ughh, he's so hot." you whine into angel's chest, embarrasmemt finally setting in. angel tries to contain himself, but you've never said something so out of pocket but also very relatable.
unbeknownst to you, alastor stands not far behind you, his ears twitching as he listens in. a part of him does feel a tinge of guilt for listening, but you'd be quieter if you didn't want anyone to hear you. "well now, isn't that interesting?" alastor's voice makes you jump, almost tossing your beer straight onto angel. "oh fuck..." angel all but pushes you over in an attempt to get away.
"oh my god. alastor i'm so sorry, i was just-" you scramble to defend yourself, but alastor puts his staff under your chin to raise your eyes to his. "what was that you said about wanting to... sit on my face? about these worthless little demons not knowing how to treat a woman?" the sultry tone in his voice has you clenching your thighs together, which you blame on the alcohol swirling in your gut. you laugh awkwardly, trying to brush this off as alastor teasing you but there's a look in his eyes that tells you he's dead serious. "it's nothing! just venting some frustrations, that's all."
your eyes are a dead giveaway, desire flooding them as you peer up at alastor. "why don't you accompany me to my room for the evening, darling? we wouldn't want these inexperienced fools to try and make a move now, would we?" he extends his hand, and you decide to throw caution to the wind. standing, you let him pull you close. "blow my mind, radio boy." you whisper, watching alastor's eyes darken and his smirk grow. alastor uses the shadows, leading you straight to his room in a mere moment.
your heart rate sky rockets, realization hitting your gut as you start to strip. "how long has it been?" he asks, picking you up with ease and carrying you to the bed. "w-what?" you hesistate, watching as alastor ushers you to climb on top of him. "since someone else made you cum?" you swallow, straddling his chest. "i don't even remember al..." alastor's hands come around to grip your ass and pull you forward. with a gasp, you brace yourself on the headboard and then the feeling of alastor's tongue immediately has your brain turning to mush.
it's dizzying, the slide of his tongue up and down your slit was already far better than anything you've experienced in such a long time. "o-oh fuck." your body shudders, barely being able to hold still. alastor's tongue dips passed your entrance, lapping up your juices like a man starving. you already feel that familiar coil in your stomach forming, threatening to snap all over alastor's face. "that's, oh god alastor, that's so good." you moan, gripping tighter on the headboard as your hips start to stutter on their own.
then, you feel alastor's hands on your ass start to push and pull you, forcing your cunt to slide over his tongue. "y-you, i'm gonna-" you can't even think straight, pleasure blinding you to anything else happening in the entire world. alastor hums against your clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth and that's it, you're cumming hard enough that your vision goes dark and tears well in your eyes.
you're shaking, barely being able to breathe as alastor's tongue runs lazy circles over your still sensitive clit to ride out your orgasm. before you're fully recovered, alastor quickly flips you onto your back and his fingers find your puffy pussy. "you have no idea the honor it is to be the only one to see you like this, my dear. the only one to feel you-" he pauses, pushing two fingers inside your needy cunt so he can hear your sweet moans. "cum. and i will be the only one to continue feeling that. you will cum on my face, my fingers, my cock... anything you please."
the desire burning in your core strengthens once more. not even your own fingers have ever made you cum twice, but alastor is about to pull a second orgasm from you almost completely back to back. "make me cum again." you whine, hips arching further off the bed as his fingers pump in and out slowly. "on your cock, fuck, please fuck me alastor."
alastor chuckles, his free hand unbottoning the front of his pants just enough to free his cock. "how could i deny such a good girl? cum on my cock, my princess." in an instant, alastor's fingers are replaced by the thickness of his cock. the first thrust alone has you teetering on the edge, while his thumb rubs tight circles on your clit.
your pussy clenches around his girth, pulsing with every sweep of his finger. each thrust of his hips pushes you closer to the edge, his cock filling you like no one else could ever. "y-you, gonna cum again." you cry out, spasms wrecking your body as your second orgasm hits even more intense with the feeling of his thick cock stretching your pussy.
alastlor groans, pumping his cock deeper, deeper until he's cumming as well. "such a good girl." he grunts, pushing each thick rope of cum further inside. "you won't ever have to worry about not being taken care of, my dear." he assures, pulling out slowly even as your cunt tries to squeeze him in. "there's plenty more where that came from, rest your pretty little eyes." he coos, pulling a blanket on your tired body.
you just know this is going to be the best sleep pf your fucking life...
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writingsonsaturn · 9 months ago
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Tim having a younger girlfriend who gets princess treatment from him, she very obviously in love with Tim, and nobody at the station believes he has a girlfriend, so one day she shows up and work and everyone gets to see and meet her and see just how much she has Tim wrapped around her finger <3
Sorry if it doesn't make sense
puppy love - tim bradford
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{ masterlist }
🪐: hopefully this lives up to what you were thinking!! i did my best to capture all the main elements that you wanted in the story <33
word count: 1039
⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒
Tim was notorious for being a hardass, his rough demeanor and strict ways of teaching made him seem like a total douchebag, for lack of a better word.
However, for you, he was a ball of sunshine, just don't let anyone else know that. 
Tim was awoken to the deafening sound of his alarm clock, he looked over at the red numbers, the clock reading “6:00am”, he sighed and reached a hand over to turn the blaring sound off. He turned over at the movement of your sleeping body, his hand now brushing through your hair with a small smile on his lips, waking up wasn't so bad when he got to see your face every morning.
You woke up gently at the new warmth that was on your head, “do you have to leave today?” you whispered with annoyance, one eye looking at him while the other stayed shut hoping to retain some sleep “unfortunately i do, baby, but i'll be home in time for our date” he responds, leaning over and kissing your forehead. 
He gets out of bed and heads for the closet putting on his uniform, once he’s done getting ready he reaches for his duty belt and gun that he keeps in his nightstand. Finally he leans over to give you one last kiss goodbye, “i love you, i’ll text you on break” you felt his lips move, “i love you too, be safe and come home to me” you respond as he walks out of the room gently shutting the door.
You shortly go back to sleep to get extra shuteye before having to go to your 9:00 am psychology class.
===
Tim made it to work early, going into the locker room and putting his duffle bag full of extra clothes and little snacks that you had snuck in there “just in case”, once he left the locker room he made his way to the debriefing room. “Hey Tim, you still owe me the 13 bucks for that burrito i bought you last week” Angela points out, while walking in behind him “ah right” he groans pulling out his wallet simply forgetting the little photo he kept of you in there.
The photo fell on the ground as Tim pulled out the cash, Angela reached down holding the picture “who is that?” she wonders while looking at the piece of paper “my girlfriend” he responds while holding out the $13, “you? You have a girlfriend?” she jokes “yeah, and i'm a millionaire” she finished sarcastically and walked away to sit down in her seat.
Tim just silently rolled his eyes and put your photo back in the safety of his wallet, after Grey gave his briefing, Angela and Nyla both started talking about Tim’s “girlfriend” the others overheard and suddenly everyone knew about Tim’s private life. 
“Tim has a girlfriend?” Lucy questioned, while walking over the group and grinning. “That’s what he claims, when he was paying me back a photo slipped out of his wallet and when i asked who it was he said it was his girlfriend, but i don't know who would torture themselves like that” she explained, Nolan had his eyebrows raised “come on guys, Tim can’t be that bad” Nolan continued “he probably just doesn't like us” he smiled making the others laugh. 
“Okay! Are you guys ready to stop being a bunch of highschoolers and gossiping about my love life so we can, I don't know, do our job?” Tim dead panned, they all quietly snickered, and some started getting ready to head out.
Tim heard the faint call of his name, and fast feet, “Tim! you forgot your lunch!” you spoke quickly while softly jogging towards him. “That’s what i forgot, thank you baby” Tim mentally smacked himself for forgetting the meal you had prepared for him the night before. You smiled at him, rushing as you had to get back to the campus as you had a final in 45 minutes.
Everyone looked slightly gobsmacked, realizing that Tim was in fact not lying about having a girlfriend, Angela came up to the love sick couple, “so you’re the pretty lady Tim keeps in his wallet” she spoke with playfulness, “you must be Angela! Tim talks about you all the time, im (Y/N)” you introduced yourself with a big smile. Tim smiled at you with all the love in the world, looking at you while you introduced yourself to his friends and colleagues. 
“As much as i would absolutely love talking to you guys more, i have a really important test i have to go take” you explained with haste, everyone was extremely understanding and wished you good lucks, “One last thing, Tim, before you come home will you please pick up milk from the store? I used it all this morning” everyone looked at Tim awaiting his response “Yes ma’am” he complied, you kissed his cheek and gave everyone a last goodbye before leaving.
“Man she has you utterly whipped” Aaron spoke, while shaking his head, “yeah, you are so done for sir” Celina giggled. Tim looked at both of them with a stern face immediately making them shut up and get back to doing whatever they were doing. 
“I'm glad you found someone Tim, you deserve a good person” Lucy quietly mentioned, Tim gave a silent nod of acknowledgement letting Lucy know that what she said meant a lot to him as she left and continued on with her duties.
Tim carried on with his day, doing paperwork, and counting the minutes until he came home to you.
Once he got off of work, he made sure he picked up milk and even got you you're favorite snack, as soon as he got home you two made dinner together and sat at the kitchen table, you told him how you’re very sure you passed your final with flying colors, and he told you about the mountains of paperwork that made him wish he was in bed watching a stupid reality show with you instead. 
When it was time for bed you and Tim continued to talk about random thoughts, and your futures together before you both drifted into a peaceful sleep.
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not-neverland06 · 3 months ago
Text
conflicted spaces
Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
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a/n: He doesn’t get TB in this. Why? Because this is fanfiction and I’m god and fuck canon (I just finished the game, I’m emotionally distraught and needed this)
Warnings: brief attempted SA
Summary: Your father is a gambling man and you’re always the collateral. He refuses to pay the wrong man and now you’re being dragged across country roads to a man you’ve never met. Arthur Morgan, an outlaw down to the bone, is in charge of making sure you get there in one piece. Except, he doesn’t feel right selling a woman off like she’s property.
You’re done being a doormat and letting the men in your life tell you what you’re worth. You’ve got three days to escape him, but you’re not prepared for the reality of the real world.
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“Put your hands where I can see ‘em, cowboy.” Arthur’s shoulders tense and he curses under his breath. His hand darts to the revolver on his hip, but the second his fingers twitch towards it he hears a hammer being pulled back. The cool barrel of a gun digs into his neck and he raises his hand in surrender. 
The man behind him lets out a familiar laugh and tugs him around. Arthur rolls his eyes and glares at Dutch. “The hell are you doing?”
Dutch clears his throat, still laughing slightly. “Relax, Arthur, but if I had been an O’Driscoll you’d be dead right now.” Arthur doesn’t point out that the only thing they have to worry about out here are the Lemonye raiders. He’s more focused on why Dutch is even out here. Rarely does he leave Shady Belle to traverse the streets of St. Denis. 
None of them are particularly fond of the place. If he wanted to step in horse shit every other step he’d go to a stable. At least those smell better. Dutch slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, tugging him away from the saloon he was heading towards. 
“You’re gonna have to save the cheating for later, Arthur, I need you for something.”
“You know I don’t cheat,” Arthur jokes and Dutch grins at him and it’s nice. This is familiar to him. This feels right. Dutch has been odd lately, the jobs he’s been taking, the risks he’s been imposing, none of them feels like the man he knows. 
Now, Arthur would follow Dutch straight into hell without being asked. But he can’t abide by how he’s putting their people in harm's way. He’s felt like a stranger more often than not and he’s been doubting the people he shouldn’t. Right now, though, he can see the man he knows in the teasing curl of his lips. 
“What’dya need?”
Dutch pauses in front of a tailor and pats Arthur’s chest. “I need you to look prim and proper for a party we’ve got tonight.”
Arthur’s brows furrow cynically and he scoffs. “Someone invited us to a party?”
Dutch hesitates, a stiff smile on his face. “Well, let’s just say someone is interested in our work.” Arthur wants to question him further, he’s hiding something from him. But Dutch is pushing him towards the door of the shop before he can argue. “And get a haircut, we need to look presentable not like a bunch of mountain men.”
Arthur watches as Dutch leaves, something heavy weighing down on him. Dutch doesn’t usually tell people about his plans beforehand. At least not every step of them. But this is odd, he’s definitely hiding something and Arthur isn’t sure he wants to know what. 
With a resigned huff, he heads into the tailor. He has to mentally prepare himself for being stuffed into a starched collar and a stiff suit for the rest of the night. He hates these damn parties, hates having to pretend like he knows what the hell is being said. 
Most of the people that attend are educated or pretend to be. And when he lets it slip that he’s more likely to shoot a gun than read a book they turn on him like jackals. You can’t let them see that you’re different than them or you’ll never get a word in edgewise. 
The only part he enjoys is the booze and robbing them of their money. It’s not like they earned any of it. Most of it was made by breaking the backs of the people they mock for being too poor to afford a fancy suit. 
Arthur takes a deep breath and looks for the cheapest suit he can find in the overpriced shop. 
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“Now,” Mr. Crane’s hand tightens around your bicep and he jerks you closer to him. You keep your face impassive, not letting him see just how much he’s hurting you. But you can feel your skin being stretched to its limits by his clammy fingers. “You’re going to behave tonight. I’ve got a few gentlemen I’d like you to meet.”
He looks at you expectantly but you keep your mouth firmly shut. His eyes narrow and he jerks you around roughly. “Understood,” you force the word out through gritted teeth. You’re trying to breathe as little as possible, not wanting to smell his cigar-laced breath any longer. 
Finally, after a tortuously long moment, he releases you. You take ten steps back, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from the silk skirt he’d forced you in. You glance out the window of his office, watching as the workers scramble to set up the tables for tonight. You can hear cooks in the kitchen, shouting out orders for the food for tonight. 
Everything must be perfect. Mr. Crane never fails to deliver on his extravagantly indulgent parties. The man himself is the very embodiment of greed. You glance over with a disgusted sneer as he sinks himself into his leather chair and pulls out a wad of cash. 
He catches your eye and sends you a sickly sweet smile. “This,” he waves the money at you and you track the movement boredly. “Is how much you’re worth, sweetheart.” Your brows raise in amusement and you scoff. More than you thought he would put up for you. 
You wonder who he’s going to have transport you. He’ll need you out of the city soon, your father is starting to catch onto what’s happening. It took him long enough. You’ve been missing a month, you’d think he would have put two and two together faster. Then again, he’d never been very interested in you beyond what you were worth to others. 
“When will I be able to meet these gentlemen?” You ask, taking a step towards him. Your eyes dart towards the letter opener on his desk and for a brief moment you picture yourself strabbing it into his fattened jugular. 
But he flicks his wrist and like magic the door opens, his men coming inside and standing resolutely by your side. “Not anytime soon, my dear.” He looks to the men surrounding you and you take in a sharp breath, wishing you’d just taken the chance when you had it. “My associate is feeling quite tired, take her back to her room, please.”
They grab you by the elbows, even though it's entirely unnecessary. You wouldn’t run, and even if you did you wouldn’t get far with the chains he has hidden under your dress. A punishment for the first time you snuck from his home. You’ve been well behaved since then but he doesn’t trust you. 
You’re whisked away without another word. The trek of the stairs is a slow one. They’re forced to help you navigate by lifting your skirts and not tripping on the chains. It no longer brings you any satisfaction to cause a hindrance in any of their days. 
Before, you would think of being an annoyance as a small victory. But it’s not, it never was. It was just a way for them to keep you complacent by allowing you to think you’d done something for yourself. You believe your father used to do the same thing. 
It’s just another way of keeping you quiet. 
When you make it to your rooms, they shove you inside. Like clockwork, you hear the jingle of the keys and then the lock clicks. You sigh and take a step towards your vanity, working on touching up your hair. 
You think the worst part of this must be how well you’re treated. You have meals made by a private chef. Your quarters are decorated more lavishly than they ever were at your father’s house. Yet, you hear the suffocating tick of the clock as it counts down your doom. 
You’re not entirely sure what their plan is with you. You know your father had made a promise to Mr. Crane involving some land. Or perhaps it had been a wager. But as always, you were collateral when your father refused to pay up. 
You know Mr. Crane wants you out of town so that he has more time to negotiate with your father, to call in the interest he owes him. You also know the only reason your father is interested in finding you is because you’re meant to marry the son of a business partner in two months. The money he’ll get from that will be enough to finally pay off his debts. 
Except, now, Mr. Crane tells you that should your father refuse to pay you’ll be married to one of his associates. And the deal he’ll make from that will be enough to cover what your father has refused to pay. 
No matter what, you’re going to be married off to some man you’ve never met and yet again be a quiet trophy on a shelf. It’s a very convoluted situation, one which makes you think leaping from a window might be a better fate. 
None of the men your father or Mr. Crane is in business with are particularly kind. They’ve got more skeletons in the closet than there are in the graveyard. You doubt you’ll live a very happy life with whoever they pick for you. 
You slump forward onto the vanity, trying to fight off the burning feeling in the back of your eyes. You’ve known this would happen for years. Even before Mr. Crane had you kidnapped, you knew that this would be your destiny. You would never get to be one of the free-spirited women who fought for the right to choose. You would always be forced into this role. 
Yet, being so close to it coming to fruition makes you feel choked and suffocated. You can feel the noose around your neck tightening, the hangman’s fingers twitching as he waits to see you drop. 
You dig your nails into your palm, taking in a deep breath and fighting back the wave of despair. Where there is doom, you also see a sliver of hope. Your next journey will be a long one. He’s hiring someone to have you transported to an area further up the map. 
If you play your cards right you might be able to escape while you’re traveling. If you’re incredibly smart about this, thinking with your head and not your heart, you might have a shot at freedom. 
You take in a deep breath, reapplying your makeup and resolving yourself to another night of mindless entertainment. But you hold onto that fleeting feeling of hope. You have a shot, you just have to take it. 
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Arthur’s heard of these parties before. Some Mr. Crane fella that likes to blow all his money on food and booze. He indulges his guests and when they’re weakest, gets their secrets from them. He’s a snake and everyone knows it. Yet, missing his party is social suicide. They have no choice but to go and indulge in him. 
Arthur had never had any interest in meeting him or doing any business with him. But Dutch had informed him that’s exactly what’s happening tonight. They’ll mingle for a little while, maybe scout some other jobs, and then Mr. Crane will invite them up to his office for a private discussion. 
Dutch still hasn’t told him what exactly their business with him is. He brought Hosea along tonight so he has to assume it’s not going to be anything violent. But he can’t think of anything else they could be good for. 
“Alright, gentlemen,” Dutch places his hands on Hosea’s and Arthur’s shoulders, a scheming smile on his face. “Try not to embarrass me.” He slips behind them, heading up the stairs of the home. Hosea and Arthur share a brief look before they split up, blending into the background of the garden. 
Arthur lurks near the bar, he knows he should be talking to these assholes, possibly learning something useful. But he can’t be bothered. He orders a whiskey, gaze surveying the partygoers. They’re all loud with painted faces and fake smiles. Not a goddamn person here seems to be genuinely interested in anything they’re doing. 
“First time?” The soft voice beside him catches him off guard. He glances to the side and is surprised to see that you’ve slipped past him. He hadn’t even noticed you slide up next to him. You laugh at the look on his face and it’s the first thing here that seems real. “Sorry, it’s just that look on your face, I recognize the disappointment. You’ve never been to one of Crane’s parties before?”
“No,” he clears his throat, still recovering from the surprise. “Uh, I can’t say I have.”
You suck on your teeth, narrowing your eyes at the people passing by. “They’re not worth the effort. Everyone who leaves here leaves carrying his debt on their back.”
Arthur chuckles a little, lips twitching up into a small smile. He’s surprised by your frankness, most people like to hide behind passive-aggressive digs. He appreciates the straightforward attitude. “Then why are you here?”
You shrug and Arthur finds himself enchanted. He shouldn’t be, he’s never been one for romance. He finds women pretty and he’s been in love before, but he’s never bought into the idea of love at first sight. Or any of that mushy stuff that Mary Beth devours in those books of hers. 
But you are absolutely gorgeous, dressed in a silk dress that’s so expensive he’s sure he could buy two new horses with it. Your fingers and neck are decorated in dainty jewels that you fidget with as you stare down at your drink. When you set your eyes on him again he thinks he might have been struck by Cupid’s arrow. 
“I don’t have a choice,” you finally answer, sending him a stiff smile. “What about you? Why are you here?”
Arthur suddenly remembers himself, remembers why he’s here and what he’s supposed to be doing. The fog in his head dissipates and he’s disappointed in himself. Pretty women have never done anything except get him in trouble. 
“Business,” he answers vaguely. Your eyes narrow and your brows twitch in discontent. Something like realization dawns on your face and you back away from him. The easy attitude you’d carried yourself with is gone, replaced by a vague look of distrust. 
“Right, should’ve known.” You let out a rough sigh and Arthur can’t help but feel like he’s said the wrong thing. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you again soon.” You slip past him before he can ask you what you mean. He hears the faint sound of metal clinking as you walk back up the stairs. 
Something silver flashes under your skirts but he can’t get a good glimpse of it. He feels unsettled as he turns back to the bar. The whole interaction was odd. From how stricken he was with you to how cold you turned. 
He doesn’t know what you saw in him but it was probably for the best that you left when you did. Neither of you needed the trouble the other would bring. He shakes his head, downing his whiskey and muttering nonsense to himself about not thinking with the wrong head. 
It’s not that much later that Dutch is appearing on the balcony and silently motions him forward. Arthur leaves the bar behind and slips up the same stairs you’d disappeared on. Dutch says nothing as he leads Hosea and Arthur through the house. 
The mansion is a maze more than anything. Arthur loses track of all the turns they take and the winding staircases they descend. Finally, Dutch stops them all in front of two large oak doors. He raps once on the door and then lets himself in. 
A large, balding man with a shiny head is perched on top of a leather chair. He looms behind his desk, fingers steepled as he greets them all with a false smile. “Ah, gentlemen, so nice to finally meet you.”
Dutch grins and motions to Arthur, “This is the man who will be doing the transporting, Arthur.” Arthur’s eyes narrow in confusion but he says nothing as Dutch moves to Hosea, “And this is my associate, Hosea. He’s a lot better with money than I am, Mr. Crane. You understand.”
Mr. Crane lets out a boisterous laugh that makes Arthur’s ears hurt and nods his head, his cheeks jiggling with the movement. “That I do! Well,” he waves them forward when they linger in the doorway too long, “come in, come in.”
Arthur closes the doors behind them as Mr. Crane lifts himself from his desk. There are two couches positioned in front of an unlit fire. He takes one of them and Dutch and Hosea take the other. Arthur perches himself on the armrest of their couch, eyes surveying the office like it might reveal the truth of their visit. 
“I trust Mr. Van der Linde has kept this all quiet?” 
“He has,” Arthur grouses. 
At the same time, Dutch says, “Of course, Mr. Crane. I promised confidentiality and Dutch Van der Linde is nothing if not a man who keeps to his promises.” Crane nods, looking satisfied and  Arthur holds back a laugh at how easily he seems to trust Dutch.
“Good, good.” He dips his hand inside his jacket and Arthur’s palm instinctively drops to where his gun should be. Of course, they’d had to give up their weapons before they came into the party, if he does has a gun Arthur can’t do a damn thing. 
But he doesn’t, instead, he pulls out the thickest stack of cash that Arthur has ever laid his eyes on. A loud thud resounds through the room as he slams the bills on top of the table between them. Arthur’s eyes widen and Hosea’s jaw nearly drops at the sight of it all. 
This would be enough to get them out of St. Denis tonight. Shock sours quickly into suspicion. What the hell has Dutch signed up for? “Now, this is the first half. This is simply for accepting the job and,” he gives them all severe looks, “for your silence.”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably on his perch and waits for Mr. Crane to finish. “The other half will be given once the package has been safely delivered.” There’s a certain lilt to his words when he says package that has Arthur’s hackles raising. Whatever is getting delivered is not going to be good. 
Crane turns towards the bookshelves on the wall and calls out, “Darling, won’t you join us?” Arthur figures the man must have lost his mind, they should just take the money and leave. But there’s a loud creak and something like metal gears grinding together. One of the shelves pops open and the panel swings forward. 
You pop your head out, glancing towards Crane and then taking a step forward. Arthur, without even thinking about it, finds himself sitting up, and brushing some of the dirt off his pants from the ride over. 
At first, he’s so confused by seeing you again that he doesn’t realize why exactly he’s seeing you again. Then you glance towards him, a knowing look on your face and it clicks. You’re the package. You’re what he’s meant to be transporting. 
He glares over at Dutch, when exactly did they get into the business of trading women?
Hosea voices his doubts in a much calmer manner. “If I may, sir, why does she need to be delivered so discreetly?”
Mr. Crane laughs and your face twitches unpleasantly. You grimace, glaring at the back of the man’s head with something like murder in your eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause such a visceral look of hate and he doesn’t want to think about it. This whole situation is bothering him. You’re not here willingly, which means you’re not going to be transported willingly either. 
None of this makes sense. Dutch would never have taken a job like this before, even when they needed the money. And there’s no way in hell a rich man like this one would want to pay a couple of grungy outlaws so much money. There’s got to be some sort of trick in all of this. 
Cran clears his throat, “She’s a daughter of a, well,” he frowns and struggles for the words. “Let’s just say we’re in a hostile competition for a lot of land. This land, boys, could be very beneficial in expanding my business. He’s not interested in selling and, well, desperate times, desperate measures.”
You scoff, laughing slightly at him and rounding the couch. Dutch ignores you, Hosea looks uncomfortable, and Crane continues prattling on without missing a beat. “Should her father not pay me, she will be married to the associate you’re bringing her to. He’s promised me enough land and money to cover what I lost to her father. And if he does pay, she’ll be returned in time for her wedding here.”
Arthur’s eyes dart towards you and you send him a bitter smile. It makes him shift where he sits, hating the way your eyes bore into him. “I just need someone who's not afraid of getting their hands a little dirty to make sure she behaves while she’s delivered to my friend,” Crane glances over at Arthur. He asses him, the bulge of his arms in the suit and the scars on his face, whatever he finds must be satisfactory because he smiles over at Dutch. 
Arthur stands, ready for Dutch to tell Mr. Crane that they’re not in the business of selling women off. But Dutch doesn’t, he smiles at Mr. Crane and reaches for the money, passing it off to Hosea to count. “Well, I do believe my friend Arthur is just the man for the job.” 
“I think you’re right, Dutch.” He stands up now, pot belly nearly bursting the buttons of his shirt, and reaches for Dutch’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Dutch smiles and takes his sweaty palm, “You as well, sir.” Dutch walks towards you and holds his arm out. “This way, my dear.” You glance between him and his elbow before rolling your eyes and reluctantly placing your hand on his arm. You follow him silently and obediently, no fight is left in you. Hosea follows after you both, a concerned look on his face. 
Arthur remains in the office, standing dumbfounded and staring at the doorway you’d disappeared through. He’s struggling to process what just happened. Arthur has helped people get home safely before and provided protection. But he’s never been one to traffic a hostage. 
Crane glances up, finally noticing him still standing there. He walks past him, patting his shoulder as he does and giving him an approving smile. “Don’t be afraid to take care of her should she get out of hand.” He’s nearly out the door but he looks back and adds, “Just don’t bruise her too much.”
Arthur’s fingers twitch for his revolver once more and he’s never wanted to shoot a man more. But he knows Dutch is waiting for him and he’d never make it out of here alive if he started a fight right now. Reluctantly, he makes his way out of the manor and towards where you’re all waiting for him. 
He’s fuming by the time he stops in front of Dutch. He’s trying to help you onto his horse and Arthur finally realizes what the metal sound he heard earlier is. There are chains around your ankles and you can’t maneuver yourself on the saddle. 
His eyes narrow and he glares at Dutch, “What the hell are you doing? We’re selling women now?”
Dutch glowers at the tone of Arthur’s voice. You watch them both passively, fiddling with the rings on your fingers and looking unbothered by the entire situation. “Watch yourself, Arthur,” there’s a clear warning in his tone but Arthur’s too upset to care. 
They’ve done a lot of bad things. They weren’t good men. But this was just going too far. “We need this, Arthur. You want to get out of here, you want to keep our people safe?” Arthur let out a deep exhale, gritting his teeth together and nodding reluctantly. Dutch huffs, “That’s what I thought. We’re not selling anyone, Arthur. It’s a simple delivery.”
His jaw clenches as he watches Dutch struggle to help you again. “It’s not going to work,” you inform Dutch. You lift your skirts, flashing him the chains he hadn’t seemed to notice yet. Neither of you gets a chance to say anything as Arthur pulls out his gun and shoots the lock off. 
He feels a little guilty at how startled you look. Your eyes widen until they look like they might bulge out. Your hands fly up to cover your ears as the sound rocks through you. It breaks violently through the silence of the night. 
Dutch turns and gives him a stern look, “Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?” Arthur can tell he’s trying not to shout and drag any more attention towards you all. 
Arthur glares at Dutch, something wicked brewing in his stomach. “The lady wouldn’t be able to ride a horse like that.” He mounts his horse and rides off without a look back. He can’t stand to be near you or Dutch any longer. 
The reality of what they’ve turned into hits him like a bag of rocks and it makes him irate. They’ve never been these people. Never traded a person off like they were an object. He’s sure plenty of people in camp would have a problem with this. But he doubts Dutch will let them know the truth until the job is done. 
And by then, everyone will be too happy with the money to complain. Dutch is nothing if not good at saving his ass. He’s hitching his horse as the rest of you ride into camp. He lingers by Diablo, resting a hand on the thick neck of the shire while Dutch helps you off the saddle. 
His eyes narrow in on the way Dutch’s fingers glide along your waist as you jump down. You take a step back the second your legs are steady sending Dutch a dirty look that almost makes Arthur laugh. 
He starts towards Dutch, ready to try and reason with him again. But he holds his hand up and walks away, not even giving him a chance to speak. Arthur lets out a rough sigh as Hosea comes up behind him. 
He pats his shoulder comfortingly, “You should get some sleep, Arthur. You’ll ride with her to Strawberry tomorrow morning.” He almost walks off but he whispers a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before he goes. 
Arthur glances towards you but you’re looking around the camp, eyes lingering on Javier as he sings by the fire. He swears he almost sees you smile but it's gone as quickly as it came. He takes his hat off, running his hand through his hair and letting out a tired sigh. 
“Alright, come with me,” he starts towards the house. It takes a minute to realize you’re not directly behind him. When he looks over your shoulder he sees you with your skirts lifted, tiptoeing through the mud and trying not to get your pretty skirts dirty. 
He rolls his eyes, storming back towards you. Your eyes widen at the look on his face and you stumble back a few steps. Undeterred, he bends over, throwing you over his shoulder and walking towards the house. 
Your hands claw at his back, desperately grasping onto his shirt so you keep your balance. He storms up the stairs, ignoring the alarmed looks he gets from others in camp. He can already hear them whispering, wondering who you are and why he’s dragging you into his room. 
They can make up whatever the hell they want. Arthur’s too pissed off to give a shit about rumors tonight. He drops you unceremoniously onto his bed and storms back out. He heads downstairs, rooting around in one of the chests for some extra clothes. 
You won’t be able to ride to Strawberry in those ridiculous clothes. You’ll need some pants if you’re going to sit on the horse properly. He tucks the outfit under his arm and makes his way back to you. 
When he opens the door your hand immediately darts away from his shaving kit and shoves itself under your butt. His brows furrow as he catches a flash of silver in your hand. He places the clothes down on the end of the bed, eyes drifting towards his shaving kit. Sure enough, his razor seems to be missing. 
He lets out a sigh and you tense up, hand clenching around your prize. He briefly debates taking it from you. But he figures you should be allowed a modicum of comfort. Even if you did try and use it against him it’s dull, he hasn’t sharpened it in a while and you wouldn’t be able to do much damage anyway. 
He lets you keep it, leaving you on your own without another word. He can hear the exhale of relief you let out when he walks away and it makes him feel just a little better about this. At least you’re not completely terrified. 
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You change into the clothes Arthur gave you. They’re a little big, but you appreciate the pants. It’s much better than the ridiculous dresses Crane had you in. You collect your dress and toss it out the window of Arthur’s room, watching it sink into the mud pit below. It brings you some satisfaction to see Crane’s pretty silk getting ruined. 
You take off the jewelry you’d been given and stuff it into your boots. If you did manage to escape while you were traveling with Arthur then you were going to need some cash. You could sell off the jewels and hopefully, it would be enough to keep you comfortable. 
It feels nice, to wear real clothes. Not being dressed up like a doll for once. You envy some of the women here, who can wear what they want. There is an appeal to the outlaw life. As long as you’re on the right side of it, which, currently, you’re not. 
You slip out of the house before anyone has a chance to retrieve you. The whole night you were curled up around a dull razor with your eyes wide open. Spending a night surrounded by outlaws isn’t exactly restful. 
You figure you might as well try and walk around before you’re on the back of a horse for the rest of the day. There are more people up than you’d expected. Luckily, you don’t see Dutch around anywhere. You don’t feel like having to deal with any more of his false charm or empty apologies. 
The same man you’d seen strumming his guitar the night before is asleep next to the dying fire. A blonde woman catches your eye, she’s walking past some other women in dresses. They’re still asleep but she looks like she’s been up for hours. 
There’s a bit of blood on her pants and you briefly wonder what she’d been doing. “Who are you?” She asks, surveying you from head to toe with suspicion in her eyes. 
“A package,” you tell her bluntly, walking past her towards the only lit fire of camp. She follows you, a wry grin on her face as she watches you pour yourself some coffee. 
“You’ve got a real attitude, I like it.” 
You huff out a laugh, taking a sip of the burnt coffee and giving her a brief smile. “I’m sure my future husband won’t.” 
She rolls her eyes and scoffs, waving you off. “Husbands, good for nothing. I loved mine but he was useless as a sack o’ flour. You’re better off without them.”
Your smile turns strained and you look down at your feet, at the boots that aren’t your own. You’ll never get to dress like this again. Or speak like this to a woman who isn’t afraid to voice what's on her mind. 
“Yes, well,” you shrug and meet her eyes again, “I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”
Her eyes narrow and she frowns, “What’s that supposed to-”
“Mrs. Adler!” Dutch’s voice booms from across the camp and forces the others awake. Most of them grumble, but they’re quick to get started on morning chores. “I see you’ve met our guest,” he says your name with a flourish that almost makes you laugh. 
He’s a good actor. He’s especially good at covering up his mistakes. “Yeah, what’s going on, Dutch? Who is she? Why don’t you guys ever let me in on this stuff?” She fires off questions rapidly, you almost don’t catch them all. There are clearly underlying issues here other than your unexpected presence. 
“In due time,” he assures her, laying the charm on thick. But even you can tell he’s full of it. He’s not planning on letting her in on anything unless it benefits him. “And this is our guest, her fiancee has paid us handsomely to provide her safe passage back to him.” 
He walks towards you, laying a hand over your arm and squeezing slightly. You give Sadie a stiff smile and let him lead you away. “I do believe it’s best that you just wait for Arthur, dear.” He gives you a look that lets you know it’s an order, not a suggestion. 
Still, you play along, “I think you might be right, Mr. Van der Linde, thank you for the hospitality.” You run a tired hand over your face, sitting down on the stoop of the house and finishing off the rest of your coffee. Dutch watches you for a while, never straying too far from where you are and intercepting anyone who asks about you. 
He spins quite the romantic tale of your lost love and how he desperately wants you back. You wish it were true, that you were living out some wonderful fairytale and were about to be reunited with the love of your life. Instead, it feels like one long walk to the gallows. 
The wood creaks behind you and you don’t need to turn to see who it is. “Ready?” Arthur asks and you figure he means, ready to leave freedom and happiness and the will to live behind? 
No, “Sure,” you toss the rest of the coffee into the grass and leave the mug on the stairs. You get to your feet and let him lead you towards the horses. He shares a brief look with Dutch as you pass by him but it doesn’t look entirely pleasant. 
He makes his way toward a towering black shire and your eyes widen in horror. “What’s this?”
He works on saddling the horse up, not paying much attention to you. “This is Diablo.” You take a step closer and the horse starts huffing, swinging his neck towards you with his lips pulled back. You jump back a step back, eyeing him warily. 
Arthur glances over and lets out a low chuckle, “He won’t bite. He’s just curious.”
“Mhm,” you give him a disbelieving look. “You’ll have to excuse me for being wary, I’ve not met a lot of horses.”
Arthur looks a bit shocked by your admission. “Really?” He questions, sounding doubtful. 
You give him a brief smile and nod. “Hard to believe, I know, but I’ve lived a very sheltered life, Mr. Morgan. Haven’t had many opportunities for exploring on my own.” 
He opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something. At the last second, he stops himself, instead taking a step closer to you. You flinch away from him when he reaches for you and he lets out a sigh. “You can’t spend the next three days terrified of him, come on.”
He coaxes you forward and you reluctantly step closer to the beast. He chuckles at the scared look on your face. You don’t appreciate how much amusement he’s gaining from this. “Come on,” he mutters, taking your wrist and leading you closer to Diablo. 
The damn thing is named Devil, how could you not be terrified of it? 
“He won’t bite, I promise.” You don’t trust him but he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He presses your open palm to Diablo’s nose and you wince, bracing for him to lash out at you. 
But he doesn’t, he lets out a soft knicker and it seems like he doesn’t even care that you’re there. You let out a relieved laugh, running your hand tentatively over his muzzle. It’s shockingly soft and oddly squishy. 
He doesn’t seem to mind as you awe over him. You smile and glance over at Arthur but it drops when you see the odd look on his face. He seems perplexed by your reaction and you can’t fathom why. “You really never have ridden a horse before, have you?”
You shake your head, “No. I told you.”
He purses his lips and nods. You don’t know what it is about this that’s bothering him and you don’t care to ask. If he doesn’t believe just how strict your upbringing has been then fine. “Alright, come on, we need to get a move on.” 
He leads you around to the saddle and helps you up on the back of the horse. It’s beyond odd, sitting on something in pants. Getting to spread your legs freely is something you are going to greatly enjoy during this journey. 
Arthur takes off without much warning and you yelp, throwing your arms around his waist to steady yourself. He glances over his shoulder at you but says nothing. You turn your head, watching as the camp gets smaller and smaller. 
The people mill about, greet each other, and break bread together. It hits you suddenly, this will be the last time you get to see people being free. If you don’t get out, if you can’t escape, your life will be filled with starched collars and powdered faces. You’ll never have a genuine conversation with someone again. You’ll be turned into pretty jewelry hanging off the arm of a man you never met. 
The ride to Strawberry is three days at least. You have three days to get your plan together and to escape. You almost feel sorry for Arthur and the repercussions he’ll have to face losing you. But not sorry enough that you’re not gonna try. 
Arthur’s speed evens out and you let your arms relax, easing away from him slightly. Your wrist jolts against the gun on his hip and you eye it curiously. If you had a gun there would be no doubt you could escape. You see Arthur’s fingers twitch on the reigns of the horse and you move your arms higher up his torso. 
You doubt you’ll be a quicker draw than he is. He is an outlaw after all. You don’t think he’d have many qualms about delivering you to your fiancee with a few extra holes in your gut. Your mind drifts to the razor in your pocket and you consider it for a moment. 
You’re sure you’d be quick enough to just whip it out and slit his throat. You sigh and dismiss the thought. You were a lot of things but you were not a murderer. There are lines you can’t bring yourself to cross. Besides, as wicked as what he’s doing to you is, you know he’s a good man. 
It was an instinctual feeling. Mr. Crane and your father were both horrible, evil men. They knew nothing but greed and would never be satisfied by all the riches they reaped. They were the type of men you looked at and knew deep down that there was nothing left to save. 
Arthur has undoubtedly bad things. You don’t become an outlaw without spilling some blood. He was weathered and rough from a hard life, but that didn’t mean there was nothing good left in him. You won’t have his blood on your hands, no matter how much you might want to get away from him. 
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As grateful as Arthur is for the silence, it is odd. He’s helped a few ladies find their way back home before and for some reason, they seem to think he’s the best listener in the world. It seems everyone who rides with him wants to tell him their life stories. 
You’re completely silent, though. He has to keep looking back just to make sure you haven’t fallen off the back of the horse. You’re pretty complacent, following along with whatever Dutch said and coming along quietly. You seem beaten down, the fight dragged out of you. 
He wonders what Mr. Crane had done to you. A few times, he’s seen just a glimpse of the spark that used to be there. But it was snuffed out before he got a chance to know it. He almost wishes you would talk. It would distract him from what he was doing right now.
It didn’t feel right, bringing you along to marry a man you’ve never even met. He has to keep reminding himself that it would have happened no matter what. Ladies like you are always sold off into a profitable marriage. The only thing he’s doing is switching up who the fiancee might be. 
None of that makes him feel better, though. He should be helping you, not dragging you away to your worst nightmare. But, his people come first. The amount of money Dutch’ll get from this will be enough to get them all out of here. This could finally be the last score. 
You gasp behind him and he whips his head around, immediately expecting someone to be following along beside you both. Maybe your father’s men or just some raiders. But he doesn’t see anything except a herd of deer running through the trees. 
His brows furrow in confusion and he glances back at you. You’re watching them like they’re something spectacular. Arthur’s always been a fan of the quiet beauty of nature. He appreciates them in ways most folks don’t understand. But you’re looking at ‘em like you just found God. 
“Never seen deer before?” He teases, chuckling a little at your reaction. 
You startle, not realizing he had been watching. You clear your throat and look away from them sheepishly. He almost feels bad for ruining the moment for you. “No. No, I haven’t.” 
He knows it's possible, but it’s astounding to him that someone truly lived their whole life in the city. It just doesn’t seem right. Cities are full of shit, smog, and bad people. Not even having a moment out of that your whole life seems like torture. 
“I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts,” you mutter, eyes darting back to the tree line. But the deer are gone and you don’t look very interested anymore. 
“Right,” he shifts forward, the air between you awkward. He’d only meant it in jest. He didn’t mean to remind you of what was about to happen to you. He doesn’t like the silence, not this time, it feels wrong. It makes him stew in his shame and that’s a nasty feeling. 
Selfishly, he prods you for more. “A few days on the road, you’ll be eager for the city again.”
You laugh but there’s no humor to it. “I very much doubt that Mr. Morgan.”
“Arthur,” he corrects, “just call me Arthur.”
“Right,” your tone remains cold, “well if you don’t mind Arthur, I’d like to ride there in silence.”
He's got no other choice but to comply. If you don’t want to talk he won’t make you. He just wishes he could make this a little easier for you both. 
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Camping is something. You don’t have a word for it. It’s nice to be out in nature and embrace it for the first time in your life. But you really would not mind the comfort of your bed right now. 
Rocks digging into your spine and head do not make for a good night’s sleep. You’ve been lying in front of the fire for hours, flipping around uselessly. It doesn’t matter how much you shift, the rock stays digging painfully into you. 
You let out a loud huff, flopping onto your back and glaring up at the starry sky in defeat. At least the view is nice. In the city, you can’t see the stars. The smoke’s too thick and you never get a good look at them.
Out here, they almost feel fake. They’re so bright and beautiful, you thought the paintings in the museum had always been exaggerating just how breathtaking a night sky can be. But you were wrong. And you hate that there’s a potential future where you’ll never get to see this again. 
“Would you quit squirming so damn much?”
You shoot up, resting on your elbows and glaring over at Arthur. He’s got his hat over his eyes, arms crossed, and looking like he’s been asleep for the past few hours. You hadn’t realized you’d been keeping him up. 
“Some of us aren’t used to sleeping outside,” you hiss, throwing yourself back down to the ground. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you figure that’s the end of it. You clench your eyes shut, counting sheep in your mind and trying to force yourself asleep. 
You hear boots crunching across leaves and your eyes fly open. Arthur’s standing over you, hands propped on his hips as he glares down at you. “Can I help you?” You snap when you get tired of the staring. 
He scoffs and shakes his head, kneeling to be eye level with you. You’re startled by the proximity, an odd heat creeping up your neck. “Come on, I’m gonna tire you out. Maybe then you’ll get some sleep.”
You gasp, astonished at the audacity of his suggestion. “Excuse me?” You demand, tone incredulous. 
His brows furrow before he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Not like that,” he grouses. “Get up,” he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He places his hand under your back, shoving you onto your feet. You stand with a slight stumble, glaring at him as you brush dirt off your shirt and pants. 
You can’t help the snotty tone of your voice as you ask, “What are we doing?” 
“Huntin,’” He answers gruffly, going over to the horse and taking the bow out of his saddle. 
Your brows furrow as you recall the few stories your father told you of hunting bison. “Aren’t you supposed to use a rifle?”
He shakes his head and nods towards the treeline. You glance back at the fire before reluctantly following him into the dark forest. The moon is full enough that it provides just enough light for you not to be terrified of what’s lurking in the underbrush. 
“Got a friend,” he tells you, kneeling and glancing at some tracks on the ground. “Taught me how to hunt properly. Bows are quieter, less disruptive, and they provide quicker, cleaner kills.” He looks back at you and motions towards the arrows, “Less pain for the animal.”
Your face slacks with something like astonishment. All you’d heard from your father was the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill. He never mentioned keeping anything from the animal, using it for meat, or about how long it took for them to die. You’d never thought there was anybody who actually cared for the creature’s comfort as it died. 
You suppose there’s going to be a lot about Arthur that’s different from the men you know. 
“Arthur,” a twig snaps behind you, and your eyes widen. You drop your voice to a whisper, not wanting to draw too much attention towards you both. “I don’t want to kill anything,” you hiss.
“Ha!” He barks out a laugh and you purse your lips in irritation. He stands and looks at you, chuckling again before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so confident in your huntin’ skill, kid.”
You click your tongue and glare at him, “Don’t call me that,” you snap. It’s the same patronizing nickname your father loved to use on you and you detest it. He raises his hands in surrender and you roll your eyes at the smirk on his face. “Then what’s the point of this?”
He shrugs and heads further into the trees, you have no choice but to follow along behind him. “Figure you should be taught a few skills before I get rid of ya.”
You want to argue with him that there’s no point. If you are given to Crane’s associate, you’ll never set foot in the woods again. However, if you do manage to escape him, learning a few survival skills wouldn’t be a bad idea. 
So, you keep your mouth shut and let him lead you through the forest. “How do you know where to go?” You ask, trying to figure out what it is he keeps looking at in the mud. He waves you forward, moving you so you’re standing directly in front of him. 
“You see that?” You have to squint, relying solely on the light from the moon, to make out what he’s pointing at. There are some tracks in the mud that look vaguely like hooves. “It’s buck tracks, you can tell by the size.” He kneels and when you don’t follow he tugs you down by the sleeve. “You can’t rely on just the tracks, though. You have to look for other signs of ‘em.”
You glance around, noticing some crushed twigs and grass a few feet ahead. “Like that?” You point towards it and he huffs in amusement. 
“Caught on quicker than I thought.”
You feel vaguely offended by that but don’t bother voicing it, just glare at his back as he gets up. You walk silently through the forest, letting Arthur show you which tracks to follow and which to avoid. You’re not comforted by how many cougar prints you find. You stare up into the branches always expecting something to already be looking down at you. 
Miraculously, no wild cat chooses you for dinner as you track the buck down. You find him near a small stream, antlers dipping into the water as he takes a drink. He’s got to be one of the most gorgeous creatures you’ve ever seen. 
You’ve lived your whole life in St. Denis. The most you’ve seen are overworked carriage horses and mangy dogs. No life slips through the cracks of that place. There’s just smoke and misery. This is nature, real beauty. It’s breathtaking, the way the leaves ripple in the wind and the starlight reflects in the water. 
You can’t imagine seeing this and wanting to tear it down to put up an oily machine that contributes nothing to the earth but death. It just makes you hate your father more. It also makes you more resolved to not be forced back into that life. You can’t do it. You can’t have this one taste of freedom and then let it go without a fight. 
Arthur pulls the bow out and nocks an arrow. You glance between him and the buck and rapidly shake your head. “No,” you hiss, “I don’t wanna kill it.”
He rolls his eyes and moves you in front of him. You don’t have much choice as he places your hands on the string and guides you into the right position. “Relax,” he murmurs in your ear as you fight against his grip. “You ain’t gonna kill it.” 
It doesn’t bring you much comfort, but if you’re going to make it on your own, sometimes you’ll have to do something you don’t like. “Now,” his hand drifts down your bicep and you suck in a sharp breath. “Don’t hold it too long, you’ll get tired.” 
It’s dawning on you just how close you both are. You’re kneeling on the ground with him behind you, essentially cradling your body to him. You’ve never been this familiar with a man before, it’s making your brain short-circuit. You can hardly pay attention to what he’s telling you. 
He lifts your elbow slightly and points you towards the left. “You need to keep your arm steady even after you let go or your aim will be off. Take in a deep breath and release on the exhale.” You give him an apprehensive look, still not wanting to hurt the buck. He just nods and there’s something in his gaze that lets you relax slightly. 
You release the string and the arrow flies over the buck’s head, burying itself into the tree behind it. Its head shoots up and it turns towards you both before dashing off. You let out an astonished laugh, glancing down the bow and then back at Arthur. 
“My god, I’ve never shot anything before.”
“Congratulations, you’ve killed your first tree,” he remarks dryly, but you see the glint of humor in his eye. 
He gets to his feet and offers you a hand up. You smile up at him, undeterred by his attitude. “Thank you for this,” you tell him earnestly. He gives you an odd look but nods anyway. He doesn’t understand just how important this is to you. Knowing how to do something like this is the difference between life and death when you’re on your own. Of course, he doesn’t realize you’ll be making an escape attempt soon. 
He retrieves the arrow from the tree and you run your hand over the curve of the bow. You wonder just how much he’d miss this if you took it from him. 
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Arthur’s tearing down the camp and you’re standing by Diablo, feeding him some apples. You stroke absentmindedly over the horse's muzzle, watching Arthur intently. He’s too busy pulling the tent apart to be paying attention to you. 
You got better sleep last night than you did at Crane’s. He was right, hunting had tired you out. You were eager enough to sleep that you didn’t even feel the rough ground underneath you. He seems to be a little more lax about his watch over you. 
Something about last night must have eased him into a sense of comfort that you’re not going to run. That’s his own fault, though. You glance over the curve of the hill, noticing a carriage that will be passing by soon enough. 
You look back at Arthur and ease slightly away from Diablo. Arthur is still collecting the blankets and rolling them up. He turns towards the dying fire and tosses the rest of the coffee out. You take another step back and he keeps his back to you. 
Slowly, you release Diablo’s reigns, giving him one last apple before you turn on your heel and run down the hill. Your foot slips out from under you and you let out a loud yelp as you go flying headfirst down the grass. 
You land on your back with enough impact to make the breath rush out of you. But your descent is still going and you’re flipping over headfirst into the road. You slide forward, the dirt scraping up your chin as you cough and try and catch your breath. 
“Look out!” You roll out of the way just before the carriage rolls over you. Someone shouts your name from the top of the hill and you see Arthur glaring down at you. He starts towards you and you scramble to your feet. 
“Stop!” You scream, waving your arms wildly and chasing after the carriage. The man gives you a bewildered look as you throw yourself at him. “Please, sir, I’ve been kidnapped, you must help me get back to my husband.”
The man looks behind you, sees a very angry Arthur bellowing out your name, and moves to the side. “Hurry up,” he urges, giving you a hand on the bench beside him. You let out a relieved breath, taking his hand and throwing yourself the rest of the way up. 
He whips the horses, hurrying them along all the while Arthur is yelling after you. It’s not hard to believe that he would kidnap you. He looks half-crazed as he follows along behind you. You turn over your shoulder, giving him a brief wave and a smile. “Thanks for the help,” you tell the man beside you. You offer your hand and name. 
He glances down at it but doesn’t take it, instead looking forward and ignoring you entirely. Something uneasy settles in your stomach but you push it aside. You blame the feeling on the adrenaline still pumping through you. 
“Where are you headed?” You ask, glancing into the back of the carriage. You notice some moonshine and a crate full of guns but decide not to question it. 
“Said yer husband’s waitin’ for ya?” He demands, completely ignoring your question. You stare at the side of his face but his expression isn’t giving anything away. He comes to an intersection. You see a sign pointing towards a town and figure he’s going to take it, but instead, he pulls onto a smaller trail leading to the woods. 
“Um,” you clear your throat uncertainly, glancing back at the sign. “Yes,” your voice cracks and you know you sound like you’re full of shit. 
He laughs and the sound sends chills down your spine. You rip your eyes off of him, looking down at the horses and suddenly realizing just what you’d gotten yourself into. “You sure about that, little lady?”
Something cold digs into your side and you gasp quietly, looking down to see a gun pressed against your ribs. “You scream, run, or do anythin’ to piss me off and I’ll put a fourth hole in ya.” When you don’t say anything he digs it harder into you. “Understand?” He growls and you can do nothing but nod your head. 
You want to move, want to shove him off the side of the carriage and make a run for it. But you can’t, you’re frozen solid. You’re so petrified with fear you can’t even blink. You think you’re holding your breath, as if taking in air is going to set the gun off. 
He grins, a blackened curl of lips over rotted teeth, at your obedience and comes to a stop in the trees. “What are you doing?” You whisper, staring at the secluded area with a newfound sense of horror. 
“Shut up,” he snaps, his voice echoing through the quiet of the woods. You hear no birds or animals and you feel so alone it makes you want to cry. He gets off the carriage and turns towards you. “Down,” he demands. Your eyes dart towards the reigns of the horses and he pulls the hammer of the gun back. “Don’t even think about it.”
You lift your hands in the air, slowly slipping down the seat. He doesn’t appreciate you taking your time He grabs the front of your shirt, jerking you further into the trees and tossing you to the ground. 
You let out a rough groan at the impact, blood staining your shirt as your elbow slips across a jagged rock. It’s like something is snapped loose in your mind. He comes stomping towards you, kneeling between your spread legs and it finally clicks. 
You lunge forward with a shout and he rears back in surprise. You wonder how often someone’s actually fought against him or just let it happen. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to get shot by this scum, but there are a lot of things worse than dying. 
You grab the arm holding the gun, jerking it around, and knocking it out of his hand. “You bitch!” He hisses, bringing his open palm down across your cheek. The smack rings through the trees and ricochets through the air. Your head whips to the side so hard you think you might have snapped your neck. 
Blood dribbles out from your lips, your teeth having bitten into the fat of your cheeks. You spot the gun nearby, the silver of the barrel glinting from under the leaves. Just as you reach for it, he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles and dragging you back towards him. 
You feel like screaming as your hands desperately grasp at the dirt underneath you. But there’s not enough air to scream. You dig your nails into the mud, feel them split against the rocks, and kick at his chest hard enough to make him lose his breath. 
His grip on you loosens and you throw yourself at the pile of leaves. Hands groping for something solid. Just as he flips you over you wrap your hand around the handle of the gun. You pull the trigger and the bang is deafening. 
Your ears ring and your hands are trembling from the recoil. His jaw goes slack and he tumbles on top of you. You let out a grunt, breath pushed out of you by his weight. You scramble against his chest, something warm making your hands slip as you struggle to roll him off of you. 
You glance over, waiting for him to spring back up. But there’s something dark pooling around him and sinking into the dirt below. There’s a hole in his chest and his eyes are already flattening. You fall back against the earth, staring up at the trees above you. 
The sounds rush back to you all at once. The birds singing, deers prancing somewhere in the distance. You hear a stream rushing nearby and let out a stunned laugh. There’s a smile on your face but there’s nothing to be happy about. 
You think you might be in shock. Mind still trying to catch up to what just happened. You glance down at the gun in your hand and toss it to the side, not wanting it near you anymore. Only a second later do you reach for it again. 
You struggle onto your hands and knees, checking over yourself for any injuries that you might be numb to right now. The only blood on you is from the dead man on the ground. You keel over, hands on your knees, and suck in a deep gasping breath. 
You stumble back, limping towards the carriage. You dig around in the back of the wagon, tugging out a giant hunting knife and walking towards the horses. You cut them loose, keeping the rope on one of them and tugging yourself onto her back. You tuck the knife in your belt and nudge her side, leading her forward gently. 
You don't even have time to process the fact that you’re riding a horse on your own. Your body is moving on autopilot. You can only think about getting ahead, getting away. What just happened will hit you later. You slump against the neck of the horse, adrenaline leaking out of you and exhaustion catching up. 
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He’s going to find you and he’s going to kill you. Leaving while he had his back turned. Getting on some carriage with a man you’ve never met before. How dumb do you have to be? You can’t trust people out here. Not when there are gangs, raiders, hell, he’s encountered a few cannibals. 
For all he knows, you’re already dead and he’ll be delivering a body to the train station. The thought makes him curse and urge Diablo forward. It’s not hard to follow the tracks of the carriage, what concerns him is when they lead into the forest instead of the town. 
“Goddammit,” he mutters, “the hell have you done woman?” He leaps off Diablo, figuring it will be easier to track you on foot. He follows the paths of the wheels, finding the wagon abandoned and the horses cut loose. 
His brows furrow in confusion as he wanders around the side and spots a lump in the leaves. All he can see is the bottom of a boot and blood splattered across the orange of the fallen leaves. 
His stomach plummets and he races towards it. But it’s not you buried under the foliage, it’s the man who offered you a ride. “What the hell?” He kneels, brushing the leaves off his chest and frowning when he sees the blood splattered all along his chest. 
He doesn’t need to look long to figure out what killed him. He’s sure the bullet buried in his heart did the job. Arthur curses and stalks away from the man. There are prints where the horses were but there are too many to tell which one you might have taken. 
He’ll have to rely on instinct to find you. You’re becoming a real pain in the ass for what was supposed to be a simple job. Still, he can’t help but be a little relieved that it was a stranger and not you lying dead on the ground. 
He turns back onto the road, taking the turn into town. Someone on horseback rides past him, they look disgusted by something up ahead and it makes alarms go off in his head. He urges Diablo forward, running the rest of the way into town. 
An unsaddled mare lazily eats some grass as the sound of a rushing river meets his ears. Diablo’s hooves sound off against the wood of the bridge. He finally sees what disturbed the other rider so much. 
You’re sitting on the railing of the bridge, legs dangling dangerously over the edge as you stare down into the crashing waters below you. Arthur gets off his horse, approaching you slowly. He doesn’t want to startle you and have you go tumbling over the edge. 
He calls out your name and you glance briefly over at him. Blood is splattered across your neck and the front of your shirt is soaked with it. He knows it isn’t yours but it still puts him on edge. “What’re you doin’ kid?” 
You don’t answer him, “Did you follow me?” He eases up beside you, straddling the railing so he can catch you if you slip. He nods and you let out a rough sigh. “Is he dead?”
He scoffs, “Sure as shit hope so, don’t know how someone would survive that.”
A manic laugh bursts through your lips and you double over your head falling into your hands. Arthur surges forward, steadying you before you dive headfirst into the river. “Alright, let’s go,” he quietly urges you around. You don’t put up a fight, letting him maneuver you how he likes.
He gets you on your feet and leads you back to Diablo. You latch onto the horse's reigns immediately, stroking your hand over his mane. Your silence is concerning. Arthur doesn’t know what your regular behavior is, the most he’s seen of you, you have been quiet. This is different, though. He’s seen this sort of quiet in women before and it never ends pretty. 
“You’re alright, come on,” he tries to keep his voice low so he doesn’t set you off. He keeps his hands light as they land around your waist, giving you help onto Diablo’s saddle. Your gaze is distant and you move like someone else is controlling your body. 
He collects the mare you’d brought along with you and leads both horses into town. He’ll have to get a saddle for her, she already seems attached to you. And maybe taking a horse with you into the city will let you escape a little. 
The town, at least, is on the way to Strawberry so he doesn’t have to worry about being too far off schedule. Though, that’s the least of his concerns right now. His eyes keep darting up to you. Waiting for you to try and bolt again or finally break down. It doesn’t look like anything is going on in your head, you seem completely distanced from the situation. 
It’s a good thing for him. He can’t handle a distraught woman. He’s not a kind enough man for it. 
He hitches the horses in front of the hotel. You turn in the saddle, staring down at him and waiting for a hand down. You slide easily through his hands, landing in the mud with a dull thud and heading up the stairs of the hotel without prompt. 
He huffs and follows after you. He doesn’t know how to explain the blood on your clothes away and hopes he won’t have to. The man running the place, thankfully, doesn’t have many questions. He looks disturbed but keeps his qualms to himself when Arthur slips him a little extra cash. 
Arthur guides you up the stairs with a light hand on your back, opening the door of the bath for you. “Alright, here’s your room key. I’ll be out for a while so, just,” he sighs, taking in the blank look on your face and shaking his head. “Try not to cause any more trouble.” You nod and close the door behind him. 
There’s no worries that you’re going to make a run for it again. He’s sure whatever happened in those woods was scarring enough to make you want to go back to the city and never see country folk again. He wouldn’t blame you, there are some nasty people out here. Himself included, but he could never imagine hurting a woman like that. It just ain’t right. 
He heads to the shop across the street, buying some new clothes for you that actually fight properly. The horses are brought to the stables and he goes ahead and gets a paper for your mare under your name. Diablo will be faster tomorrow if he doesn’t have to carry the weight of two people. You might make it to your handler in time. 
Arthur still doesn’t feel right about this whole thing. Leaving you with a man you’ve never met feels even worse knowing what happened to you today. He doesn’t think you being so calm about it all is a good thing. Shouldn’t women react?
Dutch likes to tell him women are a more sensitive breed. He’s seen some tough ones in his life, but this seems like the time to be in hysterics if there ever was one. He heads back to the hotel, planning on just leaving the change of clothes in your room. 
He passes by the bath and hears an odd sound seeping through the cracks. Frowning, he presses his ear up against the door. A man passes by him, giving him a disgusted look as he goes into his room. Arthur sighs but he stays where he is. 
It’s clearer now, you’re crying and it’s hard to listen to. It's the type that makes it hard to breathe. That sort of crying makes your ribs ache and bruise. It’s wrong to keep listening to such a vulnerable moment. So, he does what he planned, drops the clothes in your room, and then heads to bed himself. 
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Sleep comes easier than he thought it would. It’s not as restful as he’d been hoping but it draws over him faster than it normally does. He’s always been a light sleeper, though. It comes from years of having to be on guard in case some O’Driscoll is gonna try and slit his throat while he’s asleep. 
When he hears the door creak his hand is already on the trigger of his revolver as he shoots up in bed. The glow of the lamps outside illuminates what’s clearly a woman’s form. But he can’t see your face until you take a step further into the room and the moonlight provides some light. 
“Arthur?” You whisper his name, peering into his room. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” he grumbles. With a sigh, he shoves the gun back under his pillow and runs a rough hand over his face. “What'd ya want?”
You let out a low breath and rock back on your heels. “I’m sorry,” you mutter. “I just, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking he’s gonna creep out of my closet or bust through the door, I-”
You cut yourself off but he can hear the emotion thickening your voice. He clenches his eyes shut in irritation, arguing with himself over what he’s about to say. “You wanna sleep in here?” He mumbles reluctantly. 
You close the door immediately, practically running towards his bed. “You don’t mind?”
You’re not really giving him a choice, but he’s not going to say that to you. “No.” He grabs a pillow and blanket off the bed and rounds the end of the mattress. You frown as you watch him toss everything to the ground. 
“Well, what’re you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” He snaps, angrily gesturing towards the floor. “I’m givin’ you the bed.” 
You bite your lip and he feels horrible instantly because you look like you’re about to cry. He’s not trying to be rude but you woke him up in the dead of night. What’d you expect him to say?
“I was sort of hoping we could share the bed.”
His eyes widen and he glares at you in disbelief. “You mean-”
“No!” You cut him off with an aggrieved sigh. “You fool, that’s not what I mean at all. I just don’t want to be alone, alright?” 
“Look,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m the man you want to bunk with for company, alright. I’m not that kind of guy.” You glare at him and snatch his pillow and blanket off the floor. 
“Don’t be so damn stubborn.” You aggressively fluff the pillows, throwing the covers back and gesturing towards them, your brow set in anger. 
“Right,” he huffs, “I’m stubborn.” He reluctantly crawls into bed and you follow behind him. It’s not that he minds sharing a bed with a pretty lady. He’s just not the sort of guy you should be coming to for comfort. 
He doesn’t think he can provide whatever it is you need at this moment. But you seem to think otherwise as you inch towards him slowly. He lays on his back, arms under his head as he watches you out of the side of his eye. You think you’re being subtle, slowly moving into his side until you’re flush against him. 
He doesn’t say anything to object and you don’t bring up the proximity. He doesn’t want to admit it but it is nice having someone else beside him. He’s so used to camping out on his own. He hasn’t had anyone beside him in a long while. He lost interest in women of leisure a long while ago. And ever since Mary, he’s given up on any sort of intimacy. 
He hates to admit it, but he finds himself easing towards the warmth you provide. The second you feel him reciprocating you’re inching a tentative hand around his waist, cuddling closer to him. He recognizes it for what it is. 
He’s always been looked at as someone who can protect, at least by the gang. He’s their muscle. To most others, he incites nothing but fear. It should be the same for you. But after what happened today, you just see someone who can keep the monsters in the dark away. 
He doesn’t mind being used like this. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and waits until he feels you settle to ease into sleep again. 
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Arthur figures you should both get breakfast in town while you’re here. He reasons you should enjoy a hot meal before you’re on the road again. You don’t point out that you know he’s just trying to ease you into the day. 
You appreciate it, honestly, but yesterday wasn’t your first run-in with men like that. It’s become incomprehensibly normal in day-to-day life, even for a city girl like yourself. You’d cried everything out in the bath once you’d scrubbed your skin raw. 
You don’t think Arthur will ever understand just how much his presence helped you last night. If you’d been on your own, jumping every time you heard the wood creaking outside, you’d have driven yourself over the edge. He protected you, even if there was nothing to be protected from. 
You don’t think he gives himself enough credit. Ignoring the situation you’re both in and what he’s taking you to do, he’s a good man. While the caliber of the men you’ve met is questionable at best, he’s one of the best ones you’ve ever known. At the end of the day, he disagrees with the whole situation, but he’s doing this for his family. That’s admirable in its own way. 
But, god, does he have poor conversational skills. “So, yesterday.” You glance up from your toast, brows raised in question. He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and his food like he can’t choose what to focus on. “That man, did he…”
He trails off and you feel your hackles rise. “Don’t worry,” you hiss, a bite to your words, “I’m still pure for my husband. Your pay won’t be docked, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His hand clenches around his fork and his eyes bore into yours, “That’s not what I meant,” he growls. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he snaps, “I was worried ‘bout you, woman.”
You take in a deep breath, actively biting your tongue from saying something spiteful. He wasn’t being rude, that’s just what you’re used to. “I’m sorry,” you concede lowly. “Nothing happened,” you repeat without the attitude. 
“Well,” he huffs and goes back to his breakfast, “good,” he settles on dully. 
“Good,” you agree quietly, pushing the rest of your food around. You find your appetite dulled and you push the plate away. You lean back in the booth and stare out the window. The horses seem to be getting on well enough. “Did you name her?”
Arthur gives you an odd look and you nod towards the mare hitched next to Diablo. He swallows the food he’d been chewing and takes a swig of his coffee. “No, figured you’d want to do it.”
Your brows furrow and your lips quirk in confusion. “Why?”
“She’s yours, ain’t she?” He grouses. 
You shake your head, “Nope,” you tell him, popping the p. “I just took her so I’d have something to get me to town.”
“Yeah, well,” he sounds less sure of himself and he’s looking like he made a mistake. “I thought she’d be nice for you to have with you in the city. A way for you to get around without relyin’ on someone else.”
You can’t help but smile, something in your chest easing away at the kind gesture. “I appreciate it,” he lights up a little at your approval, but you crush it in an instant. “But I can’t keep her, I won’t be allowed to. I’ve tried to have my own horse before, hard to control something that can get away from you,” you tell him blankly. There’s no emotion in your voice because it’s something you’re used to. 
He looks slightly horrified at how blunt you are. He can’t comprehend not having that freedom but he fails to recognize that he’s got a leash of his own. You doubt a man like Dutch would ever let his main asset just run off to wherever he wants to. 
A few people walk into the saloon, the women giving you odd looks when they see the pants on your legs. You smile cheekily at them, reveling in what you know will be a short-lived experience. You’ve never been on the receiving end of a judgmental look like that. 
You’ve always blended in. Been the perfect wallflower for the men in your life. You were never something to gawk at or cause trouble. It’s a relief to stick out for once, to break the mould for the first time in your life. 
Arthur clocks the interaction and chuckles. “Missin’ the skirts yet?”
“Not one damn bit,” you tell him, smiling as you take a sip of your coffee. “I’m going to miss being able to run around without having to lug an extra four pounds of fabric behind me.” 
“Ya know, you could just wear some pants, you’ve got a choice.”
You grin patronizingly at him, propping your head on your chin and watching him finish the rest of his breakfast. “You don’t know city men very well, do you?”
“Glad for it,” he grumbles, distaste clear in his tone.
A laugh breaks through your chest, the first real one in a while. “I’m going to be marrying one, Arthur. I won’t have a choice in much of anything anymore.” You can tell he wants to object, tell you there’s always a choice. 
He’ll never truly understand what’s going to happen to you, though. You’re no longer human once you’re married. You’re cattle and property, meant to be bred and shown off. You accepted your fate a long while ago. And after you’re failed escape attempt, you’ve realized this is what you were always meant to be. There’s no point in fighting fate. 
“Don’t apologize or argue,” you tell him, no spite or bitterness in your tone, just the honest truth. “I don’t mind anymore, really. What place is there for me in this world, anyway? I can’t exactly take care of myself.”
“You did a damn good job yesterday,” he snaps back quickly. He doesn’t seem too keen on the way you’re talking about yourself. But you’re not lying. Yesterday was a wake-up call. If you let yourself get screwed over by a hillbilly that quickly then how were you ever going to make it on your own? In your defense, you were raised to be dependent, you never had a chance. 
“Sure, but that was a one-off incident. I’m not going to run again, Arthur. There’s no point. And there’s no point in fighting against the way things are, they’re never going to change for me.” You take in a deep breath, the easy mood ruined by your sincerity. 
“I’m just gonna wait by the horses.”
You slide out of the booth, leaving Arthur to stare pensively at his plate. You’ve nearly slipped through the door when Arthur calls out, “You should name her.” You pause at the doorway, glancing back at him. He’s settling the bill at the front and you walk back out to the horses. 
The mare picks her head up as you walk towards her, ears perked and tail flicking. “Hey, girl,” you run a hand over her muzzle, admiring the sleek silver of her coat. “I guess I should name you.”
You run a hand over her mane and swing yourself onto the saddle. “How ‘bout Bullet, it’s how I got you, anyway.” A dark joke, but it eases the macabre feeling hanging around you. 
Arthur walks out of the saloon, tucking his money away into his bag. He lifts himself onto Diablo, glancing over at you with a knowing glint. 
“Name her?”
You resent how smug he sounds. “Bullet,” you answer reluctantly. 
“Bullet?” He questions, tone incredulous. 
You grin at him, “It’s how I got her.” There’s a slightly stunned expression on his face before it slacks away into something more amused. 
He shakes his head and nudges Diablo forward, Bullet follows alongside him eagerly. “Clever,” he mutters.
“Not really,” you snort, running a hand over her neck lovingly. “But I think it works for her.”
“Your husband’s gonna have his hands full with you,” you know he means it in jest. The lightness of the conversation turns into something heavier. Realization sinks over both of you and the smiles slowly drop away. “I-”
“How much further to Strawberry, anyway?” You effectively cut off whatever train of thought he was going to follow, distracting you both from the truth. 
“Half a day,” he tells you, frowning when you refuse to meet his eye again. Half a day. That’s all you’ve got to enjoy the last bits of freedom you have. You’re gonna take your damn time getting there, that’s for sure. 
You slow down from the steady trot Arthur had led the horses into, easing Bullet into a slow walk. You’re slowly getting the hang of riding a horse. It’s easy when she’s so intuitive. By god, though, your ass is sore. 
Arthur shoots you a questioning glance at the slow pace and you shrug. “Might as well take the time I’ve got left.”
“You’re actin’ like you’re on death row,” he chuckles. 
“Aren’t I?” He falls silent and you don’t know what’s bothering him but you don’t have the energy to inquire. 
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He’s slowing you down on purpose, he knows it and you know it. Neither of you says a damn thing about it but it’s bugging him. He shouldn’t be this bothered by a job. He knows how to separate himself from what he does. He just can’t this time. 
There’s something about you that glows. You’re sitting beside him on the peak of a hill, overlooking the roads below you, and laughing as you make up stories for the people that pass by. It’s a far cry from the beaten-down woman he’d seen at Crane’s house. 
Even after what happened yesterday, you somehow manage to seem happier. There’s nothing about it that makes him happy. This feels like the last goodbye of someone who knows they’re going soon. The last bout of happiness before they just give in. 
You’re not gaining your spark back, you’re just giving in to what you think is inevitable. But it doesn’t have to be inevitable. You could fight back you just refuse to. He’s sure growing up the way you have, you don’t think it's possible to stand up for yourself. 
But you don’t have to give in like this. You don’t have to roll over and let someone else dictate your life. Which is rich, coming from him. He’s practically Dutch’s lap dog now. Even when he disagrees he still follows along behind him. 
He shouldn’t even be thinking like this. He can’t criticize you for not standing up for yourself when he’s the one thing standing between you and freedom. “Not hungry?” You nod towards the uneaten meat on his knife. 
He shakes his head, plucking it off the blade and passing it to you. You give him an odd look before popping it in your mouth. “Ya know,” you mutter around a full mouth. You take a moment to swallow it down before smiling over at him. “I’ve grown up with private chefs my whole life, but there’s is something infinitely more satisfying about this.”
He takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair. He snorts at your comment, “I find that hard to believe.”
“No,” you shake your head, insistent, “I mean it. Being out here, hunting the game myself, I don’t know, it’s nice.” You shrug and lean back on your hands, gazing across the way at the trees and river. 
“You can always get a bow and go hunting.” He speaks to you like it's a cut-and-dry truth that you’re just not accepting. Your face screws up and you give him an annoyed glare. 
“No. I can’t,” you tell him again. Where your words were patient before, he can tell you’re growing irritated at how much he’s pushing this.
“Yes, you can,” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep yourself boxed up in some manor in the city. Get out, woman, do something with your life!” His voice echoes through the air and you flinch back from it, lips pulling down into a sneer. 
“You know, that’s really easy for you to say, Arthur. You have a goddamn choice. Sure, I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, little miss rich girl crying about being pampered.”
He lets out a rough sigh, “That’s not what I meant-”
You cut him off, getting to your feet and glaring down at him. “You got to grow up with a choice. What to do with your body, your life, your career. You get to have an education if you want it. Every goddamn door is open to you. You don’t get hated for not wanting to have a family. You get to choose. And as much as you insist I can too, you will never understand the position I am in.”
You kick dirt over the fire and head back towards Bullet. “It’s a double-edged sword, Arthur. Sure, my life might be comfortable, but it’s never really gonna be my life.” He stays there on the ground, too stunned to get up. 
You glare down at him, impatiently waiting for him to get a move on. This isn’t how he wants things to end. He doesn’t want you to go off thinking he’s just some ignorant fool. But he is, much as he denies it, he’s always been a fool. 
He should never have thought he could make a difference in your life. Not when he’s the one backing you into this corner. He could have helped you escape the very first night he saw you. But he was too selfish to let you go, now you’re both paying for it. 
He mounts Diablo and you both head back to the roads silently. You’re moving faster now, leaving him behind if he lingers in one area for too long. You’re too pissed off to enjoy the rest of your day and he hates that he ruined it for you. You, at the very least, deserved a slower journey towards your future. 
You’re in Strawberry before he’s ready, he’s sure you aren’t. “Hey, we could-”
“I think that’s him.” You cut him off before he says something stupid like spend another night in town before you go. He’ll miss you, he thinks. Odd, he’s known you such a short time but it’s been so different having someone beside him as he rides. It was nice, what he wished he and Mary could have had. 
Arthur follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh. Sure enough, some prim and proper ass is standing in front of the ticket station, foot tapping impatiently. He’s got a large bag beside him, gaze wandering around expectantly. He doesn’t doubt the man who looks like he’s got a five-foot stick up his ass is Mr. Crane’s associate. He’s got the same slimy glint.
You slide off Bullet and Arthur follows suit, taking the reigns of both horses and leading them towards the platform. The man’s eyes narrow in on you before lighting up. He calls out your name and it’s like a mask being dropped over your face. 
The spark is gone once more, a subdued and demure smile resting on your face as you wave at him. “I apologize for my dress,” you tell him as you walk up the steps. “Pants were more conducive to such a long ride.”
He takes your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles that makes Arthur roll his eyes. “No apologies necessary, I brought you a change of clothes. I figured you would be less than put together after such a journey. I’m only sorry I couldn’t accompany you.”
You scoff and nod along, “Okay,” you mutter, not believing a word of his bullshit. You take the bag from him and move towards the saloon to find a room to change in. They both watch you leave, though the other man with a much more devious glint in his eye. 
Arthur’s hands tighten on the reigns of the horses, anything to keep him from reaching for his revolver. He’s already getting a bad feeling about this. There’s nothing trustworthy about the man in front of him. 
“Mr. Finch,” he holds out his hand and Arthur gives it a distrusting look before reluctantly shaking. Finch attempts to squeeze the life out of his hand but Arthur can barely feel it. He tightens his own grip and revels in the way Finch’s face blanches. 
“Arthur Morgan.”
Mr. Finch looks him up and down in the same way Crane had. He sees a commodity, not a person. “I trust,” he drawls, “nothing unsavory happened.”
Arthur feels rage bubbling in his gut. The only damn thing he cares about is whether or not you’re “pure.” Not if you were okay or injured during the journey. If he told him that he’d punched you out for talking back Finch would just ask if you were bruised. 
“She’s fine,” Arthur grits out. 
“Oh, good, good. Glad everything went smoothly.” Finch has a way of talking he’s found most self-important men do. He draws everything he says out, and forces you to listen to him speak. Makes you pay attention so he can pretend he has power for a moment. 
His gaze darts behind Arthur and he turns just in time to see you slipping out of the saloon. The dress Finch has provided you is ridiculously large. It poofs out at the waist in a way that makes Arthur wonder how you’re going to fit into your seat. 
You look beyond uncomfortable. Grimacing as you join them again. You try and plaster a smile on but it’s a struggle. You look to Arthur, a finality on your face that makes him want to throw you over his shoulder and run. He’s doing this for the others, he reminds himself. They’ll be on a boat to Tahiti in a week. 
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan, for everything.” The smile you leave him with is real, if just barely. Something lurks under your words that Mr. Finch will never understand and Arthur knows it will drive him crazy. 
“Let’s go,” Finch grabs your hand, looping it through his arm and tugging you towards the doors of the station. 
“Wait!” Arthur calls out, feeling foolish when you both look back at him with perplexed expressions. “You’ll be wanting Bullet, won’t you?”
Mr. Finch answers for you with a condescending tone, “She won’t be needing a horse, thank you.” You give him a knowing smile, turning away and slipping through the doors of the station and onto the train. 
Arthur stays rooted where he is, something crawling up in his chest and rooting around restlessly. The whistle blows and the wheels start cranking slowly forward. Arthur just barely catches a glimpse of you through a window as the train chugs past. 
“Shit!” He hisses. He tugs himself up onto Diablo’s saddle and urges him after the train. He was born a fool, he’s always going to be a damn fool. But he’d have to be a complete moron to just let you go. 
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Mr. Finch keeps a painfully tight grip on your elbow, jerking you through the passenger cars and practically throwing you into your seat. You land with a thud, your arm bouncing against the window painfully. You keep a stoic expression, trying not to let him break you so soon. 
He takes a seat beside you, straightening out his jacket and tugging on his tie. Something white flashes in his jacket pocket and you lean forward, perplexed when you realize what it is. “What is that?” You question, not quite believing your eyes. Finch glances down at the thick wad of cash in his jacket and grins. 
“Oh, this? Mr. Morgan must have forgotten to collect the rest of his payment.” He sends you a condescending smile and you flinch away in disgust. “He was too enamored with my fiancee to pay much attention, I’m afraid.”
“That’s his money,” you snap, the volume of your voice catching the attention of a few other passengers. Finch sends them apologetic smiles, making you seem like a mad woman. “He earned that!” You object, eyeing the money warily. 
His hand snakes out, gripping you tightly around the arm and dragging you towards him until your noses are nearly touching. You nearly gag at the smell of his cigar-infused breath. It’s not like when Arthur would smoke one, you didn’t mind that. But this was making you sick to your stomach. 
“Let's get a few things clear, I will not be dealing with an obstinate wife. You can either get yourself in order or I’ll do it for you.”
Your lips pull back in disgust and you jerk yourself out of his grip. He’s not as strong as he pretends to be and you’re not going to be scared into submission again. “I’m not your wife yet. My father still has time to pay.”
He laughs at you, spittle flying from your lips and sprinkling across your cheeks. “He has time to pay, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be getting you back, sweetheart.” Your eyes widen with the realization and you want to throw yourself off the side of the train. 
You never had any chance to get out of this situation. Mr. Crane was always in control of it all. To even think of having a hope of getting back home was foolish. To believe for a second that you were going to escape this had been utter idiocy. 
He sees the crestfallen expression and sinks into his seat with a satisfactory look on his face. He thinks you to be subdued. But now you’re nothing more than a cornered animal with no other choice of escape. You’ve got nothing left for you, nothing to hold onto. 
As much as you’d thought you’d bonded with Arthur, you were still nothing more than a job to him. You were nothing more than a commodity to be traded between men. You would never have a say over your life. 
You have nothing, you doubt you ever actually had anything left for you. You glance over at the man beside you and feel a cool dread blanket itself over you. Nothing left to lose. 
There’s a solid weight tucked into the bodice of your dress. Its cool metal has been warmed by your skin. Its handle curves around your ribs and it only has one bullet left. You reach down the front of your dress, fingers curling around the revolver you’d stolen from a dead man. 
Finch glowers at your inappropriate behavior “What are-” You pull the gun out, turning it on him. He jumps back in shock and throws his hands in the air on instinct. “Please-” you revel in his pathetic pleading only for a moment. Pulling the trigger a second time is surprisingly easy. The screams that ring out through the train car are less enjoyable. “Shit!” He cusses, hands coming up to try and staunch the flow of blood pouring from his stomach. 
You slip your hand into his blazer, stealing the money before he can object. You run out of the passenger car, leaping to the flat car with all the cargo. It will take a few minutes for them to catch onto what happened and figure out where you went. 
You don’t know what you’re going to do now. You’re stuck on a moving train, there’s nowhere for you to hide. You hadn’t thought when you’d shot him, you just wanted that smug look on his face to disappear. 
“Where is she?” You hear the guards shouting out your name, flipping over crates to find you. They’re still at the front of the train, but you don’t have long until they start moving back here. 
God, what have you done?
You just know, if you made it to that train station, you were never going to make it out. His men would be waiting there to transport you. You’d be watched every second of your life, you can’t do it again. You can’t be locked in a gilded cage, that’s not a life worth living. 
There’s no escape for you. Nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide. You glance over the left side of the train. There’s a slight dip into a deep ravine. The crashing water looks almost peaceful from up here. 
You don’t know if it would be a quick death but you know it would be merciful compared to what’s waiting for you at your last stop. You keep your eyes on the water, see yourself taking control of your life for the first time, and take a step up on the rail. 
Someone shouts your name from the right side of the train and you gasp, arms circling wildly as you almost go toppling over the edge. They shout your name again, panic laced in the tone. This doesn’t sound like Finch or any of the other guards. You whip around and find Arthur riding his horse beside the train. 
“What the hell are you doing, woman?” 
Your brows furrow in confusion and your eyes dart between him and the ravine. “Jumping! What the hell are you doing?”
His gaze narrows and he shouts to be heard over the rumble of the train tracks. “Stopping you from being a goddamn fool. Get over here!” You hear the guards getting closer as they storm down the rest of the train. 
You don’t have long to make a decision, you can already see his horse struggling to keep up with the speed of the train. There’s a bridge coming up in a moment, he won’t be able to go any further and they won’t be able to come after you. 
It’s a split-second decision, one that has you pushing off the railing of the car and rushing towards him. You don’t have time to doubt yourself or plan this out further, you take a running leap off the train, towards his outstretched arms. 
He barely catches you in time, jerking on the reigns of the horse and bringing him to a sudden stop before all three of you go tumbling into the water. Shots fire off on the train, but they’re gone before they can do any real damage. 
Your chest heaves as you dangle from his arms, fingers digging into his shirt desperately. Your heart is pounding so hard against your chest that you almost can’t hear what he’s saying, but you get the gist of it. 
“The hell were you thinking? Trying to jump off the damn train! You’re a fool, woman.” He tugs you onto the saddle the rest of the way. As much as he tries to sound angry you can feel his relief in the way he squeezes you close to him. 
“Thank you,” you whisper, head sinking into his neck and breathing in the familiar scent. 
He sighs, struggling between yelling at you more and just enjoying the fact that he got to you before you did something neither of you could recover from. “You’re welcome, just,” he pauses, holding you a little closer, “don’t be so damn stupid again.”
You laugh and it’s a little wet as tears start to pool in your eyes. “I’m not planning on it.” You sit up, easing away from him and glancing over your shoulder. You watch as the train grows smaller until you can only see a plume of smoke and nothing more. “What the hell are we going to do?”
He sighs and turns the horse around. You maneuver yourself around, facing forward and pushing back against him.  “I don’t know. Dutch ain’t gonna be happy about you comin’ back with me.” 
You bite your lip, a hundred different possibilities swirling through your head. You’ve never been able to make a choice before, faced with it, you’re overwhelmed with options. You can’t pick one so you blurt out the first coherent thought you have. 
“What if we don’t go back?”
Arthur stills behind you, “What?” His tone is low and filled with something you know means he’s ready to say no. 
“Just for a little while,” you rush the words out quickly, trying to fight for a chance to get him to listen. “We can send this to the camp,” you tug out the wad of cash you’d stolen from Finch and Arthur barks out a laugh. You feel his chest tremble behind you and it makes you grin. 
“Did you steal his money?”
“Your money, technically,” you correct, grinning over your shoulder at him. “Besides, he doesn’t need it anymore.” He gives you a concerned look but you just wave him off. “We can send the camp some money and go off on our own for a while.”
“I don’t know, kid.”
“Don’t call me that,” you interrupt, glaring at him. “It’ll only be for a little while, Arthur. Come on, I’m free for the first time in my life, enjoy it with me.”
He looks uncertain and you know it’s an odd notion to him, putting himself first instead of the camp or Dutch. You’re sure he’s never done it before. Breaking away from them instead of going about like the loyal soldier he is. 
“Just a little while?”
You nod, turning just enough to tuck the money in his pocket. “Just a little while,” you swear.
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“John Marston!” You frown, turning away from the oven and glancing out the window. Arthur’s grinning by the gates of the horse pen, leaping over the wood, and walking out to greet someone. You abandon the stew, heading towards the door of your home. 
Outside are two horses, one with a woman and her son, and an abandoned one. The owner is currently bringing Arthur into a brief embrace, John, you presume. Arthur’s told you about him a bit. They weren’t always close but it was getting better before Arthur went away. 
Sometimes you feel bad, having dragged him away from everything he was familiar with. You meant it when you said you only wanted to be gone for a little while. You knew if you went back immediately there would be hell to pay with Dutch and you’d both be put to work. 
You’d be going from one owner to another. All you’d wanted was a few weeks on the road on your own. But a few weeks turned into six months and then a year, and it was Arthur telling you he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t stand what the gang was turning into. What Dutch was turning into. All you’d given him was an excuse to finally get out before it all blew up.
You walk down the steps of the home Arthur built, wiping your hands off on your apron. You give a brief wave to the woman you assume is Abigail. She waves back, slipping off the horse and helping Jack down. 
Arthur pulls away from John, turning towards you and motioning you forward. John gives you an apprehensive look. “Do I know you?”
Arthur gives him your name, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in closer. “That job Dutch got from Crane.” John’s face lights up with recognition and he smirks. 
“I see,” he shakes his head and gives Arthur a knowing look. “It’s always a woman with you, isn’t it?” You snort at how aggrieved Arthur looks. “Well,” John turns towards you and smiles, “nice to finally meet the woman that got him under control.”
“Nice to meet you too,” you smile lightly at him, pulling away from Arthur. “Are you going to be joining us for dinner?”
“No, he’s not,” Arthur answers at the same time John says, “I would love to.”
Arthur and John share a look you can’t understand. You glance past John and wave Abigail forward, “Come in, please. I’d enjoy the company.”
“Forgive my obstinate husband, he tends to linger where he ain’t wanted.” She brushes past him and you lead her inside your home. Leaving Arthur and John to bicker outside. Jack stays outside, smiling up at Arthur. You know he’s missed the boy, you’re sure he’s okay entertaining them for one night. 
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Abigail helps you set the table while Arthur and John catch up over a bottle of whiskey. Arthur tried to pull out a cigar but you’d shut that down quick. He’d had a cough a little while ago and the doctor advised cutting down on tobacco if he wanted it to go away. You know it’s hard but you’re cracking down on how much he smokes. 
“We got the money you sent,” John’s telling Arthur as they come over to join you all at the table. Jack eagerly hops into the seat beside Arthur before you can snag it and you grin. “Dutch blew it all and wouldn’t tell us on what. He kept saying we still needed another score.”
John shakes his head and the distant look in his eyes makes your stomach churn. “You’re a lucky bastard you got out when you did, Arthur, truly.”
“Hosea?” Arthur questions and you grimace at the look on John’s face. You can see Arthur deflate as John shakes his head. 
“There was a bank robbery, Molly told the Pinkertons we were going to be there, he didn’t make it.”
Arthur’s hand clenches around the fork and you wish you could say something that would make him realize it’s not his fault. “I should have been there,” he mutters. 
“Wouldn’t have done anything, man. Hosea had given up in the end. We all had. It was so damn divided, the family was gone.”
“Still.” Arthur insists, glaring down at his plate like it had offended him. 
“No,” to your surprise it’s Abigail that snaps. “Dutch was gone and that bastard Micah just kept pushing him over the edge. The only thing you would have done is get yourself killed. You’re damn lucky Arthur Morgan.”
You’re sure he’ll still blame himself later. Reason a hundred times over that had he been there something would have been different. Even if it was him on the other end of the gun he’d be happier knowing someone else hadn’t died when it could have been him. You couldn’t stand that these self-sacrificing ideals Dutch had drilled into him were still present. 
But you know Abigail and John help ease the guilt slightly. It’s on Arthur to let it go entirely, though you doubt that will happen anytime soon. John picks up on the change in mood, he’s reluctant to let the night sour so soon. 
He turns towards you with a look that makes you feel like you need to prepare for trouble. “So you did all that to escape getting married. And then you marry this moron?” He motions towards Arthur and you can’t help but laugh. 
“John!” Abigail snaps but he only smiles at her. You can see the way she fights the twitch of her lips and it makes you smile in turn. 
You correct him, “We’re not technically married-”
“Might as well be,” Arthur argues, glaring at John. You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours and gently squeezing. You can’t help but laugh at him. 
“Yeah, we might as well be,” you agree. “But it was never about not wanting to be a wife. I just wanted to have a damn choice. That’s what I got out here. I can hunt or cook. Sew or go out and make some money. And it’s a lot nicer being a wife out in the country than it is in the city, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Here’s hoping,” Abigail mutters. She glances towards Arthur, “That’s why we’re out here. We got word from a few people that you might be lurking around here. John’s thinking of getting a house, really settling down.”
Arthur sighs, leaning back in his chair and glaring at John. “That’s why you’re here? You want a handout,” he accuses. 
“No!” John snaps. “Dammit, Arthur, why you always gotta assume the worst of me?”
“Because it’s usually true,” Arthur mutters. “If that’s not what you want then what is it?”
John purses his lips and lets out a spluttering breath. “A loan,” he lands on, struggling to find the right word. 
Arthur barks out a laugh, slapping his hand on the table and poking a knowing finger into John’s chest. “I knew it!”
John swats his hand away and glares. “Look, Morgan, I only need a little. Just to buy some animals, get started on the house.”
“What’d ya want Marston, my whole damn house?”
Abigail lands a gentle hand on your arm and nods to the porch. “They’ll be at it for a while.” You nod and leave the table, following her to the swing out back. She settles down on it with a sigh, gazing out at the trees that line your home. 
“You’ve got a nice life out here.”
You smile fondly, “I like to think so. We’re thinking about getting a few cows, maybe starting a proper ranch.”
Her face lights up at the idea and she laughs. “That’s what John wants. It’s unbelievable how similar they are, they’re too thick-headed to see it.”
You can still vaguely hear them bickering inside the house. You peer inside and see Jack sitting at the table, watching them both with an entranced expression. You can’t help but grin at the look on Arthur’s face. He’s laying into John but he looks happier than you’ve seen him in a while. 
You know he’s missing everybody, has been for a long time. Maybe if Abigail and John are close by he’ll have that sense of familiarity again. “The others,” you start, turning back to Abigail. “Charles and Sadie, what happened to everyone else?”
“A few of them are living good lives, some of them aren’t. Most of them are drifting, not ready to give up the outlaw life just yet.”
“It’s hard to watch the world change while you’re still stuck in the same spot.” You brush some hair out of your eyes and smile at Abigail. “Me and Arthur are gonna help you and John. But I’d like it if you were both close by. It would be nice to have someone familiar near us, we’re pretty lonely up here.”
She gives you a brief smile back, “I think that would be nice.”
John’s voice picks up from inside and you jump, “Oh that’s a load of bull-”
Abigail’s smile drops and she leans over your shoulder to shout, “Watch it!” at John. You laugh when you see the perturbed look on his face. She motions towards his son and Arthur gives John a smug look. 
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“You gonna help him?” You ask Arthur as you settle into bed later. He opens his arms, pulling you into his embrace once you’re settled under the covers. 
“John?” You nod, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course I’m gonna help him. But there’s nothing wrong with jerking him around a little bit first.”
You roll your eyes and shake your head, tucking yourself under his chin. You almost think he’s asleep but then he’s speaking up again. “We should really do it.”
You pull back, brows furrowed in confusion. “Do what?”
There’s a certain look in his eyes that causes something to swirl in your stomach. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, just an excited one, “Get married.”
You give him a bewildered look, shaking your head in disbelief. Nearly five years you’ve both been living out here and he’s never once mentioned getting married. You never thought you two actually needed it. You always knew what you were to each other, how much you meant to one another. 
You were each other’s salvation. There’s no telling what graves you would be laying in were it not for Dutch bringing you both together. You hadn’t thought he wanted to be married, he always told you he’d given those dreams up. “You really mean that?”
He shrugs like it’s the easiest decision in the world. “Might as well, right?” 
You shake your head, but there’s no fighting the way your lips curl up. “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.”
He nods, dipping his head down to press a gentle kiss on your temple. He treats you so gently, it makes you want to cry. But then he goes and says something ridiculous like, “Yeah, a fool for you,” and he makes you laugh. 
You tug him down, lips nearly touching his. “Yes,” you whisper, “I’ll marry you.” You were always scared of living a life like this. Being tied to one man for the rest of your time on earth. But he’s not some city man looking to make you into a pet. He lets you live, breathe, and be free. He’s a partner not a warden and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. 
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end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
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moonstruckme · 7 months ago
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Are you going to continue the roomate James series? I’m actually in love with it😍
Yes! Thank you for reading <3
part 1 │ part 2 │ part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13
roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 804 words
“Honey, I’m home!” 
A smile tugs at your lips, even as you roll your eyes to yourself. James has become more and more fond of these pet names, and of announcing his comings and goings like he’s worried you’ll miss him. (He’s never gone long enough for that, though you might actually miss him if he were.) If you don’t respond in some way or another, he’ll��
“Hey.” He pokes his head through your cracked door. “You alive in here?” 
You pause in folding your laundry to give him a deadpan look. “I could have been in my underwear.” 
He looks mildly horrified. “I’d hope if you were, you’d close the door all the way.” 
“You know, I did manage to stay alive even before you moved in.” 
James leans on your doorframe, giving you the sort of lazy grin you have to pretend doesn’t scare butterflies into flight in your stomach. You really hope that wears off soon. “See, but now I’m convinced if I don’t check on you, you really will die and it’ll be my fault.” 
“How would it be your fault?” 
“Classic case of roommate neglect. I smell the rotting coming from inside your room, the police come, they ask How did you not know your roommate was dead for a month? I reply, Well, officer, she said she could be galavanting in her underwear at any moment. They put me in handcuffs and I spend the next five to fifteen years having Sirius bring me cigarettes I don’t want so that I can trade them for ramen noodles in the yard.” 
You scoff, fighting a smile. “As if you would ever eat ramen.” 
“That’s what I’m saying, sweetheart. You’d be forcing me upon desperate times. But hey,” he raises his hands in a show of surrender, “I didn’t come in here to discuss prison currency. Would it be alright with you if I had friends over tonight?” 
“Of course,” you say, looking back down to match a pair of socks. “You don’t need to ask every time, it’s always alright.” 
“Thanks,” he says warmly, “but it makes me feel better to ask. What do you want on your pizza?” 
You blink. “Me?” 
“Yes, you.” He smiles. Butterflies all over again. “You don’t have to hang out with us to eat it—though we’d love to have you—but I’m not just going to order pizza to your own apartment without having any for you.” 
“It’s your apartment, too,” you remind him. “That’d be a very normal thing to do.” 
“Irregardless.” James waves you off. You wrinkle your nose at the word choice. “What do you want?” 
You swallow a sigh. There are some things, you’ve found, James is nearly impossible to argue with about. If you really dig your heels in, sometimes you can make him move first, but you don’t feel like it right now. 
You do the next best thing you can think of: choosing the least obtrusive option. “Cheese is good with me, thanks.” 
His eyes narrow like he knows what you’re doing, but he says, “Got it. I’ll let you know when it’s here.” 
“Thanks.” You turn your attention back to your laundry. James lingers in the doorway. 
A month ago, you would have kept ignoring him, working on the (unfounded) hope that he’d go away. Now, you look up. 
“Do you think you might come downstairs and hang out?” he asks. He has a strange look on his face, one you can’t quite decipher. “You know you’re always invited.” 
You give James a terse sort of smile. He’s not stopped inviting you to do things since the day he moved in. Your open invitation has been made very clear, and you’ve been accepting it more often lately. James is someone who makes it easy to feel close to him. He tosses pet names at you like they’re nothing, comes to check on you when he gets home, pretends he needs to go grocery shopping just because you need a ride to the store. Last week, you’d sat down to watch a movie with him and woken up to a black screen, your cheek smushed into his shoulder and his head resting atop yours. 
Somehow, you’ve let him spill into your life without meaning to, and now you have these childish, crush-like reactions whenever he smiles a certain way or calls you pet names with that familiar bent to his voice. You know you just need time to sort these feelings out. It’d probably be ideal to keep yourself from spilling into his life as much as possible in the meantime. 
But it’s hard to deny James anything when he’s so sweet to you. And he’s nice. His friends seem nice. 
“I might,” you say. 
“I’ll take the win,” James replies, smiling. These butterflies are seriously inconvenient.
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