#Pour Over Camping Coffee Set

[drinkw]

Exploring the Best Gear for Outdoor Coffee Enthusiasts: Titanium Coffee Cup and Pour Over Camping Coffee Set

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[felinecyan]

Wide Awake

[Shoto Todoroki x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: When you take the couch due to your inability to sleep, unfortunately, you get the scare of your life.

WC: 1737

Category: Fluff, Slight Comfort

Finally finished the fic 😴 I apologize it took me so long 🙏

『••✎••』

You couldn’t remember when you found your eyes closing or when you had dozed off. With your favorite blanket and pillow in hand, you had moved to the sofa down in the common room from your room and set up camp for the night. You couldn’t remember why, either. All you knew was that you were exhausted, and it was easier to fall asleep downstairs without the light that poured in through the hallway.

As you laid on the couch, you found yourself somewhere between being asleep and awake. The world was quiet. It was late. And everyone had long since gone to sleep for the night. Even Kaminari, who had a hard time winding down after dark, had passed out before you. The silence was peaceful and the darkness was calming. The world seemed frozen and at ease.

Your mind was, too, finally, after racing all day. A million different thoughts had been bouncing around in your head like a ping-pong ball. They had been loud, distracting, and almost made you feel sick. But they had quieted now. You could barely even remember what you had been thinking about. Your body was heavy, relaxed, and finally, ready to drift off into a deep sleep.

So you did. You fell back asleep as your body relaxed.

But then, an odd feeling washed over you. A chill ran up your spine. Goosebumps prickled over your arms. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. Your heart rate picked up slightly.

Something was wrong.

Your eyes cracked open slowly, and you blinked as you peered around the dark common room. No one was there—at least, not that you could see. Your heart was beating a bit faster. What was going on? Was it just the exhaustion that was making you anxious?

It was probably just the exhaustion, you decided. After all, the world was quiet. Everyone was sleeping. There was no reason for you to be on edge. You were just tired. That had to be it.

Closing your eyes again, you rolled over to face the back of the sofa. But as you did, the feeling only grew stronger. Your heart was pounding against your ribs.

Something was definitely wrong.

This time, when your eyes opened, they stayed open. Not because sleep had left you but because a set of mismatched eyes had suddenly appeared right in front of your own. You screamed at the sudden intrusion and shot backward, but you didn't get far. You had forgotten that the arm of the sofa was behind you. So, instead, you simply fell back against it with a gasp and scrambled back to where you had been, clutching your chest and breathing heavily.

For a moment, nothing happened. Your wide eyes remained locked with those mismatched ones, staring at you with nothing more than curiosity. A single brow rose. A moment passed, and then another. But then, those eyes broke from yours. A voice sounded low and soft.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

You nearly choked. "S-Shoto?! Wha… What the hell are you doing?! Why are you staring at me while I sleep?!" You had recognized the boy's voice almost immediately, even with how soft and hushed it was. It wasn't hard to do. He wasn't exactly the most talkative person.

Your eyes were finally adjusting to the darkness, and you could make out the bowl of soba and the steaming cup of tea in both his hands.

"Contemplating if I should’ve woken you or not," he answered as he stood. "I almost sat on you."

You could only stare at him as he placed the tea and noodles on the coffee table next to your book. The panic and adrenaline were starting to wear off, and your heartbeat was beginning to slow. "What are you even doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep. Decided to eat."

"You couldn't sleep, so you’re eating soba at… What time is it, anyway?"

"A quarter past 3."

Your jaw dropped. "A quarter pa—" You were cut off by a yawn, which forced your jaw shut again. Shaking your head, you ran a hand over your face and looked up at him. "Well, are you done?"

Shoto's brow rose again, confused. "With the soba?"

"What…? No." The amount of sass in your voice was a testament to how exhausted you really were. "With sleep. Attempting to, at least."

The boy shrugged. "Not really. I usually don't fall asleep until after 4. Why? Are you going back to sleep?"

You gave a sigh. "Well, yeah. I was trying to."

"Should’ve tried your actual bed then." He took a sip of his tea, eyeing you as he did. "I’m surprised Tokoyami didn't wake you."

You blinked. "Tokoyami?"

Shoto nodded. "He’s always reading in the dark down here. I don’t think he’s slept since the Liberation War. Hawks’ injuries must’ve really hit him hard."

That was right… you remembered seeing him more and more often downstairs as the days had passed. It was rare to ever see him upstairs anymore. It was just something you had gotten used to. "I should probably check on him."

"Probably."

Another yawn pulled at your lips, and you couldn't help but smile a little. "If he's up, can I get some of that tea?"

"If you want." Shoto turned to sip his tea again, eyes drifting from yours. But when he turned back to look at you, his eyes were wide, and his expression was filled with disbelief. "Wait, you fell asleep here?"

You were already snuggled back up under your blankets. "Uh, yeah? Did you already forget why I screamed in your face?"

He paused, his face unreadable. "I don’t remember you being an insomniac. Are you unwell? Shall I bring some medicine for you?"

"What? No, I'm not sick."

"It’s rare for someone who is well to sleep on the couch."

You sighed. "You just said you don’t go to sleep until later."

"But you don’t come down here at all."

"Because it's not normal for people to hang out downstairs at this time!"

"Tokoyami does."

"Yeah, and you said that's because you told—" You were interrupted by a yawn and shook your head. "Never mind. You're impossible."

"Me? Impossible?" Shoto's brow rose yet again, and he almost sounded amused. "You're the one who's choosing the sofa over your bed."

"I didn't choose the sofa; it chose me."

"Is it a sentient being?"

Sometimes, you couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.

"No, Sho. I just�� I couldn’t sleep in my room. And I don’t know why." You sighed and rubbed your temples, the frustration from earlier that day beginning to resurface. "There was a lot on my mind, and I couldn’t shut it off, but it was fine. And then I fell asleep, and I felt better, but then I woke up and—"

"And what?"

You shrugged. "I don't know. I don’t think I can go back to my room tonight."

The two of you fell silent, his mismatched eyes peering into yours. There was something about the way he looked at you. It wasn’t a glare or a scowl, but it wasn’t a smile or a smirk either. It was just him watching you.

Then again, that’s all he ever did. He didn't say much. He didn't smile often. He was quiet. But, if you were being honest, that was probably what you liked about him. He didn't judge. He just listened.

Finally, he spoke. "I know the feeling…" His voice was soft, his gaze distant. "I used to sleep on the floor because I thought I didn’t deserve a bed. I grew out of that, but every now and then, the thought still comes back."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah," Shoto responded. "But my room isn't really home. The dorm is. This is. So when I feel like that, I come down here."

"…Is that why you’re down here now?"

"No. I just wanted soba."

His bluntness made you laugh. You shook your head and smiled. "I forgot you're always hungry."

"Not always."

"Always. It's 3 AM, Sho."

"Yes, and?"

"And? You don't think it's a little weird to eat soba at 3 AM?"

"Weird? You were sleeping down here. That's weirder."

"Hey! I—!" You were cut off by yet another yawn, and you could only look at him as it faded away. "I can't argue right now."

"I'll win anyway," Shoto stated matter-of-factly. "Go back to sleep."

"You can't just tell me to go back to sleep. It's not that easy."

"Sure it is. Close your eyes. Count sheep. Pretend you're dying. Anything works."

"Roki, that's the worst advice I've ever heard."

"And yet, it's still better than any advice Kaminari or Sero would give."

Damn. Tired or not, he still kept it real.

"I’ll wake you up before Aizawa gets here."

"He checks on us? Since when?"

He shrugged. "Certain days. Since that time when Midoriya and Bakugo snuck out to fight, he likes to make sure no one else is trying to do that."

"Oh. He wouldn’t be mad, though, if I was just down here."

"Him being concerned is worse than him being mad."

"I don’t think that’s…" You were cut off by another yawn, and when you opened your eyes, you saw him staring at you. His expression was blank, but his gaze was intense. "Okay, okay. Fine. I'll try. Just don’t watch me sleep again, or I will throw a pillow at your face."

"I wasn’t— okay."

"Okay, you will stop?"

"Okay."

"Good."

You laid back down and rolled over, facing the back of the couch again. You could hear Shoto shuffle a bit and the clink of his chopsticks, but everything was quiet once again. Closing your eyes, you pulled the blanket closer to you. You had to admit, you were a bit more at ease than before.

"If it helps," Shoto's voice suddenly said, "Goodnight."

A smile tugged at your lips, and you shook your head. "Night, Roki."

As you drifted off to sleep, finally, without any worries or intruding thoughts, your smile didn't leave your face. You had expected it to, and yet it didn't.

Aizawa also never came to check on you or the students. You realized this because Ochaco was waking you up in a panic, yelling something about being late for class.

It was a chaotic morning, but at least you were well-rested.

[not-neverland06]

𝙲𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

A/N: my stupid poor-people photo editing app stopped working so now my cropping is all off and I'm sad. My aesthetic 😭

Summary: Something brews between you and Arthur, but as always, the camp comes first. Despite the growing tension, Arthur must leave to rescue one of the gang who'd been separated in Blackwater. Jealously brews as a loud-mouth Irishman returns to camp and sets his sights on you.

Micah’s cough echoes through the camp and you wince at the sound. “He needs to see a doctor before he gets the rest of us sick.”

Arthur shakes his head and sighs, “Caught somethin’ from the Downes fella in town.” He passes you some coffee which you take eagerly. It’s part of a strange morning ritual you’d begun with him a few weeks ago. Just after the hunting trip, you’d taken to having breakfast with him if he happened to be in camp that morning. It’s become your favorite way to start the day.

You smirk slightly and nudge his side. “You’re welcome.”

He laughs and shakes his head at you, “I’m sorry?”

“Well,” you start with a teasing tone. “If I hadn’t needed a gentlemanly escort into town for some shopping, it would have been you calling in on those loans.”

He opens his mouth to argue but it stays hanging as you see the cogs turning in his head. He snaps his jaw shut with a reluctant sigh, “Suppose you’re right.”

“I always am,” you tell him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Arthur just laughs, passing you some bread. You hear a familiar set of footprints pacing outside the tent and roll your eyes, turning towards the entrance. 

Sure enough, Mrs. Grimshaw paces around the perimeter of Arthur’s tent like a cougar. She sniffs when she catches your eye and turns her nose to the air, wholly pretending she hasn’t been stalking you. 

“Shoo!” Arthur shouts, waving her off. 

You let out a bewildered laugh, smacking his arm. “Arthur, stop,” you hiss, but you don’t sound very stern as you giggle at Mrs. Grimshaw’s affronted look. 

“Go on,” he keeps going, pushing her further. “Get,” he snaps like he’s talking to a wild animal. Mrs. Grimshaw says something you can’t quite catch and stomps her foot once before running off. 

You press a hand over your mouth, fingers pinching your lips to try and stop yourself from laughing. Arthur looks at you for approval and you only shake your head. “Come on,” he tries, “she’s been botherin’ us all mornin’. What was I supposed to do?”

“She’s not a dog, Arthur.”

“You sure ‘bout that?” He teases and you swat at his arm again. 

You shake your head, letting out a heavy sigh. “I truly think she hates me,” you whisper, pouring yourself a little more coffee. 

“She don’t hate you,” he reassures. You tilt your head with a deadpan look and he chuckles. “Well, maybe just a little.”

You sigh and shake your head, “Just because I married rich doesn’t mean I had an easy life.”

“I know that,” he objects. 

You look up from your mug and furrow your brows. “Do you? You think I don’t see the way you look at me? You see the same softness they do. I just can’t figure out whether you like it or resent me for it.”

The playfulness of the morning is long gone. You seem to have a knack for ruining the moment. This question, though, has been haunting you for a while. Dutch is passive in his disdain for your upbringing—snide comments here and there but nothing quite so obvious. 

A few of the girls question you about the privileges of being a lady a little too long for comfort. Then, the conversation will end with one of them sniffing and saying, “Must have been a nice life. Too bad you’re stuck with us now.” 

There are always small moments like that to break the ridiculous idea you’ve got in your head, that you belong. No matter how hard you try to tell them, they don’t seem to understand that this freedom is better than anything money could have bought you. Your life hasn't been your own since the moment you were born. Sure, being on the run from the law and fighting for every penny wasn’t fun. But moments like these with Arthur would never happen if you were back at your estate. 

With the others, it’s easy enough to see their resentment. But Arthur’s better at keeping his cards close to his chest. It took a while for you both to settle into something easy like this. Most of the time you don’t spend more than half an hour together a day. You don’t have a good enough read on him to determine whether or not he holds your past against you. 

Sometimes, you think you might see just a hint of bitterness when he catches a glimpse of the smooth skin of your palms. But you never know if that’s real or something your paranoid mind has conjured up. 

Arthur swirls his mug in his hand, a bit of the coffee splashing over the edge as it does. You squirm uncomfortably in your spot beside him. The sun has begun to heat up the canvas tent, but you know that’s not why you’re sweating. 

He gives you a gentle smile that eases some of the dread building up in your chest. “I don’t care either way. And you shouldn't give a damn what the rest of these fools think. It’s what you’ve done with your life, with your money, that matters.”

You chuckle and shake your head, “You mean my father's money, and then my husband’s money. It was never mine. That’s why I care what they think. I’m dealing with their judgments every damn day and they know nothing about the truth of it all. I was a commodity, practically cattle to those men.”

Arthur’s brows furrow in that familiar way they do whenever you talk about the men of your old life. It doesn’t bother you to talk about them because you’re used to it and they’re gone. But you know it makes Arthur angry to think about it. 

You’ve grown comfortable with each other, but it’s still a cold shock when he casually touches you. You glance down, eyes wide, as you see his palm covering your own. You look back up with a soft smile. “You’re smart, Arthur. Smarter than half the people here give you credit for. And far kinder than anyone I’ve ever met. " Your heart kicks up a beat when you see the way he refuses to meet your eye. 

You’ll compliment him a million times a day if only to get him to start believing you. And maybe so you can keep watching that pink flush on his cheeks. 

“That’s enough of that,” his voice is gruff with something you can’t quite name. Having enough sense to know when to stop you hold your hands up in surrender. 

“Only saying the truth,” but you never can seem to stop yourself from pushing just a little bit further. Arthur shoots you a sharp look and you bite your lip to keep from laughing at him. You can see him start to wind up and prepare yourself for the brief scolding you’re about to receive. Once he’s done with that, maybe you’ll do what you’ve wanted for so long and ask him to accompany you to Strawberry. 

You’ve been trying to work up the nerve as your last two outings haven’t gone wonderfully. You’re hoping a redo might help the both of you grow just a little closer. Besides, being away from camp seems to be beneficial to you both. 

Approaching footsteps bring your conversation to an awkward halt. They’re not the heavy foot of Mrs. Grimshaw. This is someone else, someone much more welcome. You turn and smile at Charles as he hovers at the entrance of Arthur’s tent. Arthur scoffs and mutters something under his breath that you don’t quite make out, but it makes Charles grin. 

Charles gives you a brief nod but his intentions are meant for Arthur. “Whaddya want?” Arthur snaps impatiently. 

“Trelawney came back,” Charles answers shortly and your face pinches in confusion. Trelawney? You roll the name around in your mind but you don’t think you’ve ever heard anyone in camp mention him. 

Arthur’s head perks up, the frown on his face softening just ever so slightly, but it's replaced by something more bitter. Curiosity or nosiness, you’re not sure, but rather than give in to the rules of common decency you don’t leave them to finish their conversation alone.  

You try to lean back, pretending you’re not there so they’ll keep talking. “The hell did he want?” Arthur barks, tone still rudely short. You wonder what happened between him and Charles, they seemed to get along well enough a few weeks ago. 

Charles's gaze darts briefly to you but he continues, “He’s got news about Sean. Says he knows where to find him.” Now, that name you know, if only through vague mentions. You know Karen does her damndest to keep a mention of Sean out of everyone’s mouths. And that he made it out of Blackwater alive but got separated from the rest of the gang. Other than that, you don’t know much about him. 

Arthur gets to his feet and Charles backs away a few paces, leaving the two of you relatively alone again. Arthur looks down at you, something like disappointment on his face. “You need to go,” you assume before he can say anything. 

He nods and you give him an expectant smile, “Then you better get moving, cowboy. I’ll be here when you get back.” He lingers for a moment like there’s more he wants to say. But your mornings together have always been short, you can’t imagine why that would have changed today.

He sucks in a sharp breath before nodding and heading towards Charles. You watch him go, your plans for the day being tucked away. You’ll ask him to town another time. As long as it’s anywhere but Valentine. 

A prissy throat clears behind you and your head sinks between your shoulders with a heavy sigh. “Time to get movin’,” Mrs. Grimshaw commands, with far too much glee in her voice. 

You’re sitting on an overturned bucket, running someone’s pants across the washboard. You hate doing this, especially in the brisk of the early morning. Your fingers have already pruned up from the frigid water and you can barely feel them anymore. 

Your gaze drifts to your right, where the heaping pile of laundry lies, and you consider running off with Lady. You know whatever other chores Mrs. Grimshaw would come up with in retaliation would be a million times worse, but it almost seems worth it at this point. 

You dismiss the idea, deciding to honor the unspoken rule of ladies staying in camp, and continue scrubbing. You think this might be Arthur’s blue shirt. You notice a few fraying edges and holes and make a note to fix them up for him once it’s dry. You only hope you don’t stumble across Uncle’s clothes while you’re doing this. That man has got stains in places that make you want to throw them in the fire, rather than wash them. 

“Never gonna get used to a sight like this,” Sadie calls out as she walks up behind you. She kicks a crate over and throws herself down beside you. 

“You will soon enough,” you let out a bitter chuckle and shake your head, “Mrs. Grimshaw’s got some vendetta against me.”

Sadie shrugs and picks at some dirt under her nails. The sun seems to crest just perfectly over her head, almost making her blonde hair glow. She seems to be getting better. She’s put some space between her and the O’Driscolls and has found a place in camp just a little easier than you. 

Still, you know she’s struggling. She wants the freedom that your friendship with Arthur and Charles has granted you. You know she’s feeling cooped up here at camp. You’ll have to invite her for a ride sometime and see if that will help ease some of her anxiety. 

“Nah, it’s not just you. That old hag hates me too. She thinks I’ve got ideas above my station.” You and Sadie turn, glaring at the back of Mrs. Grimshaw who is fussing at Lenny. You shake your head with a huff of laughter and turn back to the laundry in hand. 

“I miss Jake,” Sadie suddenly blurts out. You freeze, hand still partially submerged in water as you debate how to approach this. Sadie’s always preferred the blunt way of going about life. You don’t think she wants simpering sympathy right now. 

“Which parts of him do you miss?” You ask, trying to keep your tone light as you toss the shirt into the basket beside you. 

“The non-controlling parts.” Sadie nudges your side with a laugh, “Relax, I’m not gonna start cryin’ on ya. I just miss runnin’ my own house, not being bossed around by a son of a bitch like that,” she says, motioning vaguely towards Mrs. Grimshaw. 

“She’s not much better than my husband was,” you grouse, trying to drown out the woman’s voice. 

“Ooh,” Sadie groans, tone laced with long-held resentment. “Forgive me for sayin’ it, but he was a real pain in my ass.”

You can’t help the grin that curls at your lips as you straighten up, momentarily abandoning the laundry. “You’re not my employee anymore, Sadie. Say whatever you want.”

“Right,” she shrugs, “He was a real bastard and I hope he became wolf meat.” Your lips pull back into something resembling a smile, but it's not fully there. You imagine the blood of your husband on your hands and it doesn’t fill you with the usually stifling nausea. Instead, it’s like a distant ache. You’re either growing numb to it or finally accepting that you’ve done the world a favor. 

You suck in a deep breath and nod, “I hope the same.” Sadie lingers for a little while longer, not helping with the clothes, but keeping you company. You don’t talk about anything of much substance. Mainly her irritations with everyone in camp and you echoing the sentiment. She doesn’t like Pearson always trying to force her to cook with him and you hate being his taste tester. It doesn’t matter how much seasoning he adds, he doesn’t know how to make even half-decent stew. 

When Sadie eventually leaves to finish her chores and you’re left all alone with your thoughts, you realize just how painfully slow the day passes by. You almost find yourself dragging the laundry out just to provide you some distraction from waiting for Arthur to come back. 

You’ve both been lingering on the edge of something. You need to see if it’s all in your head or if there might actually be hope for the both of you yet. 

You glare down at the basket of laundry at your feet and let out a heavy sigh. You reach for another shirt and begin scrubbing, keeping a careful eye on the camp’s entrance. 

It’s not until the sky is illuminated with glowing swirls of orange and pink that Arthur and the others come riding back into camp. You’d run out of chores a long while ago and had just been restlessly pacing since then. Every time you so much as approached Lady someone would come by and distract you with some meaningless task. 

You’d been sitting in the tent for the past hour, barely reading a book as you pray time moved faster. You stand now, hearing the cheers and whistles of the others. You move around the canvas, smiling when you see Arthur leading the men back into camp. 

There’s a man on the back of Diablo, a loud-mouthed redhead that you’ve never seen before. You can only assume this is the infamous Sean they’d been after. Judging by the look on Arthur’s face, you imagine he’s been running his mouth the entire time since they rescued him. 

He looks about ready to put a bullet in the young man as he drives him into camp. You see the others all taking notice of their return, Dutch being the loudest of them all. “Sean MacGuire!” He approaches Arthur’s horse, giving the boy a hand down and grinning widely. “Welcome back, son!”

His thick Irish accent catches you off guard, “Oh, ‘appy to be back, Dutch! ‘appy to be back,” he responds eagerly, a large smile on his face.  

You hesitate by the fire, waiting for Dutch to finish before you go darting off towards Arthur. “I do think a return like this requires a celebration!” Dutch calls out to the rest of the gang. They whistle and cheer for him, Bill already rushing off to break out the alcohol. The gleefulness of the moment catches up to you, it eases away some of the anxiety balling up in your gut and you find yourself cheering along with the others. 

Dutch keeps Sean tucked under his arm and begins to parade him through camp. You know this is a win for all of them. Even if someone here hadn’t liked Sean, getting one over on some bounty hunters is always a morale booster. Whatever your opinions on Dutch may be, you have to admit that he knows how to lead his people. 

Even if you happen to think manipulate is a better word for what he does. 

You watch Sean interact with everyone in camp, drawn into the boisterous energy he wraps himself in. It’s clear some of them are already beginning to find him a little annoying. But even his smart comments can’t seem to put a damper on the spirits of the night. 

Your mouth ticks up slightly when you see Lenny slug him in the shoulder, yelling at him for letting himself get caught. You divert your attention away from the interaction, looking for Arthur. You feel a little bit of the giddiness give way to disappointment when you realize you’ve lost sight of him. 

He’s no longer by the horses, Diablo having been hitched long enough to already start grazing the grass. You peer around the women’s tent and then take a few steps towards Arthur’s but he’s nowhere to be found. 

Just as soon as you let yourself be disappointed by this, you also chastise yourself for becoming so infatuated. You’ve always had a bad habit of getting in your head and boosting your hopes up over something mundane. You’ve only just begun forming a friendship with the man and already you’re starting to fret over him. You’re not a schoolgirl anymore, you’ll have to grow out of this at some point. 

You rub a tired hand over your face and suck in a deep breath. The aromas of camp rush over you in a wave. You can still smell the remnants of burnt morning coffee amidst the ever-present scent of the campfire and the fragrance of laundry that lingers on your hands. You can no longer tell if the mingling of odors comforts or irritates you. 

You look up to the shining stars above and pray for a semblance of sense. Wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders you resolve to get over this infatuation with Arthur and just enjoy the night. If anything is meant to happen, it will do so naturally. 

Dutch walks towards you as you begin to head towards the domino table. You force yourself to stop when you see the expectant look on his face. Sean trails along behind him now, already seeming to have found his way into some of the liquor. 

 “Mrs. Rowe!” Dutch calls out loudly, you give him a polite smile and he motions towards Sean. “I don’t believe you’ve met my good friend, Sean MacGuire. Mouthiest gunman in the west,” he adds with a smarmy grin.

You shake your head and hold your hand out to the boy. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. And please, no need to be so formal.” You give him your name, and he perks up. Stumbling forward and attempting to shake the drunkenness off, he turns your palm and kisses the back of your hand instead of shaking it. 

You can’t help but laugh a little at his performance. Molly suddenly calls for Dutch across camp and the three of you turn to face her. “Dutch, over here for a moment!” She waves him forward and Dutch lets out a long-suffering sigh with an easy smile. 

“Duty calls, I believe the two of you can entertain each other for a little while.” He turns towards Molly, arms wide as he calls out, “Now, Miss O’Shea, what ever can I do for you?”

Sean quickly snags your attention again and you realize that he’s yet to let go of your hand. “Not a missus, eh?” He asks, his eyebrows waggling with what his drunken mind must think is seductiveness. 

You stifle a giggle and shake your head no. “‘Fraid not. He’s not been gone long, but I’m happier for it.”

“Oh, and so am I, fair lady.” You shake your head with amusement. He’s nearly charming with all of his limitless swagger. “Now, I’ve just been cooped up in a camp with about fifty men with mugs nearly as ugly as these,” he motions towards the gang and you let out another unbidden laugh. “Would you care to dance with me?”

Your brows furrow, a disbelieving smile on your face. Leaning in, as though you’re sharing a secret, you tell him, “There’s no music.”

He pulls a little bit back from you, meeting your eyes as your breaths mingle with proximity. “Are you sure?” He asks, a mischievous look on his face. 

You find yourself frowning in confusion, and then, almost as though they had planned it, Dutch puts a record on. It’s scratchy on his worn player, but the music fills the camp as he leads Molly into a sway. 

Your lips part in astonishment and you forget for a moment just how close the two of you are. If anyone else saw, they’d think you were going to kiss. “How did you know he was going to do that?”

He waves you off and leans back. “Magician can’t reveal and all that,” he dismisses. “Now, a dance?”

You’re charmed by him, as much as you hate to admit it. Perhaps he doesn’t have quite the same effect on you as Arthur. But he’s handsome in his own way. Besides, who are you to deny a magic man a dance?

You let him lead you towards the fire and he draws you close. You’re surprised when his hand stays firmly on your waist and he keeps a nearly respectable distance between you both. You’re still what modern society would call a scandal, but this is nothing for a gang of outlaws. 

“I’m sure I’ve never met you before. Where did they find you?” Sean spins you out and then twirls you back into his arms with a flourish that makes you breathless. You almost ask him where he learned to dance before you remember to answer his question. 

“Up in the mountains. Some O’Driscolls came through, killed my friend’s husband, and kept us in a cellar.” You’re no longer surprised how easy it is for you to admit something like that. You’ve become desensitized to situations like your own the longer you’ve been in camp. 

“O’Driscolls,” Sean’s face twists up with distaste and he shakes his head. “Nasty business.”

You scoff, “You’re telling me.” Sean’s gaze drifts behind you and the little color on his pale skin drains. It makes the freckles speckling his cheeks stand out remarkably. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Cutting in, MacGuire,” a rough voice calls out from behind you. Your feet still from where they’d been following Sean’s lead and you risk a glance over your shoulder. Arthur paints a fearsome portrait against the night sky. Impassioned by the sight of him, with the brim of his hat tipped low and the fire casting shadows across him, you hastily drop Sean’s hands and step back from him.  “I’d go find your lady if I were you,” Arthur instructs Sean.

Confusion swirls through you before you spot a very angry, very drunk Karen walking past. “Rotten Irish bastard,” she mutters under her breath, shooting both you and Sean a nasty look. Sean chases, taking quick steps towards Karen without another word to you. 

“Karen, it meant nothing, sweetheart. I only wanted a dance!” You let out a loud laugh as you watch him scramble after her. 

“He’s a damn fool,” Arthur says through a chuckle, walking closer towards you. You smile, turning around and flicking the brim of his hat up so he doesn’t seem so imposing. 

“You stole my dance partner, Mr. Morgan.” You accuse lightly, pretending to be cross with him. 

He rolls his eyes with an attitude you rarely see from him. “I did you a favor. You don’t want to get involved with Sean.”

“No,” you tell him, “of course I don’t. I was only dancing. Can’t do that anymore now, can I?”

Arthur’s mouth opens and closes before he lets out a huff. “Well, you two seemed awful close. I thought that-” he cuts himself off and you frown. 

You were only teasing him. Had he actually thought you were interested in pursuing Sean? You’d barely known the boy an hour. You pause, taking a step back and really getting a good look at Arthur. His shoulders are tense, though, not as tense as they had been a moment ago. The anger on his face, when he approached, had been real and not just the fire playing tricks. 

The pieces connect one by one and you find yourself astonished. Arthur Morgan had been jealous over you. 

That had to mean something. You couldn’t be reading into something like this. You might be a little desperate, but you weren’t a fool. You feel a flutter in your stomach and swallow down nerves. “Dance with me?” You ask, in a breathy whisper, sounding much more confident than you are. 

His eyes widen and he grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m no good at stuff like that.”

You bite down your smile and lean forward, taking his hand in your own. They’re rough against the smooth surface of your palms but you relish in the feeling. “Neither am I. It was the one class I never managed to get the hang of in finishing school.”

You coax him forward slowly, drawing him into you and guiding his hand a little lower on your waist than you should. He takes your other hand in his own and leads you into a slow dance. It’s barely anything more than a sway, but you still feel exhilarated. 

Even with the warning, it’s still a little surprising how awful you both are at dancing. “Even if you're stepping on my toes Arthur, I’m still much happier to be dancing with you,” you tell him, sincerity coating your throat like honey. 

He looks away from you and sighs. “Don’t have to say that.”

Your brows furrow and you tilt your head, catching his eye. “Why would I lie?” He doesn’t respond, caught off guard by the question. 

“Well,” he starts slowly, finally facing you again. He laughs a little at himself and shakes his head, “I don’t know why you would.”

“Because I wouldn’t,” you retort. “I don’t want to dance with anyone else, Arthur.” You know that sometimes he doesn’t always catch the hidden meaning, but you’re hoping he understands this time. You don't know if you could be any more brazen than you currently are.

His brows furrow and you can practically see the dots connecting when you begin to hear it. Low grunting noises, something almost like a whimper, slip out of the closed flap of John’s tent. You both pick up on it at the same time, movements slowing until you come to a complete stop. You stand, tucked into Arthur’s chest, and listen to what seems to be two people having a lot of fun. 

“Is that-”

You’re cut off by a very loud, “Sean!” You gasp, hand covering your mouth as your eyes widen. 

“Oh, Karen,” he sounds on the verge of tears and you practically have to bite your tongue to not laugh. You bury your face in Arthur’s chest, feeling it shake as he lets out a loud chuckle. “I’ve missed you so much!” You hear him begin to cry and force yourself to turn away before they hear you both laughing at them. 

“Oh,” Arthur’s face screws up with disgust but he’s still laughing. “That’s just awful. Come on,” he keeps your hand in his, tucking you under his arm as he leads you away from the tent. He snags a bottle of something off a nearby crate as he guides you toward the trees bordering the camp. 

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere we don’t have to listen to that,” he mutters, nodding back toward the sinful tent. You clench your eyes shut, trying not to picture what the two of them are doing. 

You feel your feet sink a little, mud lifting around the edges of your boot. You reach to lift your skirts, out of instinct, before you remember you’ve got your new pants on. It makes you smile a little, living without the weight of your old clothes. 

“Arthur,” you stumble into his back as you trip over a branch and he quickly rights you. “Were you jealous?” You don't give much lead-up, hoping to shock the truth out of him. 

He pauses and turns back to look at you. You smile a little impishly at him and he lets out a long-suffering sigh. “This way, woman,” he grumbles, tugging you towards a thinner patch of trees. You find yourself squeezing his hand absentmindedly, liking the comfort of holding it.

The moon illuminates your path forward and you feel your heart jump up to your throat. He’s led you to a small cliff face, a spot just large enough for the both of you, that feels incredibly intimate. The moon almost creates a halo around the area, lighting it up more than anywhere else in the forest. 

Arthur lets go of you to tug off his coat. He places it on the ground and motions for you to sit. So used to fending for yourself and always being the last priority, something as simple as that has your heart skipping. “You didn’t answer my question,” you tell him as you take a seat. 

He sits beside you, knee brushing against your thigh as he pops open the bottle of whiskey he’d swiped. He twirls it around in his hand for a moment before he places it down beside himself. Your stomach dips when he turns towards you, eyes intensely meeting your eyes. 

You almost want to look away, the blue of them too intense to face. There’s honesty in his gaze and an intention you can’t recognize that forms a lump in your throat. “Yes. I was.”

Your lips twitch and you shake your head, slightly bewildered by how easily he admitted that. “I’m jealous every day I don’t get to call you mine,” he adds.

You used to be someone else’s. First, you were your father’s toy and then your husband's. When they called you theirs it was always with the intention of owning and using you. But it feels different with Arthur. It feels like handing him your bruised heart and knowing he’ll keep it safe. He says those words, and finally, you know that someone other than yourself is looking out for you. 

His hand comes up, gently brushing some hair off your cheek and drifting down to the nape of your neck. You lean forward, following his guidance, as his head dips down. Your lips meet, and the warmth emanating from him makes you realize this is truly happening. 

Cold from the stone below you seeps through his jacket and chills your legs. The feeling only further intensifies the startling realization that this is real. This isn’t one of your silly little fantasies. He’s kissing you and you aren’t doing anything.  

You sit before him, stiff as a stone, not kissing him back or showing him any sign you’re enjoying this. He picks up on that and you can already taste the apology on his lips as he begins to pull back from you. So you dart forward, clumsily pushing your lips up against his before you completely ruin your chance. 

He laughs against your eager lips, but you feel his relief in the way his shoulders slump and he relaxes back into you. One of his hands drifts down towards your waist, tugging you slightly closer, and you could melt into the feeling of him holding you. 

He tightens his hold around you, drawing you back ever so slightly, his forehead resting against yours. “You sure you want to get involved with me? It ain’t gonna be easy.”

Unwilling to part for so long, you close the distance between the both of you and finally, let yourself give in to the sensations of this moment. His palm drifts into your hair and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. 

Perhaps due to his gruff outlaw exterior, you’d had the misguided notion that he wouldn’t be a good kisser. Men like himself seem like the type not to enjoy something as simple as a kiss. They’re used to just getting right to the point. You’re happy to discover just how wrong you were. 

Those romance books Mary-Beth devours always describe something fleeting. There’s always fireworks going off as the two people you’ve been reading about finally kiss. This isn’t like that, there isn’t a spark that reignites a cold heart. You feel safe and comforted, like you’re finally coming home. This feels real, not like some passionate moment shared between two people that will never last.

Arthur pulls back, reluctantly, and you both catch your breath. “We should probably head back soon,” he whispers, eyes trained on your lips.

You nod your head, “Probably.” Neither of you goes to move, instead you tighten your hold on one another, basking in the moment of finally having what you’ve been coveting for so long.

Next Part 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 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Yandere! Male! idol x manager! gn! reader

WOOOH finally able to update. I got busy due to working for a summer reading camp. Woop tee doo... At least I got money for a new phone LMAO

And we finally, FINALLY finished the second set of yans! For now, no new yans will be done, and will be focusing on the boys!

Song featured: Too Sweet by Hozier

EDIT: I FORGOT THAT I MADE ELIAS THE SIBLING OF THE YAN! IDOL AND ALREADY NAMED HIM ZAYNE! I'll probably just change Zayne's to Tae-Joon.

Yan! Idol name: Raven/Tae-Joon

The deafening lights and cheers of the people in the gigantic stadium rang around the building. They kept cheering, almost shaking the whole place from their energy.

As the band started playing the intro song, the cheers suddenly amped up in intensity with the focus going back on the stage. Each and every lightstick glowed red, flooding the whole area with a scarlet hue.

The bass pumped, the music riffed, the vibe electric.

The stage fogged up, covering the whole place before the cheering got louder when a appeared in the fog.

Then, there he is.

"HOW'S IT GOING CITY OF [redacted]!"

A charismatic, boyish smile, with pearly white teeth that blinded the secret paparazzi in the crowd, with a tall and lean stature that encompasses talent and discipline in one body, and facial features that make people swoon even in just his photocards.

"RAVEN! RAVEN! RAVEN!"

The man, the idol named Raven, started to sing. His voice was smooth and low as the romantic yet also sensual lyrics pour out of his pink lips.

It can't be said I'm an early bird

It's ten o'clock before I say a word

Baby, I can never tell

How do you sleep so well?

He goes up to the edge, swinging around the mic stand as if it was a dance partner. One can hear the passion going off in his tone as his messy hair got flipped upward.

Don't you just wanna wake up, dark as a lake?

Smelling like a bonfire, lost in a haze?

If you're drunk on life, babe, I think it's great

But while in this world

He gets on the middle of the stage, and the pedestal raised as the spotlight went to him.

I think I'll take my whiskey neat

My coffee black and my bed at three

You're too sweet for me

You're too sweet for me

Everyone was seduced, everyone was mesmerized. Raven gave off seductive energy that they held their breath every time his gaze penetrates them. And some even assumed his gaze was on theirs, making them squeal.

It was truly a night for everyone in the stadium.

After almost two hours of performing, Raven, with sweat pouring out of him but still managed to look amazing, descended down on the stage hatch.

But the once shining star back in the stage suddenly threw his beret on the ground.

"FUCK! What was that buzzing sound in the dance break?!" Raven yelled. "Are you serious?! I thought we went over this!"

The people in the back started to groan inwardly. There he goes again.

"Ah... Tae-Joon..." The director said, "We made sure to reprimand the lights and sounds..."

Raven, or rather Tae-Joon off stage, clicked his tongue in anger. "Whatever. Bring me my coffee! I need a break."

"But you can just go home after the cleanup. Do you still want coffee?"

A naive voice said, obviously new to the scene as she juggle with her box of wires.

She's a big fan of Raven and pulled a lot of strings just to be there. A bit bold, she decided to be the concerned type of staff and berate him of his beverage choice.

Yet she absolutely cannot see the pale faces and the dread sticking on the visages of the people around her. She's in too deep in her tunnel vision of Raven to notice his microphone cracking. Another thing to add to the casualties.

"You... What's your name?" Raven glowered. The fan can feel her heart rate pick up as she told her name. "Oh. You're new. All i could say is..."

Raven got up to her and glared at her much smaller form "You're fired. Get out! Nobody gets to dictate what I damn drink!"

The woman was too stunned to speak as she got dragged out of the venue.

This is Raven. Or in real life, Tae-Joon. A charming man in his own right, in front of the public, he's a gentleman with a seductive touch. Talented, with a handsome visage, he's an international idol.

But in reality, he's one hell of a spoiled brat.

"I WANT MY COFFEE NOW!"

Somehow, because of his sheer dumb luck and his reputation, nobody from his staff decided to expose him for what he really is.

He's full of himself and loves to gloat about his own achievements. And one thing he makes sure to take advantage of is his looks.

He brushes his hair back, shaking off sweat (ew) yet somehow looks so ethereal as he clicked his tongue in annoyance, mesmerizing his staff.

He even went as far as to feed his delusional fans and stans.

He's that far gone.

"Where the hell is my coffee!"

"AY COFFEE!"

He's awful to everyone.

Except...

"Tsk. Tae-Joon... If I hear you yell one more time!"

Raven cowers a bit, pouting as he slithers towards his manager.

"But manager~!"

As if he's a new person, Raven clung to you. His head on your shoulder as he played with your left hand.

"I want my coffee and none of these incompetent people are giving me my coffee!" He whined like a child complaining to his parent. "Scold them for me pwease!"

The staff, used to it, sighed in relief as your deadpan look didn't tolerate Raven's rudeness. On your right hand is his coffee that you handed to him.

"Manager! Thank you so much!" His eyes wide and appreciative, he sips on it and sighs in relief. "Ah... So good... This is why I love you, manager."

Goodness. He's putty in your hands.

Tae-Joon was once a trainee. He's naturally good looking already so he's being pulled left and right by companies to be in their side. He's an uncut gem, a diamond in the rough waiting to be polished. They saw his potential and wanted a slice of his being.

The once sweet boy, hardened by the harsh training, became a gloating hardhead from the way these people fight for him. After all, he was just a quiet, ambitious guy in highschool. He wanted more, and he got it through hard work and natural charm. And now, years later, he's about to reach his dreams.

Yet once he got in the company of his choice, his demands were... Too much.

"I need to share a dorm with others? No way!"

"Ugh the mattress is too stiff."

"Seriously?! You want me to train for five hours a day?! Two hours! Just two hours!"

"What are these clothes?! These are not branded!"

"No way that I'm performing in that small stage. I don't care if I'm pre-debut, that is ass!"

"Trash beats. Next."

The company was exhausted. He's not even raking money in, yet he's too demanding for his own good.

Desperate, the company opened their doors for a babysitter manager that has a "calm and pleasing personality", "trait that can work in high stress situations", "adaptability", "great leadership skills and authoritative", and can "teach those who are under them". Aka: someone who can tame the damn bird.

That's where you came in.

You were just a fresh graduate in desperate need of a job. Nobody was hiring you since you're new, and needed more experience.

The hiring process was intense, to say the least. You had to herd rowdy children and change them to upright good kids in 10 days. You somehow did it and even got gifts from the grateful parents. Next, you had to juggle schedules and ridiculous demands. Then, you had to endure being yelled and insulted at.

Your mind, heart, and body are now made of steel from that hiring process and you're the only one who rose to the top.

"Congratulations. Here's your care. His name is Tae-Joon, stage name Raven." The head said, nervous and hopeful that you with Tae-Joon will change his attitude.

Tae-Joon raised an eyebrow and sneered. "Ugly."

You were flabbergasted. This is a supposed to be future idol?

But you can only manage a twitch on your lips.

It was hell with him. You thought the hiring process/training regimen was bad, but this was something else.

A explosive personality, he's sassy and mean to a point of wanting to face palm through your head. You had to physically reel him in at some point just because of a hater.

But unlike the others who cowered and tolerated his behavior, you were stern with his behavior and lectured him most of the time.

"You can't just yell at miss Park just because she messed up your order!"

"Get the hell up! You're going to be late to your training!"

"Who the heck do you think you are, ripping up clothes like that huh?!"

You were feisty in your own right and constantly butt heads with him.

But even then, even just with you around, he's just a growling beast cowering from your lectures as you yelled at him.

Yet, even if as you yell at him, your caring hands wiped his sweat off and gave him his water. If somebody actually messed with him, you would lecture that guy. And there are some times that you laugh at his antics and shake your head.

You treated him like an actual human with feelings, rather than a ticking time bomb.

Slowly but surely, Tae-Joon clung to you. You were his only ally in this godforsaken industry and the only one who understood him. You also didn't tolerate his personality and shaped him to be somehow decent.

And, as his manager, you cared for him like nobody did.

Your lectures became less frequent, and he had more instances to see where you smile at him proudly as he finally had his solo debut. More time to talk to him normally, and had small, intimate moments that fuels his social needs.

And as his fame skyrocket, you were always there, waving his lightstick and being his number one fan.

Understandably, he fell for you.

He started to be openly affectionate with you, constantly confessing his love to the point that management had to tell him off to stop being so open with his affection since paparazzi can take a video or picture and ruin his reputation.

He honestly doesn't care. But with you raising an eyebrow at him, he pouts and only becomes clingy in private.

He'd rather hold it in than nothing at all.

And hell be damned if someone took you away from him. Because he may be somehow tolerable now, but that's only because you're there with him.

Raven just got back from practicing for his new song, and was totally exhausted. He dragged his feet, clearly irritable especially that you weren't there with him.

The staff knew he's not in a good mood so they steer clear of his way.

"Have you seen my manager?" Raven asked a staff who only shook their head. "'kay..."

He looks so depressed that the people around him took pity on the guy as he trudged towards the head.

He passed a meeting room and he heard your voice.

"Another Tae-Joon?"

Another him? What?

He decided to listen in and he heard the managerial head clear his throat.

"Yes. Since Raven is calmer now, we think he needs to move on to another manager. You, on the other hand, will be training another... Hothead."

You held your head, feeling a headache incoming.

"No way. I'm not going through that again. I went through hell with Tae-Joon before. I'm not repeating that."

Ouch. Tae-Joon held his chest, a bit saddened by your words. Well, it was true but it didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Yet... You're not going to be his manager anymore?

Strangely, he felt the numbness creeping up his nape.

"No buts, y/n. You're going to be transfered."

"Did you ask Tae-Joon about this?"

"... Yes, Raven gave the thumbs up."

Liar. LIAR!

Tae-Joon wanted to rush in the room and shake the managerial head until he faints. He didn't give the thumbs up at all!

But he's strangely rooted in place as he heard you sigh.

"Okay. Where's this guy?"

"His name is [redacted]. He'll be here by Monday so be prepared."

When you finally finished the meeting, you went out of the room yet felt a lingering warmth by the wall.

Meanwhile, Tae-Joon rushed towards the trainee building. Eyes cold yet body tense. He wanted to see who the hell is this [redacted]. Nobody, as in nobody will be yours. Only he can be yours.

The trainees were flabbergasted as they saw Raven in the flesh, gawking at his presence and bowing in respect.

Tae-Joon didn't care. He wanted to see where this [redacted] is.

Room 5, and he bursts open through the door.

"What the hell- Raven?" The guy was slack jawed, starstruck. "I'm- I'm a big fan--"

Tae-Joon grabbed his collar and looked him in the eye. It was filled with unbridled rage yet at the same time, bone chilling coldness.

"Fix your fucking attitude." Tae-Joon warned. "Don't be over your head, worm. You better be goddamn nice or else I'll lob your head off."

[redacted] felt like it wasn't just a baseless joke, so he swallowed his saliva and nodded.

"Now. I better see you demand a transfer to the group idol department. You hear me? You aren't debuting solo." Tae-Joon tightened his grip. "Understood?"

It reached the ears of the head that Tae-Joon threatened [redacted]. But don't know what. All they know is that [redacted] pleaded to debut in a group and was suddenly meek and quiet when he transfered departments.

Yet, they somehow knew it had to do something with you, as he clung to you desperately for a week after that.

Then and there, they knew to never, ever try to separate you from him. If they don't want to let go of their greatest asset and set him off.

So, despite how dangerous Raven has become, they forced [redacted] to be quiet by... Not so savorable means.

"You're not leaving me, right?" Tae-Joon whispered, looking exhausted yet satisfied as he hugged your waist.

You, who just realized how deep Tae-Joon is in his affection, sighed and rubbed his head. "I'm not."

And it better stay that way.

[sparklypinkflightsuit]

Saved at Sea: Part 2

Bob Floyd x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Pining, Love Triangle, War Inaccuracies, Mentions of Torture (off page) Alcohol, I think that’s it but will update as I go!

- Part 1 Here -

———————————

18+ Only

———————————

Bob walked back into the room with a bottle of wine and two glasses, setting them down on the coffee table while he wordlessly poured you both a drink. For a second your eyes flitted to the clock.

4:37am.

Somehow the wine didn’t seem as wrong as it should have this time of morning, as Bob sat down next to you, his weight dipping the couch cushions and you slid closer to him inadvertently.

You weren’t sure if you could still… touch him, kiss him, like you so badly wanted to. It had been months.

Months where you’d longed for his touch, longed for the softness that Bob was.

But this man sitting next to you… you weren’t even sure he was the same Bob anymore.

His arms bulged under his t-shirt sleeves as he swept a hand through his long locks, his piercing blue eyes looked haunted, but his face was still Bobs face.

You shuffled back a bit on the couch, clearing your throat as you reached for the wine and gulped down half in one go.

Bob gave you an amused grin, raising his eyebrow as he picked up his own glass.

“Alright… I guess we should just get started then.” His voice was still that silky smooth baritone, but he sounded so much more sure of himself than before.

You angled your body so that you faced him as he spoke, a bit of distance between you as you studied the new lines that framed his eyes as he smiled at you gently.

“So… as you probably know, we were flying somewhere over the South China Sea, things were going fine. As fine as they could be given the circumstances, and I think maybe we got a little too complacent, because Mickey and I, we didn’t see them closing in. We were further out than the rest of the squad, and… they got us caged in.”

Bob proceeded to tell you how they got shot down, and the next thing he remembered was being hauled onto a small fishing boat and brought ashore. Bob said he remembered feeling disoriented at the time, dizzy and starved and full of seawater which had dehydrated him to the point of hallucinating by the time he was found clinging to that fractured bit of wing.

He hadn’t questioned anything, he’d let the fishermen take him wherever without considering where he might actually have been going. He remembered feeling alone but hadn’t yet realised Mickey wasn’t there, until they threw him in the prison camp and he’d finally come to.

His first conscious thoughts were ones of terror. Alone in a dark, cold cell. Rats ran at his feet and damp coated the walls and floor, but the most agonising thought for Bob was that everyone else in his squad may have suffered a similar fate.

Over the months, Bob had encountered untold horrors, made to do things no man ever should, tortured until near breaking point. He laboured and worked until his fingers bled and took beating after beating, barely fed and watered enough to sustain his body.

Bob hatched a plan during his cold, lonely nights in his cell, one that could have gone wrong at any turn, but thankfully hadn’t.

When the guards opened his cell early that last morning, to find Bob’s limp, lifeless form in the floor, unresponsive to their booted feet colliding with his ribcage and stomach - which was a hard feat even for Bob to accomplish, laying there like he wasn’t present enough to feel them - they’d tossed his useless form out onto the streets, convinced he would perish anyway. Bob had waited hours to ensure they weren’t watching, waiting, as the deserted street grew dark, and that’s when he made a run for it.

Bob was lucky to find a kind family who housed and fed him, communicating on what little English they spoke, and worked for them in their convenience store until he’d made enough money to get a boat to the mainland and to the US Embassy.

His parents had been notified after the Navy, but only once Bob was safely back on US soil, and word had spread quickly, to everyone but you.

After checking your phone you’d realised Nat had tried to call you several times, texting you over and over, but you weren’t sure that would have done much to prepare you for seeing Bob on your doorstep anyway.

You realised, once Bob had finished speaking, that your cheeks were wet. You hadn’t realised the tears rolling down your cheeks, as you imagined the horrors he’d endured.

“Hey…” Bob whispered, reaching over and using his thumb to gently wipe a tear from your cheek. “I’m here now.”

You sniffled and wiped your face, “Bob I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I hate that you went through that.”

Bob shifted in his seat to face you, taking your hands in his. “You wanna know what kept me going?”

“What?” Your lip quivered.

“You. The thought of you waiting for me, I knew I had to make it home.”

Your heart stuttered inside you and you wanted so desperately to kiss him, to feel everything would be ok.

But something was stopping you.

You stood and began pacing the room, Bob’s eyes following you as you covered your mouth, a hand on your hip as your bare feet sunk into the plush rug.

“What is it?” Bob asked, clearly sensing your hesitation.

“Bob… I mourned you. For 6 months, I cried for you, I… I accepted that you were gone, as painful as it was. Now that you’re back, I-“

Bob stood so quickly it startled you and you took a step back. He crossed over to you and grabbed your wrists, gently but firm in his big hands.

“Y/N, I’m not saying we need to pick up where we left off, I get that it’s gonna take some time, but… you still love me don’t you?”

Your body softened, and you moved closer, resting your palms against his chest. The back of Bob’s knuckles grazed down your side, over the dip of your waist, where his hand came to rest against your hip.

“Bobby I-“

A loud and impatient knocking jolted you from whatever hold Bob had on you, and you stepped back slightly, startled.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, rushing over to the door.

You threw it open, the early morning light turning from navy blue to lavender, and Nat stood with wide, wet eyes in front of you.

“Nat are you-“

“Where is he?”

——————————

The evening was tense despite the flow of alcohol and lively music blaring from the Hard Deck’s jukebox.

You stood stiff against the wall as you watched everyone circle Bob, clinking their glasses and bottles with his as they celebrated him coming home. Everyone but you and Bradley, who stood equally as stiff across the room.

It wasn’t that you weren’t happy Bob was back, it was the most relieved you’d felt since you could remember, but things felt heavy, weighted, and you weren’t sure what this meant for you.

There in the middle of the room stood the man you loved, but he was so different, it made your heart ache. Was the Bob you’d loved gone forever? Was he somewhere under this confident, boisterous exterior?

As Bob recounted his experience for the large group that began to gather around him, Bradley moved across the room and stood by your side.

“Pretty surreal, isn’t it?” He murmured against the bottle at his lips.

“That’s putting it lightly, Roo.” You breathed.

“Are you guys… you know, back to how it was before?” Bradley was talking to you but his eyes never left the centre of the room, watching as Bob lit up around everyone, confidence radiated off of him.

It had been 5 days and you and Bob hadn’t had all that much time to talk, between getting him situated in a new flat, and his parents coming to visit.

“I dunno, Brad. It’s not that simple, I feel like I need to get to know him all over again.”

Bradley nodded and took another swig, “Yeah, you’re telling me.”

You went quiet as you watched everyone celebrate Bob, and you felt bad for not getting involved, but something felt strange, and you couldn’t shake it. You still felt as though you were dreaming, too scared to get excited in case you woke up to an empty bed again.

Bob stood on a chair in the centre of the room and his presence was commanding enough for everyone to fall silent, as you watched with wide eyes.

“Hi everyone, I just wanted to thank you all for such a warm welcome home, and to each and every one of my squad for never letting my name go forgotten.” His eyes briefly landed on Bradley’s and you swore you could see Bob’s eyes lose all their light, his lips a tight line as his jaw ticked. But then he smiled again and his eyes met yours.

“And to my darling Y/N… you and only you got me through months of agony. The thought of coming home to you, it made it all worth it. I love you.” He raised his bottle to you and your face flushed bright red as the rest of the room followed suit and an eruption of “cheers” echoed through the room.

Bradley shifted uncomfortably beside you as Bob got off of the chair and made his way over to you, his large hand snaking around the back of your neck as he pulled you forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“I enjoyed your speech.” You grinned nervously as you looked up at him. His eyes shone as he smiled down at you.

“I meant every word, princess.”

Bradley cleared his throat as he pushed off the wall and made his way to the glass sliding doors. “Yeah, great speech man.” But his voice said otherwise.

You watched Bradley make his way out into the dark outside, and you looked up at Bob apologetically.

“Hey, I need to go and make sure he’s okay, I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” You wanted to spend time with Bob, but he seemed far less vulnerable than you initially thought he would have been.

He nodded and stroked your cheekbone affectionately. “Sure, come find me when you’re back.”

You followed Bradley out the back of the Hard Deck, and found him with his jeans rolled up and his feet ankle deep in the water, beer bottle resting carefully in between two fingers as he stared out at the water.

You slipped off your sandals and walked over, the cool water helping dissipate the heat in your cheeks.

“You okay?” You asked, eyes trained on the moon that slowly shifted across the horizon.

Bradley’s shoulders straightened back for a second and then slumped back down. “Is it selfish if I say no?”

“A little, yeah.” You joked, grinning softly up at him.

Bradley’s lip twitched into a smile as he gave you a side eye, and he shook his head, hiding his grin behind the bottle that he brought up to his lips.

“Why aren’t you okay?” You prodded.

He sighed, digging his toes into the wet sand, “I think you know why.”

You looked back up at the moon, unsure how to respond.

“For what it’s worth… I’m not okay either.”

Bradley looked over at you, his thick brows knitting together. “I would have thought you’d be happier than anyone.”

“I am!” You defended, “I’m relieved, happy he’s home safe, but… I dunno… it’s stupid.”

Bradley’s hand snuck into yours and he tugged you gently, pulling you further down the beach. “It’s not stupid, tell me.”

You swallowed hard, unsure how to put what you felt into words. “He feels like a stranger, you know? I had this fantasy that he’d come back and it would be exactly like it was before, but I wasn’t expecting to feel like this.”

Bradley shrugged next to you, “Well… that’s fair. You mourned him and the guy came back different, it’s gonna take time to get used to it.”

You nodded, “Yeah, I know. I just don’t wanna seem ungrateful, because I’m not, but I dunno, he makes me kinda nervous.”

Bradley snorted next to you, his white teeth glinting in the moon light.

“What about me? Am I just a big old teddy bear you don’t mind walking in the dark with?” He joked.

You looked over at Bradley with soft eyes, the music from the bar getting quieter the further down the beach you walked.

“I feel safe with you, Roo. I’m glad you’re here.” You admitted.

Bradley’s hand tightened briefly around yours, and then he let go to sling a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.

“Good. You aren’t getting rid of me any time soon, kid.”

——————————

By the time you and Bradley walked back into the Hard Deck, the atmosphere had changed dramatically.

Nat hurried over to you and took your hand, dragging you towards the front door.

“Bob’s about to knock some guys jaw off, he won’t listen to any of us.” She huffed as you stared at her with wide eyes.

You pushed open the front door and sure enough, Bob and another aviator you had yet to meet, were face to face in the parking lot, circling one another like vultures fighting over scraps.

“What’s going on?” You asked, your skin prickling.

“Parker said Bob had been gone too long and now you’re fair game. Babe, he’s had too much to drink, you need to get him home.” Nat huffed.

You sighed as you pushed through the small crowd as Bradley made his way outside, confusion etched across his face.

“Aw look, your girlfriends come to save you, Floyd. Or… is she even your girlfriend anymore? I forget.” Parker smirked as he walked in circles across from Bob.

Bob lunged and grabbed Parker by his lapels, slamming a heavy fist into his nose.

“Fucker!” Bob yelled, shoving him to the ground.

“Bob! Stop, let’s just go!” You cried from behind him.

Parker was on his feet before you could move to Bob’s side and he threw his entire weight behind his own punch, fist landing right below Bob’s eye.

Another punch landed against Parker’s jaw and sent him staggering backwards, and Bob moved to follow him, chest heaving and eyes wild, but you grabbed his shoulder hard and pulled.

Bob swung around and you were startled by the look on his face, pulling your hand back as though he’d burnt you.

His face fell and he held his hands out, “I’m sorry… sorry.” He panted.

You crossed your arms over your chest to comfort yourself, “Bob let’s go. Please? You can stay with me tonight.”

Bob nodded, swiping his wild hair back off of his face. “Yeah… I’m sorry.”

You turned and started walking to your car, only stopping to look and Nat and Bradley apologetically before you unlocked the car and climbed in.

You waited for Bob to climb in, and silently started the car.

You could feel Bob’s eyes on you as you drove in silence, your heart thudding against your chest.

“What?” You asked, not taking your eyes off the road.

“Do I scare you?” Bob asked, leaning against the passenger door to face you.

“Is it bad if I say yes?” You sighed.

You felt Bob shift next to you, and then a soft breathy chuckle left his lips.

“No.”

You took a deep breath through your nose. “You’re just… different, Bob. It’s gonna take some time to feel… comfortable again.”

Silence fell between you and you swore you could hear your blood rushing in your ears.

“Do you still love me?” He asked suddenly, running his fingers through his hair again.

“Painfully so.” You admitted.

“Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

You pulled the car into your drive and cut the engine, sitting back in your seat with a heavy sigh.

“Because I mourned the death of the Bob I knew… and then he came back a different man.” You admitted, turning your head to look at him. “You’re a stranger to me now, Bob. It’s crazy, I love you but I don’t… I don’t know this version of you, but you also make me so nervous and flustered and-“

Bob’s lips twisted into a crooked grin, and his hand slid over your thigh. Your breath hitched at the feeling of his calloused fingers brushing the bare skin under your dress.

He leaned in close, his lips nearly touching your ear, as he whispered lowly.

“I’m not scared of a challenge, princess. I’ll win you back.”

His fingers tightened around the flesh of your thigh as his lips pressed against your pulsing throat.

He pulled back, and his eyes were dark and hooded, his smirk tantalising.

“One way or another.”

—————————

- Part 3 Here -

Taglist:

@sarah-bear706318 @swightops @midnightmagpiemama @gardenof-venus @mrsrobert-bob-floyd @lolo-925 @frozenhuntress67 @beebeerockknot @waylandmorgernsternherondal-blog

[josephquinnswhore]

the devil is real and he’s a besotted outlaw - micah bell x female reader

summary: Micah bell can be a twisted man, and you’re complacent in his actions.

word count: 1.7k

content warning: micah bell, LOL. micah uses a gun to get reader off, p in v, raw sex, creampie, f and m orgasm. use of degrading words. Karen slander (just for the plot I swear I love her.)

At this time in the evening, generally everyone around camp had retired to their tents, the sun had set many hours ago. But the orange hue from the fire burning around the empty campfire still flicks embers into the sky, you watch them disappear.

Your boyfriend had been stoking the fire every so often before tossing the stick with his usual carelessness beside the seat he had leaned backward in to find a comfortable position. As comfortable as he could with you sitting on his lap, cradling the warm metal mug in your cold palms, sipping occasionally.

“Shouldn’t be drinkin’ that right before bed,” he chastises softly, but there's no real scolding behind his words.

“It don't seem like you're gonna head to bed anytime soon.”

Not now that he’d picked up one of his twin revolvers. The custom piece featured a unique dark grey steel frame, one that had been polished only the evening prior. The grip was also custom created, black skulls engraved and delicately painted contrast against the red grip.

He pours some gun oil onto a cloth, and wraps his arms around your hips to your front as he begins his chore of cleaning the weapon, movements precise and meticulous. After a few moments, he feels a strain in his neck trying to gaze over you, so he simply rests his chin on your shoulder, stopping the task for but a moment to press a delicate kiss to the exposed skin.

A small hum escapes you, and he gets back to his task at hand. One thing you liked about him, he didn’t favour small talk, he preferred these moments of tranquility with you where there were no peering eyes and stout whispers.

When you finish your cup of coffee, your attempt to stand was intercepted by Micah’s hands gripping onto your hips. “Where do you think you're going? Weren't you stayin’ up with me?”

“I am, just going to Pearson’s wagon to clean my mug and I’ll be back.”

You let out a noise of surprise when he pulls you back down onto his lap, taking the mug out of your much smaller hands to set it carefully on the ground beside him. It was sweet, seeing how he cared for your things with a delicacy that he held private for the things most important to him.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere without me, an’ I ain't ready to get up yet.” His tone is quiet, but you know better than to disobey what he asks when it's not reasonable. The mug could just be cleaned later on.

A small yawn escapes you, regardless of the mug of caffeine you’d finished moments before, and Micah sets aside his guns at the noise. “Tired?” The soft murmur against your skin created a demand for goosebumps on your neck. Coarse hairs of his moustache tickle your neck as he begins to kiss the raised skin.

“Partially,” you reply in a quiet murmur.

“Well, I best wake you up, hm?” Pulling away from your neck, all of your attention is now drawn to his large hands on the skirt of your dress as he bunches it at your waist to expose your legs underneath. “Now ain’t that a sight?”

“Micah–” a soft protesting whine is about to deny him, and he interrupts.

His hands trail upward, making you forget what you were about to scold him for, fingers trailing up your thighs over the sheer material of those pretty drawers you always wore. His thick digits were moving the piece to the side delicately to get where he wanted without much resistance from you, to his delight.

“Christ, girl, ain’t fair keeping this all to yourself.”

A protestful noise escapes your throat when his hands pull away from your need, causing you to rut your hips in search of his thick fingers. “Tsk, so impatient,” he chastises.

But it's not his hand that returns to caress your swollen clit, it's cold, and you flinch backwards against his chest. When you look down to see what it was that he was using on you–a part of you stills, perhaps in curiosity, fear or need. You weren’t entirely sure what you felt.

Before you could say anything he runs the already oiled up clean gun against your sensitive nub, causing your back to arch further, head resting on his shoulder behind you. “Oh.. Micah..” you trail off, unable to deny the pleasure from the crude act. “This.. is so twisted.”

His chuckle is deep and causes another demand of goosebumps to rise against your hot skin, rubbing the sleek barrel of his revolver agasint your clitorus at an agonisingly slow pace. “I don’t see you pulling away from it, girl.”

The sensation is incredible, ending up in you resorting to seeking more friction by rutting against the weapon sloppily, the increased pace makes your thighs tremble against his own. “Seems like my desperate girl is just as twisted as I supposedly am.”

Unable to control yourself, selfishly ravishing his weapon for your own sake, the orgasm you experience has you crying out softly into the still air of the evening, a smirk plastered on Micah’s face as you tremble against him. Your hips finally still from your greedy seeking ruts.

Micah partially lifts you off his lap, unzipping his cream coloured jeans before lowering you back down onto his hard cock. Your hole was perfect, the kind of pleasure that a man would seek salvation in. His hands are guiding you in a repetitive motion, a low groan coming from Micah that only allows his cock to slide easier into you.

“Micah..” there's not much more you can think to utter other than his name. Completely unable to make any sense after that absurd orgasm he caused moments before.

There's one thing about him, his impatience, the need for you. In his greed, he tires of slowly guiding you down onto him, and prospers to drill into you harshly as he raises his hips to thrust into you. No coherent words leave your lips, merely the strangled sounds of pleasure as you struggle to catch your breath against his cock pummelling into you. Hands sliding underneath the bodice of your gown to grasp roughly onto one of your breasts.

With a few harsh and desperate deep, sloppy thrusts he is spilling into you, pulling you closer to him as he bites down into your neck. His breathing is uneven and hot against your shoulder, giving your breast one last squeeze he removes his hand, and a wince of overstimulation he pulls his cock out of you.

Offering one of his hands, he helps you to stand, fixing your dress and helping smooth it out at the bodice. You're still in a daze, confused and your entire body feeling the aftermath of the explosive intimate encounter.

You didn't say anything as Micah led you to his tent, a hand resting on your lower back to guide you, but you didn't need to. “You did good, girl. Real good.” At his praise, your skin warms, flushing with your entire body at the sweet sentiment.

Of course you're having troubles the next morning, because why did you think that no one heard your performance with Micah last night? Karen is the only one with enough gall to confront you, the look of pure disgust she gave you, and the way she tried to stand over you like she was trying to intimidate you. “You’re disgusting, Micah of all people. You must really be some desperate kind of whore.”

This infuriates you, they didn't know micah like you did, how sweet and consolable and caring he really could be. “No, I guess you don't understand, do you? You’re being sour toward me because you know no man wants you at all!”

The blonde woman saunters closer to you, with a tone of threat. “What did you just say?”

Micah hears the commotion and intercepts, changing his course as he starts walking towards the scene.

“Oh look, it's the sack of shit himself.” Karen gestures towards Micah and you sneer at her.

You’re quick to lash back to defend Micah. “Get back on the bottle, you miserable cow.”

Things are heating up between the two of you, Micah standing tall beside you.

“Back off you drunken wench,” Micah snarls, finally stepping in front of you.

But Karen does not allow this to deter her rampage directed at you, looking past Micah to spit drunken insults. “I mean seriously, sleeping with Micah Bell? You’re making a damn fool of yourself. Micah is the last person you should trust. He’s no better off than the devil, you’d do best to stay away if you had any mind!”

“I didn't ask for your goddamn opinion, now shut the hell up!”

“You stupid little girl,” she spits, pointing a finger at you. “You think you're safe with the likes of him?”

But this had gone on long enough and Micah had finally had enough of Karen and her drunken tirade against you. “Enough outta you.” Glowering down at Karen, “say another word that insults her, and I promise I’ll make use outta that gun I cleaned last night, y’hear me?”

“Now back off.” He threatens, standing tall in front of you, creating a barrier between the women as he protects you from any further in slew of insults.

Finally, karen gets the message, albeit muttering as she walks away from the scene she had created.

“You alright? She didn't touch ya, did she?” He murmurs softly as he glances at you, inspecting you to make sure you are unharmed.

“I’m fine. I.. I mean I’m not hurt.” You correct yourself.

He grips onto your chin softly. “Don’t listen to her nonsense, y’hear me? I ain’t about t’let her get in your head.” A frown forms on his face at your silence. “It don't matter what she, or any other folk think about us. You trust me, don’cha?”

“Course I trust you,” you utter in promise.

“Good.” His murmur is soft, meant for only your ears. As is his gentle caress as he runs his thumb over your cheek, his frown fading into a more neutral expression. “Then don't you pay no mind to what folk say about me, especially when it comes to my involvement with you. They don't know the first damn thing about me, none of ‘em.”

His words sink in, and a crack of a smile finally reaches your lips, to which his expression mirrors your own. “There's my pretty girl.”

Yeah, it was worth it.

[heatheninpraxis]

Hello Tumblr. This is my first ever foray with fan fiction, so go easy on me, I am extremely nervous. There's just too much incredible Joel Miller smut on this hellsite and y'all inspired me. I'm halfway through the second part of this lil fic, so if there is an audience for it, I'll post part 2 asap!

Feel Her Love (part 1)

🎶Alluring Eyes - The Brudi Brothers

Tags: MDNI, smut, jackson!joel, Joel x reader, old!joel, caretaker!joel, grumpy!joel, dark themes, tw, PTSD, fmasturbation, m genitalia mentioned

AN: slow burn, age gap (legal obvs), fmc is an ex seraphite, excessive description of PTSD/trauma/mental illness, f masturbation, dirty bath water, power imbalance (inexperienced/mentally ill fmc), implied history of sa, subservience. I love Joel and have a hard time putting him in a position of taking advantage, but I'm giving them tiiiime damnit.

Without further ado - feel her love part 1

As you wake, your anxiety sets in instantly. You bolt upright, halt your breath, swiftly examining your surroundings. Where am I? You hear soft, slow snoring. You look down. Four others asleep in makeshift pallets around a dying fire. Deep breath. I am safe. I am away from them. 

“Hey… hey, you're alright. I've been keepin’ watch. Y’ain't missed nothin'.” Your head snaps up to locate where the low, surly voice is emanating from. Joel is up, seated on a large rock, finishing packing up for the morning. His eyes meet yours, then flick away, so as not to spook you. 

You've only been traveling with the group for two weeks or so now. He zips his pack and grab his rifle, securing the strap and gently swinging it over his broad shoulder. 

“Coffee? I think there is a bit of that jerky left, if yer hungry.”

You let out the breath you've been holding. Silently, you slip from under the canvas jacket you'd used as a blanket, rise soundlessly to a modified crouched position, and reach out to grab the aluminum thermos lid of steaming coffee Joel had poured for you. You say nothing, giving a curt nod to convey your gratitude. Coffee is not something you were used to in all your years with the Seraphites. Since you'd run off, your nerves had permitted you little rest, and in small doses, the caffeine helped keep you moving in step with the group. 

They were from a large camp, some place called Jackson. They were out on a scouting mission. You barely managed to gather enough information through torn and hodge podged, ruined road maps to have an idea of whereabouts they'd picked you up. Well, damn near kidnapped you, really. You had not gone willingly. You glance down at your injured leg. You'd managed to mangle it in some crude, makeshift trap a hunter had left on the roadside a few weeks ago- you’d wager somewhere outside Billings. You'd barely managed to stay alive, trying to fight off infection with what minimal foraging and holistic medicine training the Seraphites had given you. The group had spent half of a night trying to track you down after catching a glimpse of you dragging yourself through the woods, trying to lay low. As they closed in on you, you'd trained your last arrow on Joel, and after seeing how sick, hurt, and desperate you looked, he lowered his weapon. You didn't. You were ready to die fighting, no matter how pathetic a foe you appeared to be. Joel crept up to you, cooing and promising to help you. Just as you were about to loose your arrow into his chest, you heard “Sorry” and saw black. He'd pistol whipped you and flung you over the back of his horse. You awoke 18 hours later, feeling much less feverish and looking much more clean and bandaged. 

“You good kiddo?” Joel asked, snapping you out of a daze. You don't meet his eyes, just silently nod. Silence. It's all you've ever had to protect yourself in this world. You've kept your head down, you've tried to follow instruction, but all you've ever known was fear, trauma, and isolation. Silence kept you out of trouble. Kept you safe from clickers. Kept the Elders’ persecuting gaze on others - poor unfortunate souls - that weren't you. You'd seen what they were capable of. You'd seen both friend and foe, strung up above the earth, missing their entrails. Your heartbeat skyrockets at the blood chilling memories. 

“Heh, d’you ever shut up?” Joel playfully barks at you. You jump at the words, but understand he meant no harm by it. You give him a tiny, almost inaudible chuckle. It's the best you can do to not let on how damaged you feel psychologically. You still haven't told them who you were running from. The others start to stir now from their slumber. You focus on your rapidly cooling coffee. It's bitter and is sure to increase your anxiety soon, but you gulp it down, praying it gives you the energy you need to finish the trek back to Jackson. You focus on gathering your things, and keep your eyes down from the awakening crew. 

“God you can be so loud when you want to be, Miller. The sun isn't even fully up and you're already hollerin. Let us get some fuckin caffeine in us first. " a young man, you think his name is Josh, playfully fires at Joel.

“And let you sleep all damn day? We're ‘bout seven hours out from Jackson and I'm rearin’ to get back to my own bed” he jabs back. “Now get yer coffee and get to packin’ up, ya lazy asses. “

The others are still groaning as they rush to gather their belongings. You're already at Joel's chestnut's side, clasping the bedroll Joel lent you into its leather straps on her saddle. You idly pat her haunch as you wait for Joel to assist you up. He is already rounding the treeline before you know it, and you can't help but steal a glance at his straining biceps through his thick flannel as he straddles his mare and reaches down to offer you a hand up. Your neck flushes. You sink your good foot in the stirrup, grasp his calloused, enveloping hand, and let him haul you up, careful not to bump your injured leg. You swing your leg over and, once again, find yourself seated at the front of the saddle, back flush to his chest, and your rear indecently close to his… manhood. 

You think you're about 25 years old, though time meant little in your life as a cult member, and you certainly didn't celebrate birthdays. It was a cult, no matter what your mother and siblings had tried to tell you. They were true believers in the Prophet. After your mother had drug you and your siblings into their grasp, you started to lose them. You know you were about 7 when you became one of the Seraphites. And every year since then you'd known your family less and less. When your mother had fought to marry you off to some scraggly looking older man, you knew she no longer loved you in the way she had when you were a little girl. Maybe she was just trying to do anything she could to keep you alive, but in doing so, she killed who you were. Today you were a shell of a person, with little more inside than the personification of pure, undiluted fear. 

Traveling with this group had been a great comfort to you, after the initial panic wore off. They tried to welcome you into the fold at night by the fireside. They protected you when danger was afoot. They nursed you back from the brink of death. There was even a woman in the crew, who sang songs as you all rode through the wilderness, that you might have remembered from when you were a small child. Maybe not, though. Maybe you just wanted to remember them, because they lit a warm little fire in the center of your chest that didn't fizzle out for days. 

And Joel, who gave you all the space you needed without your asking for it. Who kept you tight to his chest in your long trek back to Jackson. Who kept an extra watchful eye on you. It felt like he'd taken you under his wing, and no one had ever done that for you before. Eye contact was difficult for you, having grown up in such a diseased hierarchy of a social setting. You were to be obedient. Subservient. And anytime you let your guard down, you'd paid for it. A slap in the face, a knuckle rapping, a week in a cell with little food and ample prayer… God, the prayer. As much as you tried to lean into it, to accept it as your reality, the prayer made you sick. You tried to accept your fate as a devout Seraphite, but deep down you knew the Prophet was full of shit. 

“Almost there, kiddo. And don't worry about Jackson. I'll make sure they take it easy on you. Yer goin’ ta be safe here. Now, we are gettin’ to be full up around town, but there's a spare room at my place, till we find you your own apartment. Maybe a roommate or two for a lil while, but only when yer ready. You can stay with me n Ellie till yer good n sick of us. Yer gonna be safe with me. A'right?“ Joel gently squeezes your thigh and for once, you don't jump out of your skin. You melt back into the man who has managed to make you feel safe for the first time in your life. It makes your chest feel warm and your body feel heavy - drowsy. And you drift off to sleep, right then and there, on the back of a horse. 

As the familiar Jackson skyline came into his line of sight, Joel let out a heavy sigh of relief. He and the others had gone out a few weeks back, on a mission to check in on some old radio towers Jackson could potentially utilize in the future. The mission was mostly a bust - another team would have to go out in the coming months for some heavy reconstruction, to make the one tower you did find even remotely usable. And now, this. This skittish rabbit of a woman he was dragging back into town. Mean as a viper when they'd cornered her, but softened as the days went on. Joel couldn't get a good read on her. She sure was timid, and did not seem to enjoy meeting anyone's eye. He didn't know why, but he was drawn to her and found himself hovering, overly concerned about her. He would normally be annoyed at how helpless she was, adding little to the group's efforts. Not to mention the shit storm he will be walking into, very soon now. How did someone with such little survival and navigational skills end up out here on her own? After 2 weeks, they had managed to get a few answers to some questions out of the woman. She didn't want to disseminate who she had been with prior. Images of raider thugs laying their hands on her flashed through Joel's mind, and just the thought made his blood pressure rise. Who had hurt this girl? Who carved those scars into her face? For their sake, he had better never find out. Joel did feel shame for the decisions he had made in anger in his past, but never regret. He certainly didn't learn from it, because if he ever managed to get the names of her captors, abusers, whoever they were, out of her, he was going to make them pay in flesh. 

Jackson's leadership would not be pleased Joel was dragging another stray into town, another mouth to feed. The winter had been hard on their community, and they had long since run out of safe homes for new admissions. The construction teams were struggling to keep up with demands for home renovations. But what was Joel to do? Leave this girl in the woods to burn up from her infected open wounds? Maybe if she had been someone else, but one look into her big round fearful eyes, her bow taught and trained on his center of mass, his heart seized up and he knew he was on the hook for another soul to protect - to live and to die for. Part of him resented her for that, another person to protect, to feed, to have depending on him. It feels like that's all his life ever was - working hard and worrying for people. As he was approaching his mid 50’s, he could feel the weariness and the weight of it bearing down on his bones more than ever. 

Joel found himself breathing deep, inhaling the earthy scent of his passenger's hair, and she slept gently resting under his chin.  It was tied up in disheveled braids, secured closely to the crown of her head. They hadn't been able to provide any substantial bathing measures for her, and her hair smelled dirty, like earth and sweat, but intoxicating to him nonetheless. She was sickly looking, and covered in grime, but try as he might, he couldn't deny the shapeliness of her body, or the undeniable beauty of her face, even with the two deep scars protruding from the sides of her plump lips, and tracing all the way up to her ears. He stiffened, realizing how fucking creepy the act was, sniffing on a defenseless young woman as she slept, ruminating on her beauty. Shame sent prickles under his skin and up his chest and neck, and he gripped the reins tighter, determined to get off this horse and back home to the privacy, comfort, and quiet of his humble Jackson home. He needed to get his fuckin’ head on straight. They were only about 5 minutes out from the gate now, and he bristled preemptively at the inevitable interrogation and invasion of space she was about to endure. He felt a growl forming in his chest. He was fucking exhausted and didn't want to deal with it, but he was going to stay composed for the girl, she didn't need to see him lose his head just yet. 

You awake to a quick, rough jostling. Joel is shaking your shoulder with a firm grip. 

“Wake up, girl. We're here.” His tone is stern, colder than you were used to from him. The others had dismounted, and were joking with the team that had arrived to greet them. You swallow dryly. You're uncertain what you'll do if they turn you away. The idea of picking back up and walking away from this enormous settlement had your teeth on edge. This was more than you could have ever expected to see out here in the tattered remains of the world that once was. The walls were high, made of sturdy, reinforced wooden logs. There must be hundreds, if not thousands of people living here. All dressed in warm clothes and well fed. Your chest pangs with a grief you had tried for years to bury, wishing you could have broken through to your siblings. You thought your mother was too far gone, though. Who would your siblings be if they'd ended up here instead of the harsh, swampy region your chapter of the Seraphites had held domain in? Joel hopped off the chestnut mare without a word, letting you stumble with no support behind you any longer. His sudden departure from the protective persona you'd come to know him as left you feeling uncertain and vulnerable. He slung his pack over his shoulder and picked you up effortlessly to set you on the ground beside him. A shooting pain radiated up the back of your leg and you whimper, barely perceptible. You catch a glimpse of Joel's eyes, looking shocked and remorseful, before they dart away and he gestures for you to follow him closely. 

“Shit… ” Joel winces under his breath, I'm a fucking prick. Shoulda been more careful, he thought. He was desperate to get this over with and to get you back to his place. You hobble at his side, bracing yourself for what was to come.

“You're shittin’ me, Miller. You know this can't fly right now.” an older gentleman groans in Joel's direction as his eyes rake over you in frustration. “Another mouth to feed. Where the hell you gonna put her?” Joel barges past, his arm hovering around your back, herding you through the team collecting the horses. The others you'd travelled with were filling the gaurds in on their findings about a decrepit radio tower. 

“Not in the fuckin’ mood for chastisin’, Mike. Get Tommy and the rest ready. She's stayin at mine and I won't hear another word till the rest are here for intake protocol.” Joel is steadily guiding you through the gate. Your body is lit up, nervous for your potential exile, or maybe the possibility of this place, full of life on bustling streets, being your new home. Your heart races as you sidle next to Joel, trying to keep your head down and your heart from getting its hopes up. You pass homes and stables, bakeries, a seamstress and cobbler's storefront... You would never have dreamt this was out there beyond the woodlands you'd grown up in. You could smell food cooking, possibly something from the bakery, and hear faint music coming from what looked to be a tavern. The anxiety was palpable, swirling through your chest and above your head. Joel catches a glance at you every few steps, warming at the wonder in your eyes. He is desperate for this to go as quickly and painlessly as possible. It's glaringly evident him you have trauma, possibly PTSD, from whatever hell you've lived through in place of a real life. And from what he gathered from you over the last couple of weeks, you weren't ready for the grilling he knew you'd be subject to shortly. You eventually walk up steps to a white washed wooden building. The porch was adorned with bunting flags in bright colors, with bountiful flower pots on either side of the glass doors. The entry way was filled with fliers - job postings, advertisements for yoga classes and square dancing lessons, babysitting offers… all edivence that this really was a thriving community. It took your breath away. 

“Alright now, listen to me.” Joel says, grasping both your shoulders firmly and pulling you to face him, his gaze determined to penetrate yours. You do your best to hold your eyes to his, as much as it makes you squirm. “These people are tasked with keepin’ this place safe and runnin’ efficiently. It's their job to make sure we ain’t runnin’ this settlement into the ground or takin’ in lawless psychopaths. Now I know you're harmless, and just tryin’ to survive, but they're gonna want to be convinced. I'm gonna try to answer what I can but I need to know you ain't gonna give ‘em your infamous silent treatment. I need you to be brave and tell them your story, okay kiddo?”

Your eyes are watering now, and you burn under his gaze. You start to nod, but manage to muster up a quiet, but firm “yes." You cannot mess this up. It's your only hope. Joel holds your gaze for a few beats longer, nods once, takes a sharp deep breath, and opens the door. He guides you into a large room with a panel of individuals at the back. There are benches lining either side of the aisle he leads you down. Your heart is thudding in your chest, but you keep your head level with your audience. They scrutinize you as you approach, filling you with the urge to dash, but you plant your feet firmly on the ground and pretend you are brave.

“Joel… “ a woman greets him with exasperation in her voice. 

“Maria…” he nods, and extends the greeting to the others on the panel as well.

“And who do we have here?” Maria wastes no time asking.

Joel introduces you, and you nod at the panel, doing your best to mirror his body language. He gives them a brief rundown of their mission, and what scraps of information he and the others had coaxed from you over the time you'd spent together so far. He sounds weary, but tries to put on his most charming tone. Joel is desperate for this to go by without a hitch. He doesn't dare to imagine the sleepness nights ahead of him, worrying about you outside of these walls, if they don't make an exception and welcome you in.

“Well, let's hear it from you. Where did you come from? Who is it you've left behind out west?” the man Joel addressed as Tommy asks you.

Your chest starts to seize, you're terrified to speak their name out loud. Outside of Washington, you're unsure what opinions come to mind when someone hears the word “Seraphite”. Do they know of their cruelty or deranged beliefs? But you weren't one of them. You had to make them understand. You had to make them see you aren’t like them. Your breathing speeds up and your mind is whirring.

“Hey, now. S'okay kiddo. Just tell them the truth. Ya ain't got nothin’ to hide “ Joel's voice is warm and coated in honey now, just for you. He places his broad hand on your back. It snaps your mind back into the present moment, and gives you just enough courage to tell them the truth. So you do. Quietly, quickly, you tell them your story - cult, WLF, whistles, and the rest. You don't mention how your mother tried to marry you off to the man who tried to take advantage of you as a teen. You don't mention the executions you bore witness to. You don't mention the oppression and neglect you endured or exactly why your face is carved up like a jack-o-lantern. You just try your best to tell them who you are and why you left. After you prattle out the information, you look up from under your lashes to gauge their reaction. Some look shocked, some look at you with pity. None of them look angry. Your breath shudders. 

“Good job, kiddo. You did real good. Why don't you wait out in the lobby for me while we finish up?” Joel coos.

You look up at him, fearful and teary eyed, and he nods reassuringly. You turn tail and exit the room. To your surprise, you don't panic as the door closes behind you. You don't even cry. You just focus on your breath, and listen to the muttering on the other side of the large wooden door. You make out the word “responsibility” and maybe “appointments” but within a few minutes, you hear heavy boots approaching on the wooden floor. The door opens slowly and Joel walks into the foyer. Without looking at you he says “Let's go” and notions to you with a nod of his head. You follow, relief flooding your body when you realize you aren't about to be handcuffed and escorted back out into the Wyoming wilderness.

Joel leads the way as you walk through town towards his home. The others seemed sympathetic to her story, but no less pissed off at him. They're worried about your stability, and want him to get you to a therapist for an evaluation and weekly visits. Only Greta had heard tale of the Seraphites. Her sister in a settlement in Canada had mentioned them years ago, but referred to them as “scars”, and only as what she thought to be a fringe group, not the religious zealot foothold in the PNW you'd made them out to be. Your recounting had been enough to spook the others, and make Joel grateful for the distance he and his team had managed to put between you and your abusers. He was feeling overwhelmed by it all, and maybe a little stupid, after a comment Tommy made about him feeling the need to save all the damaged women he ever stumbled across. Fuckin’ bratty little brother and always will be, Joel thought. None of his fuckin’ business who I deem worthy of a helping hand anyway… 

It was nearing sunset as he rounded the street corner to his dead end street. His heart gave a small skip at the sight of his flimsy little white picket fence, grateful to be back home and the fuck away from other people. That is, except for you. He turned around, realizing he had been walking too fast and too determinedly for someone of your stature and state to keep up. You weren't far behind, though. And you were just happy to be somewhere so idyllic. It felt like a dream. One you never could have mustered up while hidden away in Pacific northwestern forest, only ever knowing destitution and the lack of joy in things like picket fences and painted shutters. Joel thinks he might have caught you smiling as you were taking it all in. 

“Well, here it is. I gave you my word that you could stay with us as long as you needed. Ellie stays here in the garage, you can take her old room. Let's head in and get you cleaned up so I can take a look at that leg.” You no longer detected any gruffness, nor any of the honey soaked reassuring tone from earlier. All you could hear was exhaustion. 

Joel led you onto his creaking front porch and in through his heavy wooden door. He tossed his pack down on the kitchen floor, and gestured for you to do the same. You didn't have much with you, just some chewing sticks from home to keep your teeth clean, a small glass jar of liquid castile soap, your canteen, one change of clothes, and some hair pins to keep your mane tame. Joel had taken your hunting blade and bow when they'd picked you up. He had promised to arm you at the first sign of danger, but that sign never came. You held your bag close to your side, and he looked down at it, then shrugged as if to say “suit yourself, you can bring it up to your room” and he turned around to start fiddling around in his kitchen.

“I'm throwing on a kettle, get you some tea started” he said as he filled the kettle. “Water heater is old, so it takes a while to get hot” you watch with rapt attention, not really knowing what he was talking about. You knew what a kettle was, and didn't understand what would make his take so long to heat up. Joel could read the incredulity on your face, and wondered what kind of regressive hell you lived in to have not known the luxury of a hot bath. He tries to rephrase “uh, I'm gonna make us some hot water for tea and then I'm going to start the water for your bath, it just might take a while before it's ready for ya”

You watch as he clicked on the burner and set the kettle down. He rounds the corner and brushes against your hip, and you step back, flustered from the contact. You had never been permitted to be in such close contact with men before, and even as you became all too familiar with the sensation of bouncing just outside the confines of Joel's lap day in and day out, these little brushes still sent tingles throughout your body. You scramble out of his way, he slows and braces you with a desperately light touch, and he mumbles “Er sorry” and he carries on his path to his bathroom. Once inside, Joel grasps either side of his sink, closes his eyes, and let's out a long, deep sigh. What the fuck have I gotten myself into. This poor woman ain't used to civil society… he looks in the mirror at his sun damaged, salt and pepper reflection, shakes his head, and turns to draw you a bath. In the kitchen, you look around, enthralled by the commodities Jackson residents are permitted, even after all the destruction of the last few decades. The Elder's would spit on this place were they here. Spit on you for revelling in it. They despised “new world” comforts, and lauded minimalism and conformity. But you were here, looking at artwork on the Miller's walls, and they were miles away, likely shitting in a hole in the woods. You almost permit yourself to smile at the thought. You move silently throughout the first floor, listening intently for Joel's footsteps to approach. You find a tiny carved bird on the fireplace mantle. You pick it up and get lost in its charm. Each feather chiseled out in meticulous detail. You don't recognize the breed with what information you can discern from a wood carving, but pick your brain for all of the species you had learned about back home.

“Eh that ain't my best work” Joel says as you jump and almost let the bird clatter to the ground. He hadn't made a sound, even with his enormous body and this aging wood flooring. You scramble to set the bird back down on the mantle, feeling ashamed for touching things that didn't belong to you. You clasp your elbows behind your back and fix your gaze at his feet.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have … “

Joel approached you slowly with his arms out, like you were a wounded dog. “S'okay, you're allowed to touch anythin' in this house. S'your home now, too. You don't ever have to be sorry. I know it might take a while for you to feel like this is your home, but I'll be here to make sure you do. “ he stops a few feet shy of you, and you feel embarrassed. You know this isn't how normal people behave. You wonder when you arrived at this level of broken. Joel gingerly maneuvers through the house, and switches off the burner so the kettle's whistle doesn't spook you. He returns from around the counter and coaxes you towards a door in the middle of the hallway, just under the stairs. He guides you to step inside the wash room, and you see the bathtub full of steamy water. You hadn't bathed in one since you were a kid, and never with hot water. You had only ever bathed in the stream with several other girls in your age group. You look up at him with gratitude and anticipation. 

“She's all yours, take all the time you like. Left some of Ellie's ol’ girly shit on the window sill for ya - shampoo and razors and whatnot. There's a hairbrush in the vanity until we can get you some supplies of yer own. You need anything, you just holler.” And with that, Joel closed the door and left you to it.

You checked around the room and peeked out the window to make sure you were really, truly alone. You hadn't bathed alone maybe ever in your life. A girlish giggle nearly bubbled up out of your chest, but you swallowed it down and started stripping off your dirty layers. You peeled the bandages off your leg and winced, the wound wasn't fully closed and you knew it needed washing. You stepped in front of a large standing mirror. Your curves were still there but you looked thin. It made you frown. Your face was filthy and your hair was stringy and disheveled, even with the braids still secured tightly to your scalp. You took the pins out one by one, and let your tresses fall around your shoulders and breasts. You bent down to find the hairbrush Joel mentioned in the drawer of the vanity. Vanity… the Elders...

You turned your back the mirror and quickly brushed out the rats nest on your head. Slowly you dipped one leg over the edge of the claw foot into the dreamy, hot water. It was perfect. Instantly dirt melted off and swirled out into the clean water. You left your wounded leg draped over the side of the tub as you seated yourself fully in the luxurious water. You sigh blissfully and felt enraptured by the sensation. It was overwhelming and quietly joyful. You permit yourself to just revel in it and soak. You submerge your entire body up to your ears and eyes. The only thing you hear is a slow dripping coming from the faucet. It almost startles you, the quiet and comfort. It's deafening and starts to make you nervous, so you begin to slosh around a little more to make some noise, washing your body with the scented soap Joel left for you on the window's ledge. You diligently scrub yourself and luxuriate in the greatest washing up of your life. You lather and scrub your hair, the shampoo creating more foamy suds than you've ever seen. You meticulously shave your legs, leaving only a handful of knicks on your knees and ankles. By the time you wash your wounded leg and the rest of your body, the water is grey and the suds have dissipated to swirling white streaks in the filthy water. You step out of the tub, pulled the drain plug, and look around the bathroom. There are no towels in sight. Increasingly panicked, you begin to check every drawer and cabinet. 

In the living room, Joel waits for what seems like hours. Trying desperately to keep the image of your naked body soaking in his tub from his mind. He fusses with the kettle, dumping cups of water down the drain and refreshing them with hot water each time they go cold waiting for you. Joel's throat feels thick with anticipation and he just wishes he could go off and rub one out in the privacy of his own room. His length is stiffening in his jeans. He angrily tugs at the crotch of them, trying to create space for the thickening bastard inside. What the fuck was wrong with him? He hadn't been alone with you for an hour before his perverted ass mind ran off with visions of you naked, legs spread indecently wide across his bed. I mean Jesus, how old is she anyway? Half your age? It ain't fuckin right Miller. Joel hears drawers opening and closing down the suddenly now. Joel immediately realizes his mistake and mutters a drawn out “fuuuuuuck… no”. He forgot your fucking towel. He knew you'd be too spooked to call out for him. Could you even make your voice reach an audible level from that distance? He rushes downstairs to find his fluffiest clean towel from the laundry room in the basement.

You had exhausted all potential storage spots in the bathroom and decided to open up the door to call out for help. As the door swings open Joel rounds the corner of the stairs and comes face to face with your dripping wet, fully nude body. You freeze. Absolutely stock still. Joel curses and tries to hand you the towel. He tries desperately to look away, and to understand why the hell you were just standing there. He is apologizing profusely, and you see the desperate attempt he is making to look away, but you are still in shock at your poor timing, nothing registers in your brain. Joel sees you are in trauma response freeze mode and realizes he needs to help you. He fumbles to unfold the towel and drape it around you, but not before he catches a glimpse at the beauty between your thighs or those large, tear drop shaped tits sitting pretty on your chest. He feels his heart squeeze in agony - for betraying your trust and for the fact that he will never bury his face in your perfect cunt or spend hours lazily sucking on your dark pink nipples. To avoid this agony clawing at him, he sternly wraps your body in the towel and mutters “what the hell kiddo, help me out here”. As you finally snap out of it, you clutch the towel to your body, and slam the bathroom door behind you. You know he saw every inch of you. You saw his eyes dart over your body. You felt them sear into the place between your thighs. The heat from his eyes still lingers there. You were no stranger to this hunger, but could usually will it away by trying to think of anything else - foraging guidelines, the prophets scripture… it isn't going to cut it this time.

Joel is flustered on the other side of the door. He rips his glasses off and rubs his palm over his face, cursing, his other hand on his hip. He calls your name. “Hey… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to barge in, I was just about to knock when the door opened. I'm so sorry.” he groans, frustrated in more ways than one. “Just… I left a pile of clothes for you. Get dressed and meet me out here. I got warm tea for ya and I'll dress that wound again.”

You take deep breaths and remove the towel to dry your sopping wet hair. You realize this heat isn't subsiding, it's expanding. Your breasts start to ache with the need to be touched. You rush to cover them, to tuck all your private bits away and hope they quiet down and stop tormenting you. You know what an orgasm is, from the whisperings of the other girls your age, you've just never experienced it. You know instinctively this is what you need, but you have never had the privacy to learn how to obtain one. You shared a room with tens of others your entire life, with night watch standing by every hour, keeping you all safe from wolves or other dangers. Never have you had the opportunity to become familiar with your body. You just remember the other times you've felt this heavy and paralyzed with aching longing, and how long it took for it to subside. You recall a string of days, feeling that button of sensitive nerves in your private area pulsating incessantly.

You panic a little as you remember Joel said you'd have your own room. You'd never slept alone before. The prospect frightens and exhilarates you. You hurriedly slip into the clothes Joel laid out for you. The bra he provided fits well, but the clothes are a bit tighter than you're used to. The cotton shirt squeezes your breasts in a deliciously uncomfortable way, and the lower hem drapes across your hips indecently, displaying your figure and you resign yourself to taking it off as soon as you're away in your room for the evening. The satiny pants, not appearing to be standard street wear, must be for indoor use around the home. They are soft and slinky, and unfortunately showcase your behind in explicit detail. You can make out every dimple in your round, jiggling ass, and flush at the thought of Joel seeing you like this. This was certainly not aiding in the banishment of such indecent feelings. 

You plait your hair, placing each braid carefully across the crown of your head and pinning them firmly in place. The bath greatly improved your mood and comfortability, but the idea of walking out into the living room has your heart racing again. You press your nervousness as deep down into your gut as it will go, and quietly step out of the bathroom and down the hall. Joel is waiting for you, the sleeves of his worn flannel peeled back, exposing his beautiful muscular forearms. He is seated on a worn but comfortable looking couch, elbows resting on his spread knees, medical supplies laid out before him on a low table. He seems to flush all over again at the sight of you. He glances up at you, and then back down at the table gesturing to the small mug of tea waiting for you.

“S'justa herbal blend from the cafe, ‘sposed to be relaxing. Ellie used to drink it when she couldn't sleep. Now get over here and let me take a look at ya." He hands you the mug before patting the cushion next to him. You take the mug, delightfully warm in your palms. “Thank you”, you eke out before taking a seat, maintaining a safe distance from his hulking body on the sofa. He leans back, indicating he'd like you to place your leg on his lap for him to examine. You cautiously oblige, and he gently stretches your leg out across his lap. He slowly pushes the loose fabric of your soft pant leg up to your knee. You hear him audibly swallow. “S'lookin better. Might have to get you down to the clinic in the morning for some oral antibiotics. S'it hurtin’ you much?” He asks. You shake your head in response. You watch, and urge your body to stop trembling under his careful ministrations. You sip your tea to distract yourself - a chamomile blend, possibly a bit of lemon balm. He added honey, it tastes fresh. You silently wince as he prods at your cuts, and let him apply a salve. You watch his arms work as he wraps your leg in a fresh bandage, his jaw clenching in concentration. When he is finished tending to you, he reaches up to cover your leg, dragging his palm down the flesh on the inside of your calf. You shudder and your pussy throbs. Your eyes betray you as they widen, before you catch yourself reacting to his touch. You pray he didn't catch it as he gently places your foot back on the ground. You think it might be better if he had euthanized you, as you are starting to feel rabid at his close proximity. You notice the tea rippling violently in your mug, and attempt to steady your trembling hands. Joel stands abruptly, turns away to adjust his jeans, and curtly says “I'm ready to hop in the bath m'self now. Can I show you to your room? I made it up with some clean linens while you bathed.” You down your tea, praying to no one in particular that there was a sedative you hadn't quite identified in the herbal blend. You stand, ready to follow him upstairs. You try desperately to avert your eyes from his incredible ass as you ascend. The room smells a bit stagnant, but Joel must have noticed before you and he walks over to crack a window. But it's comfortable, clean, and most importantly, feels secure. The windows are intact and you worry less about intruders, being on the second floor. You place your tiny pack of belongings on a table near the door. “Thank you. I… I cannot find the words to express my gratitude. You've saved… you've done so much for me. I promise if there is a way I can make it up to you, it will be done.” You spoke to the floor, but force yourself to look up at his face as he stands in the doorway. 

“That won't be necessary kiddo. It's been my pleasure. You deserve so much more than what cards you’ve been handed in your life. Let's see what we can do to get you started on a better trajectory. I'll get you down to the clinic first thing tomorrow and we can take it day by day from there. My room is just the next door down from ya. You come get me if you need anything at all, darlin'. I'll just be a little while in the tub and we will call it a night. Now you make yourself comfortable an’ get some rest.” He waits for a moment, taking you in, and closes the door behind him.

On the other side of the door, he looks up to the ceiling and mutters a curse before he treks back down the stairs. Having your bare feet in his lap was absolutely torturous and he is considering letting the tub run cold before taking a dip. He walks into the bathroom and starts to undress, sighing as he frees his straining cock from of his restrictive jeans. He glances down at the tub, a layer of filth remains in the basin. His heart aches for you - all the trauma you'd been through, all the things you never got to enjoy, like a simple soak in a warm bath. He rinses the basin out and attempts to shake out all the perverse thoughts of you from the day. How shockingly beautiful your face was under all that grime, either because of or despite your deep scars. The way that old threadbare t-shirt clung to your perfect body. The smooth, freshly shaven skin of your legs under his rough palm. The thought of your beautiful mound mere inches away from his hand as he pushed your PJ pants up your leg. God have mercy, get a grip Miller. You're old enough to be her daddy. She needs you to get her back on her feet and that’s it. Not drooling over her like some old pervert. Get your fuckin’ head on straight.

Just upstairs, you remain still on the bed. You try to adjust to the quiet of the house. You hear the faint noise of the town from the crack in your bedroom window, still alive and bustling outside of the quiet respite of Joel's home. You can feel your heartbeat between your thighs - hear it pounding in your ears. You double check the windows and make sure they don't open easily, you suppose in case of very determined intruders with ladders. You peel off your shirt, relieved of its restrictive fabric. You lay down and tuck yourself into the covers. You've never laid in a plush, clean, fully dressed bed. It feels foreign, but you think you could get used to its softness. The throbbing is still there, and it's driving you mad. You feel desperate, somehow hungry. You adjust your head on the pillow. You hear Joel's footsteps down the hall, and his door closing behind him. You try to fall asleep and pray for the tea to help settle your nerves. You begin to feel exhausted, and long for the rest you've been deprived of for weeks. But the incessant throbbing and hunger plagues your every thought. Joel's eyes on your naked breasts, at the apex of your thighs. Joel's forearms. Joel's perfect ass. Joel's palm on the soft flesh of your calf. You raise your head and slam it back down into the pillow. You groan in frustration. You hear Joel settle into his creaking bed. In a huff, you grab your blanket and lie down on the floor, your stomach pressed firm against the ground, your arm tucked under your chin, supporting your head. Slowly you tuck the opposite arm under your body, and drag it down to your pelvis. You crave stimulation, pressure - anything to cease this unending, aching pulse. With your arm fully extended now, you lift your pelvis to make room for your fist, directly under your hypersensitive mound. A tiny moan slips out as you rest your body down on top if it. The pressure is a relief but it's not enough. You can feel the satin pants sticking to your cunt and your thighs. The heat radiating from the crotch of your pants is near burning on your balled fist. You begin to rock your hips side to side, and it makes your breath catch in your lungs. It isn't enough, but it's helping. You're wide awake and your mouth is watering at all the images of Joel you've committed to memory over the last few weeks. You drag your pelvis up and over your knuckles and cry out, loudly. The hand under your head reaches out to clamp over your mouth. Your breath is hot and quick over the backs of your knuckles. Your eyes are clamped shut, and a tear slides down your cheek from the sheer frustration of it all. You feel confused, unsure of how to bring yourself to climax, and you're wound up tight like a spring. You have never had the luxury of privacy, or the opportunity to tend to your own needs. Your swollen, aching breasts press into the floor, hard nipples rasp against the soft fabric of your bra. You are reduced to nothing but nerve endings and need. You grind aimlessly onto anything firm, but as you rest your body on the hard floor, it gives in to the exhaustion. You drift off to sleep under a clean quilt, directly on top of your fist.

[quotidian-oblivion]

So I woke up today and found the house empty. Turns out, my dad was at work, my siblings were at Islamic summer camp classes and my mom was out shopping and no one would be home for a few hours.

I was left unsupervised for several hours straight at home.

And so, in all my teenage rebellion glory, I decided to have chocolate milk for breakfast. Because you know this girlie pop loves her choccie milk.

And so I quickly freshened up and eagerly leapt to the kitchen for my delicious breakfast. I didn't wanna go all the way to the store and purchase a choccie milk, so I decided to make my own.

I got the milk, sugar, cocoa powder, drinking chocolate powder, ice and blender. All the basic ingredients cuz we didn't have much at home (which was why my mom was out shopping).

Now the thing about the blender is that my mom often refers to it as her precious gold. The blender is sacred in this household and whoever so much as even sets it down too hard, invokes the wrath of my mom. So, in order to preserve my life, I took great measures to make sure nothing happens to it. But while pouring the milk, I paused.

I knew that the blender had a minimum capacity for it to do thr blending, but I didn't know what. So I just poured it till the first measuring line. I made my chocolate milk, meticulously measuring each ingredient with my soul and even adding some coffee to it.

And then, it was done! But with everything blended together, the choccie milk had somehow risen in volume even though all the ingredients were milk and powders. So I grabbed the biggest glass in our house and that thing is HUGE. It's as big as my water bottle.

But even after filling the glass to the brim, there was still, like, half of the contents of the blender left. I shrugged and plopped an ice cube in, resolving to drink the other half after I did my chores. So I drank the first glass and since I was hungry, it didn't take long. I was chugging the glass like a man who had just gotten through a breakup, paid bail and had staggered into the first bar he found.

I did my chores and stuff then poured the rest of the blender contents. It filled the entire glass yet again. Fyi, half the contents were not foam. The foam took overall 4% of the space, the rest was pure chocolate milk. Idk how my quarter-blender chocolate milk turned into a three-quarters-blender chocolate milk, but I'm starting to think now that there is a reason why my mom loves that blender more than her husband and children and the reason might be that I think the Spirit of Chocolate Milk decided to cross over from the Spirit World and take the mortal form of Blender (I recently started watching atla).

Anyways, it took me a while to chug the entire chocolate milk. And when I did, I fell sick.

Now, you might ask me, "Quo, why didn't you just share it with your siblings when they got back?" The answer is: If I had to trade chocolate milk as ransom for my siblings, I would shoot them myself.

(For legal purposes, this is a joke, but the seriousness is there)

And I couldn't very well share it with my parents because they're recently started talking about physical health and gyms, enhancing my gym-phobia and increasing my desperation to start a badminton club myself because the only physical exercise I find comfortable is taking a racquet and beating the shit out of cocks. Shuttlecocks. So if they found out that I had, most likely, roughly a litre of chocolate milk for breakfast, they would freak. So I had no choice but to finish it.

Anyways, as soon as I finished the huge ass glasses of chocolate milk, I started to feel the consequences of my unregrettable and unsupervised actions.

My stomach became sentient and decided to master water-bending and bend the water inside itself to torture the shell that held it. I felt like puking my breakfast out, but no way in hell was I gonna let my stomach get in the way of my one true love. So I refused to puke out the chocolate milk.

I endured the attack of the Puke Nation and finally prevailed. And of course, lamented to my friends about it because I'm a dramatic bitch.

I quickly washed the blender and the glass and cleared everything out just in time as my mom and sisters came home.

And guess what she brought for me. No, guess.

She got me chocolate milk. She went to the store, saw a bottle on clearance, and bought it. And if I don't drink it today, it will expire.

Anyway, it's been 6 hours, that's enough time to give my stomach a break from a litre of chocolate milk, right?

If I don't update, you can correctly assume that I committed death via chocolate milk overdose. Drink on, soldiers 🫡

[thelikesofus]

starting our forever, baby

9-1-1 on ABC | Buddie | 2.1k words | s7 spec, prev bucktommy, getting together, love confessions, love is stored in the kitchen

Eddie wakes up to a surprise visit from Buck and they finally talk about forever.

Read on AO3

Eddie wakes up to the sound of pans clanging in the kitchen and the smell of pancake batter and hot butter. Neither of these things is cause for alarm nor out of the ordinary but he is ninety-eight percent certain he went to sleep in an empty house. 

He rolls out of bed, shrugging on a sweatshirt and grabbing a pair of soft socks out of his drawer on the way past and to no surprise finds Buck in the kitchen.

“Hey! Eddie,” Buck smiles brightly at him as Eddie cautiously perches himself on a kitchen stool. “Good morning.”

Buck is bathed in sunlight from the kitchen window behind him, a halo of gold filtering through his soft curls, gel-free and touseled on the top of Buck’s head in a way that Eddie wishes he would let them be more often. “Morning, Buck. You’re here early.”

Buck bustles around the kitchen, pulling milk out of the fridge and grabbing a mug from the top cupboard, his body moving around Eddie’s kitchen as if it has been programmed with an innate sense of where to find anything and everything. He could be convinced that Buck knows his way around Eddie’s kitchen better than Eddie does. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just–it’s been a while, yeah? And I feel like I haven’t seen Chris in ages–I miss the kid–and I figured he was probably, if not missing me, at least missing my pancakes. I hope he hasn’t been letting you make them.”

Buck pours coffee from the pot into the mug, tops it off with the precise amount of milk that Eddie prefers, and sets it in front of Eddie before turning to the frying pan and flipping the pancake. “I know you’ve been improving in the cooking department–I can see it, Eddie, and I’m proud of you,” Eddie’s heart squeezes in his chest. “But pancakes are my department.”

“I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder.” Eddie quips and Buck whips around to wave the spatula at him.

“Exactly!”

“Buck,” Eddie presses carefully because there’s a frantic energy fizzing beneath Buck’s skin, he can see it in the way he moves, the line of his shoulders, and the exaggerated way he swings his arms. “Christopher isn’t here. He’s on school camp until Friday.”

“Oh, right, I knew that.” Buck’s whole body joints to a stop like a record skipping on a turntable and then just as soon he’s back in motion again. “That’s okay! I brought lemon juice for on your pancakes, we can save the bacon for the weekend when he gets back.”

Eddie’s heart grows three sizes in his chest, threatening to burst out all over his kitchen and cover Buck and the bench top in a flood of emotions he’s spent the last month and a half trying to fold smaller and smaller until he can safely tuck them away beneath his ribs where it can’t hurt anyone but himself. 

“Buck?” The other man glances at him before turning back to the stove, giving a soft hum in response. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Buck grins at him again but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. 

“You’re buzzing, and not the good kind.” Eddie stands and rounds the counter, he leans against the other side while still giving Buck as much space as he needs. He presses again, softer this time. “Buck? What’s going on?”

Buck deflates and turns the stove off, removing the pan from the element and leaning against the other counter opposite Eddie. “Tommy and I broke up. I broke up with him, or we broke up with each other, I guess.” 

Eddie isn’t sure what to say. As far as he knew Buck and Tommy’s relationship had been going smoothly. They were a good fit, even Eddie could tell, as much as it sometimes pained him to admit. But he was happy for them. Seeing them dance together at Maddie and Chimney’s wedding had filled Eddie with a sense of pride even when it also left him feeling like he was walking with a permanent rock in his shoe—a phenomenon he could finally put a name to after a few long talks with Frank and an enlightening if not nervewracking night at a bar called the Peacock that Hen had suggested he visit for ‘research purposes’. 

“I thought you really liked Tommy?” Is what he finally manages to say once he unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“I do,” Buck says. His arms are still full of static as he gestures with his hands in that way that Buck does when he’s nervous or overwhelmed and he’s not looking Eddie in the eyes. Buck shakes his head. “I did. I did, and Tommy is wonderful but I think we both realized that it wasn’t going to last. He got offered a job, down in Mexico.” Buck pushes away from the bench, pulls two plates out of the drawer, and starts dividing the stack of pancakes between them.

“After the whole fiasco with the cruise ship, the LAFD decided they wanted someone on the ground down there as a sort of link between the Los Angeles rescue helicopters and the team down in Mexico City. They’re going to put him in charge of his own team and he’s been working towards some sort of promotion for ages so he’s really excited about it.”

“He didn’t ask you to go with him did he?” Eddie can’t help but let the question burst out of him. The thought of Buck leaving already feels like tearing out a lung but he also knows he’s in no position to ask Buck to stay, certainly not for Eddie’s sake. 

“He did, sort of.” Buck shrugs. “I think he already knew I wouldn’t say yes. L.A. is my home, I couldn’t leave the 118, I couldn’t leave Maddie and Jee-yun. Christopher, the thought of being anywhere that kid isn’t is just—and I know he’s not—but I still couldn’t. I won’t. Tommy knows that. He also knew that I wouldn’t leave you.”

“Me?” Now Eddie has to swallow down a lump of surprise. Eddie doesn't think that little of himself, he knows he’s important to Buck, they are important to each other, but important enough to be the reason Buck stays in Los Angeles while his boyfriend moves to another country?

Buck turns to place two plates, carefully stacked with fluffy, golden pancakes, each drizzled in lemon juice and sprinkled with sugar—Eddie’s favorite—on the kitchen island, and then he’s facing Eddie again only feet away in all his early morning glory and Eddie dares to hope.

“You.” Buck rests one hip against the counter and turns the full power of those bright blue eyes on Eddie as he finally makes eye contact for the first time all morning. “Yes, you, Eddie. Tommy is lovely and sweet and he has been so, so good to me for the last two months, we’ve been good for each other, I think.”

Eddie breaks the eye contact, he’s heard all about how wonderful and lovely Tommy is for the last two months and while he has been so happy for Buck, truly, it has also been agony. But then Buck is stepping up into Eddie’s space and gripping his elbow. Buck ducks his head until he can catch Eddie’s eyes again and follows his gaze until Eddie gives up on trying to hide from him. 

“But it was never going to work long-term, I don’t think it was ever meant to. He’s very sweet and we get along well but it never got any deeper than that. We made better friends than anything else.”

“Okay, so you ended it on mutual terms and he’s moving to Mexico?”

“Not for a few months but eventually he is yes.”

“A few months?”

“Next February.”

“February? Next year? Buck that ages away, why break up now if he’s not leaving until–.”

“Because it was time.”

“Time for what?”

“To stop lying to myself, to you.”

Eddie almost bites his tongue. “Lying to me? Buck, I am so confused right now. Did you hit your head? You do remember coming out to me right? You’ve been dating a man for the last two months. You brought a man to your sister’s wedding. Honestly, I am still living off of the high that I got from seeing your mother’s face when you kissed Tommy on the dance floor, that was—.”

“Eddie!” Buck laughs around his name and it’s the sweetest sound Eddie has ever heard. “Would you let me finish talking? Please?”

Eddie nods. “Right, yes. Sorry. Proceed.” He swings his arm out dramatically and Buck pinches the skin on the back of Eddie’s arm and rolls his eyes. 

“Eddie,” There’s a seriousness to Buck’s tone that Eddie doesn’t hear often. “I don’t want to presume anything okay, so if I’ve been reading this wrong then please tell me because I don’t want to make this weird, the last thing I want to do is hurt you or make you uncomfortable but—.” Eddie watches the tick in Buck's jaw tighten. “There’s something here, right? You and me?”

“Do you think there is?” Eddie whispers into the space between them, barely getting the words out past where his heart sits in his throat. 

“I dare to hope there is,” Buck whispers back. “I would like there to be. Eddie, you’re my best friend, you’ve been my rock for years and I love you more than anything but I also—I also think I might be in love with you, and I think I have been for a long time.”

“You think?”

“Like pretty God damn certain actually.” 

“Good, good.” Eddie nods, barely keeping the grin from breaking across his face. He can feel his lips twitching with the effort to suppress it. “That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He steps into Buck’s space and leans forward until he can press their foreheads together. Buck’s arm slides from Eddie’s elbow to around his waist and Eddie rests his palm against Buck’s chest, sliding it up until he can wrap his fingers over the swell of Buck’s shoulder and press his thumb into that divet in Buck’s throat where Eddie can feel the heat of him and the pulse of his heartbeat beneath the pad of his thumb. “Because I am definitely in love with you.”

“You never said anything.”

“I didn’t know and then I did but you were with Tommy and you were happy. I was happy for you.”

Buck breathes deeply and Eddie reveals in the way it rushes past his cheek. “What about you?”

“I’m happy now,” Eddie says and it’s true, and realizing that only multiples the happiness tenfold. “I’m so happy I could burst.”

“Happy that I got dumped again?”

“You didn’t get dumped, you said it was mutual.” Eddie squeezes his shoulder. “But yes, happy that you might finally be mine, that I might finally get to be yours.”

Buck leans back and when Eddie opens his eyes he finds Buck’s eyes glassy and brimming with tears.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Buck says and Eddie pulls him into his arms until they are chest to chest, chins hooked over each other’s shoulders and wrapped up in each other so completely that Eddie could not tell you where one of them ends and the other begins and it feels so right, so right to have Buck so close to him, for them to be one and the same. They breathe together for a long time, squeezing each other closer whenever the micro fraction of an inch between them begins to field like football fields of distance.

“We take this slow, we do it right,” Eddie says carefully, pulling back just far enough to cup his hand around Buck’s cheek and hold his gaze. A niggly part of his brain tries to remind him of everything that could go wrong, of everything they have to lose, but a bigger part of him can only hope for everything that could go so beautifully right. 

“We have the rest of forever, after all.” Buck’s smile is soft at the edges and it smoothes the jagged parts of Eddie’s worry. 

Eddie leans up and presses one gentle kiss to the corner of Buck’s mouth, allowing himself that much for now. The rest will come, he is in no rush for the rest of his life. On Friday Christopher will be home and they can make pancakes again. At the end of the month, Buck’s lease will expire and Eddie will finally have an excuse to never let Buck leave his house again. In February they will wave Tommy off at the airport and Eddie will get the chance to thank him properly. Soon enough they might get to dance at another wedding, maybe their own, definitely together, for the rest of forever. 

“Forever and a day.” He promises.

[shakabrah0412]

Chapter 5: Horses? Horses!

How the Most Dangerous Thing Is to Love - MASTERLIST

ao3 link

RATING: MATURE SHIPPING: None, except for Abigail & John WARNINGS: Mentions of blood, Jack getting bullied by a horse WORDCOUNT: 8,624 words Some things have been changed from canon.

Camp was already stirring when he dragged himself from his bedroll. 

He trudged over to the coffee pot Pearson had set out, poured himself a tin cup, and tried not to fall asleep with it in his hands.

“You’ve got chores to do, Lance,” Grimshaw called as she marched by, a full basket of laundry balanced on her hip. “And don’t you go slinking off into the trees again! We’ve got mouths to feed and rifles that need patching.”

“Yessir, ma’am,” 

He kept himself busy, at least enough to look it. Refilling the water tub, splitting wood until his knuckles ached, and checking the coop until sweat ran down his spine and his stomach was nothing but a hollow drum.

At some point, he caught himself watching the camp instead of working, watching Sadie argue with Pearson, watching Uncle pass out on a haybed, and watching Tilly help young Jack clean a scrape on his knee.

It’s strange how life could look so ordinary even when it’s all borrowed time.

Jack, most of the time just reading whatever he could and sleeping near a tree when it got too boring. It’s funny; most time-travel stories he’d read would include the main character doing something heroic and adventurous, but here Jack was just… waiting for something to happen. 

He was still standing there when Hosea strolled over.

“Lance,” the older man greeted. “Feel like stretching your legs?”

Jack wiped sweat from his brow and squinted. “Depends where we’re stretchin’ them to.”

Hosea gave a dry chuckle. “Strawberry. Karen and I are going horse shopping. Just so happens the owners don’t know they’re selling.”

“We’re stealing horses?”

“You don’t want to?”

Jack sighed and pushed off the fence post. “Why not? I could use the ride.”

“You could use a horse,” Hosea said as they walked. “Seen you dragging yourself around camp like a busted mule.”

They reached the hitching post, where Karen was already mounted and shifting her weight impatiently in the saddle. She gave Jack a once-over, eyes dropping to the ground beside him.

“Don’t tell me you’re planning to jog to Strawberry.”

He glanced at the row of horses, then at Hosea. “Don’t got one yet.”

Karen reached out her hand to Jack. “Come on, then. But if you jab me with your knee, I’m shoving you off halfway there.”

Lance climbed up behind her, settling in without a fuss. “I’ll try to sit real ladylike.”

“Bet you will,” Karen laughed, spurring the horse forward.

Hosea mounted his own and shot them a look over his shoulder. “Alright. Easy job. In, out. All we’ve got to do is put on a performance.”

They headed out onto the trail. Trees rose tall and close, then gave way to open country, the grass swaying in the breeze. Strawberry was just over the ridge, tucked between the hills.

Funny, he thought, watching the horizon. I’ve passed through that town a dozen times, but never to steal anything. 

He didn’t know what he expected when he met Hosea and Karen. Hosea, with his calm voice and easy smile, reminded him of the kind of grandfather he never had—sharp, wily, and probably capable of outtalking a bear into giving up its dinner. Karen, on the other hand, felt like the older sister you’d get into trouble with who’d teach you how to cheat at cards, climb rooftops, and sweet-talk lawmen out of a fine.

They rode in a comfortable quiet for a while until Karen spoke up again, “You ever boosted horses before?” 

He shrugged. “Not from a stable in daylight, at least.”

“Good,” Hosea called from ahead. “Means you’ll follow instructions.”

The road dipped as the trees thickened again, and far off in the distance, a sliver of rooftops began to peek through the hills.

Just south of the town was the stable. An old countryside setup of faded oak planks and a broken roof. Next to it stood a small house and a squat shack, probably for feed or tools. The air was thick with hay, sweat, and manure—familiar smells that reminded Jack of home.

Hosea slowed as they crested the hill, turning his head back to them. “Alright. Here’s the plan. Karen and I are the buyers. You’re with us. Just keep quiet.”

Jack glanced over, shifting slightly in the saddle. “So, no guns?”

“No guns. We’ll do just fine; if things go south, we’ll find a way to lose em.”

Karen grinned at Jack. “How you at telling a story?”

Jack’s mouth twitched, but he kept it steady. Considering I’ve been lying about who I am since the day I showed up? Pretty good. “I stick to my part,” he said aloud.

“That’ll do just fine.”

They tied their horses a little ways off, out of sight behind a few trees, and moved on foot toward the stable. 

The stable was open-faced: six stalls lined with warped planks and rusting hinges. A dappled gray tossed its head inside one, while a chestnut mare with a white blaze nibbled the fence post. The largest of them, a coal-black gelding with stocky shoulders and a thick neck, shifted anxiously, pawing at the straw.

Hosea and Karen stepped up to the door of the small house, Hosea knocking firmly. The door creaked open, revealing a wiry man with a weathered face, glancing them up and down suspiciously.

“Mornin’,” Hosea said warmly. “We heard you’ve got some strong horses for sale.”

“Maybe. Who’s askin’?”

“Representatives from the Alhambra Traveling Circus,” Karen piped in, a wide grin plastered across her face. “Setting up shop in Strawberry for a few weeks. Need horses that can dance, rear, maybe jump through a hoop of fire.”

The man blinked. “Circus?”

“That’s right,” Hosea said smoothly. “We’re looking for animals with flair.”

His eyes drifted to Jack, who was standing far back from the others. “What about that one?”

“Oh,” Karen said quickly, “that’s Feral Fitzgerald. Raised in the wilds of Roanoke Ridge. Doesn’t talk, but he juggles knives.”

The man gave them a blank stare.

“…He bites,” Hosea added.

The man scratched his head. “You folks are somethin’ else.”

He tried to hide a snort. Both Karen and Hosea were wonderful actors—so much so that even Jack seemed to be enthralled in their story.

Karen leaned in. “You know, with a mustache like yours, we could give you a stage name.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “You calling me a clown?”

“No, no,” she said quickly, “a marvel. The Mustachioed Mystic. Rolls right off the tongue.”

The man looked faintly amused. “Well. I got a few that might fit your show.”

The man led them around the side to the stable. Karen chatted freely, telling a story about the circus’s origins, how they traveled from city to city, picking up talents and animals, and how the show was a big deal this season, aiming to be the biggest attraction in the territory.

Jack circled to the far end, slipping quietly between stalls. His eyes caught a tawny, striped horse. It was restless, ears flicking backwards each step Jack took towards it.

He moved slowly and carefully to not startle the horses. When he reached the striped one, it jerked sharply and snapped its teeth at him. Jack held out his hand. “Easy. Just need a minute.”

“Oh, this one would be perfect for the lion-taming act,” Jack could hear Hosea behind him speaking to the owner. “You’ve done a good deal taming these horses.”

The stable owner seemed to grow prideful. “You have a way with words, sir. He’s a handful, that one, but smart.”

Hosea nodded. “Smart’s what we need. Been hunting horses like this for weeks.”

“We’ll pay good coin if he’s as tough as you say.”

Jack worked fast, undoing the ropes around the striped horse’s neck and loosening the stall door latch.

The man turned and led Hosea and Karen to the house again. “You want to see the papers? Got some breed papers and proof of ownership here.”

Hosea smiled, pulling out a notebook. “That’d be good. Don’t want any trouble.”

Karen added, “Heard stories about folks getting burned on deals.”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “Not with me. I’m straight.”

As the man stepped inside the house to “check the papers,” Karen leaned in closer to Hosea. “I’ll get the rest of the horses.”

Karen moved fast, opening the other stalls and tossing makeshift reins over the horses’ necks. She clicked her tongue, guiding them, while Jack loosened the rope from the mustang’s neck and unlatched the stall door. The horse bucked once, almost catching him in the shoulder.

“C’mon,” he whispered. “Don’t you wanna be a circus star?”

He swung into the saddle, gripping the reins tight as the mustang danced sideways beneath him.

From the house, the stable owner’s voice rang out: “Hey! What’s going on?!”

“Go!” Karen yelled.

Hosea bolted from the porch and leapt onto his mount, one stolen horse following quickly behind him. Karen grabbed the reins of the two other horses, tied loosely to her saddle horn.

Behind them, a loud clang echoed—one of the horses with Karen, a black-and-white paint, had panicked and kicked over a feed bucket, rushing out of the stables. Another neighed sharply, setting off the others.

“Get after that one!” Hosea shouted. “Don’t let it run to town!”

Jack barely had time to nod before he was digging his heels in, the striped mustang beneath him letting out an indignant grunt, refusing to move. “C’mon, boy,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Jack gave its side a firm kick. This time, the creature surged forward like a snapped rope, hooves churning up the dry grass.

The wind bit at his face as he leaned low, the horse finally giving in to his guidance. Off ahead, he spotted the stray charging through the scrub toward the road.

“There you are,” Jack muttered, one hand yanking at the saddle horn as he reached for the coiled rope tied at the side. The runaway spooked at the sound of hooves behind it and kicked into a gallop.

“Faster, boy! Let’s go!” Jack shouted. 

He flicked the lasso free, letting it unfurl between his fingers. With a sharp snap, he hurled the rope forward. The loop sailed in the air and caught the horse clean around the neck and tightened. 

Just as Jack was tying the stray horse to his saddle horn, the mustang under him had suddenly decided enough was enough.

With a violent squeal, it reared up, its front legs flailing. Jack’s vision lurched skyward as the world tipped backward. His fingers scrambled for something to grab on to, and he caught the horn just as the saddle tilted and one of his boots slipped from the stirrup. 

“Shit!”

The mustang twisted and turned, trying to throw him off for good. Jack hung on with one arm, swinging half off the side as if he were a sack of feed.

“Goddamn hell beast!” he grunted. With all of the little strength he had, he pulled himself upright. Jack was thankful the mustang decided to act up only after he tied the other horse to the saddle horn; this would be a lot harder if he had another animal pulling at his shoulder.

The moment he was upright, he leaned back and braced his weight, dragging the rope until the stray horse slowed, panting and skittering in circles as the lasso cinched tighter.

Dust rose around them, both horses puffing clouds of breath.

Jack spat dust and wiped his brow with the back of a shaking hand. “Damn horses,” he muttered. “I swear you all came straight from the devil’s own pasture.”

Behind him, he could hear Karen laughing as she rode down the hill, the other horse behind her. “You sure you’re not the circus act?”

“Shut up,” Jack muttered, but he couldn’t hide the grin that pulled at the corner of his mouth.

The mustang beneath Jack let out a triumphant neigh, as if it knew it had nearly flung him halfway to hell and was proud of it.

Jack coughed, brushing dust from his jaw, and reached out to rub the side of the horse’s neck. “You’re a devil, you know that?” he muttered, fingers brushing over the bristling fur behind its ear. The horse tossed its head as if in agreement.

Behind him, Hosea pulled up alongside, reining in his horse with a grin. “Well, devil or not, it looks like he likes you.”

Jack gave him a flat look. “He tried to kill me.”

“Some fellas pay for less affectionate company,” Karen spoke up.

Hosea leaned forward in the saddle, squinting toward the horizon where Strawberry was behind the trees. “Well, the job’s done. All that’s left is taking these horses to the fence.” He gave Jack a glance. “Pick one.”

Jack blinked. “What?”

“Pick a horse,” Hosea said again, more slowly this time, as if Jack had forgotten how to speak. “You need a horse. Can’t keep riding double forever. Pick one.”

“I thought you were joking about that earlier,” Jack said, brows knitting.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Jack glanced back at the gathered horses—the black gelding, the gray, and the bay with the blaze—and then looked at the striped mustang, still tossing its head with restless energy.

“You sure I can’t pick a quieter one?”

“You can,” Karen said, shrugging. “But I saw the way that one looked at you. That’s destiny or a death wish.”

Jack sighed. “Same difference.”

He stepped closer to the mustang, keeping his movements slow. “Alright, you bastard. Guess we’re stuck with each other.”

He hoisted himself into the saddle again, and the mustang immediately bucked sideways.

“Whoa!” Jack gritted his teeth and clung tight as the horse tried its best to eject him again. He rode out the short tantrum, heart thudding against his ribs.

Karen wheeled her horse around. “See? He loves you.”

“I’m gonna love him right into a stewpot if he keeps this up.”

Hosea gave the horses a look over and nodded. “Alright. Karen and I will handle the fence. You stay back. Get acquainted with your new friend.”

“You’re leaving me alone with this?”

“You’ll manage,” Hosea said. “Think of it like… character building.”

Karen shot him a wink. “Or character breaking. Good luck, cowboy.”

They rode off, trailing the other horses behind them, laughter fading down the path. Jack watched them go, then looked down at the mustang under him, which had finally stopped trying to throw him and now stood twitching its ears irritably.

“Alright,” Jack said, breathing out. “Guess it’s just us now.”

He guided the horse to a slow walk, letting it stretch its legs while his thoughts wandered.

Most of his life had been lived in the stillness of Beecher’s Hope. Fixing fences, feeding livestock, and watching the sun go up and down like it was the most exciting show in town. He loved his folks, sure, but the days were long, and the conversations got stale.

Outside of the occasional visit from old family friends—Sadie, Charles, Miss Macfarlane, and Tilly once—there wasn’t much in the way of company. After everything he loved went to shit, he’s been all alone ever since. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed talking to someone. 

The mustang suddenly jerked its head, tugging at the reins.

“Hey!” Jack snapped, catching them before it bolted. “No. We’re not doing that.”

The horse snorted as if it didn’t care. Jack narrowed his eyes. “Alright. Let’s set some rules, you and me. You don’t throw me off again, and I won’t name you something embarrassing.”

The mustang side-eyed him.

“…Like Cupcake.”

Silence.

“Yeah, I thought that’d scare you straight.”

The silence stretched a little too long.

The mustang twisted like a demon under him, its spine arching and back legs kicking up hard. The world jolted sideways. Jack held on for maybe two seconds, three if you were being generous, before the saddle slipped under him and gravity did the rest.

He hit the ground with a grunt, dust rising in a thick cloud around him. His ribs ached like they’d been rung like a church bell.

For a second, he just lay there, staring up at the blue sky between tree branches.

“…Alright,” he wheezed. “That’s one for you.”

The mustang trotted a few feet away and stopped, tail swishing, snorting like it was proud of itself.

Jack groaned and sat up, rubbing the small of his back. “This is why normal people pick normal horses,” he muttered. 

He pushed himself up, limping a bit as he walked over to the horse slowly, hands low, voice softer this time.

“Hey. I get it. You don’t trust me. The world’s rough. Probably been run through hell and back, me too.”

The mustang eyed him suspiciously, ears swiveling.

Jack exhaled. “Let’s try again, alright?”

He reached out slowly and laid a hand on the horse’s neck. The mustang flinched but didn’t move. He rubbed in slow circles.

He let the horse sniff his palm, whispering low and steady as he approached the saddle. “I’m not here to break you, okay? Just want to ride without dying.”

He mounted again. For a moment, the horse stayed still. Jack settled into the saddle, hands loose on the reins.

Maybe—

The mustang launched him again without warning. This time Jack landed harder, shoulder first, tumbling through the grass before coming to a stop with his face in the dirt.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled into the earth.

The mustang let out a triumphant snort behind him.

Jack always thought he was some sort of animal whisperer when he was younger, but now he just feels like an idiot. His ribs hurt. His pride hurt more. “This is personal,” he groaned.

Jack pushed himself up, hands on his knees. “Why didn’t I pick the gray one? The quiet one? Hell, even that stray mare didn’t look half bad.” 

He missed Rachel. He took her for granted—at least she wouldn’t buck him off three separate times.

Jack sat up slowly and looked over at the mustang, now grazing like nothing had happened. The wind rustled the leaves above. Somewhere in the distance, birds called to each other like it was just another peaceful day.

He stood, dusted himself off again, and walked toward the mustang one more time.

“Alright, devil,” he muttered. “Let’s try again. But if you buck me off a third time, I swear to God, I’m naming you Muffin.”

–

Jack had managed to stay on the mustang longer than barely ten seconds. The beast had a habit of testing him at random intervals. It would stop dead in its tracks when it pleased, veer off the path with zero warning, or, most annoyingly, twist its back while preparing for a full-blown rodeo.

He rode into Valentine with a hand tight on the reins and the other keeping his hat down low. The town was bustling, as usual. Wagon wheels creaked over mud, someone was shouting about prices near the general store, and the law lounged near the sheriff’s office, spitting tobacco and eyeing passersby.

Jack kept his eyes down. No one recognized him—yet. But with how long he spent in the town in the last month, it didn’t feel safe to assume they never would. Not to mention the little stunt he pulled with Arthur a few days ago.

He hitched the mustang outside the general store. The horse immediately jerked its head toward him, ears pinned.

“Don’t,” Jack warned. “I just got these ribs working again.”

It snorted. At least it was compliant, if only for now.

Inside, he bought what he needed: a coarse-bristled brush, apples, and a sturdy lead rope. The storekeep raised a brow at the combination.

“New horse?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Jack muttered. “Figured I’d give him a name if he stops trying to kill me.”

He added a fishing rod and some bait to his bundle at the last second, recalling Arthur’s journal mention of going fishing with the other Jack. That was going to come up soon; he might as well prepare now.

When he mounted the horse outside to get back to camp, the ride was worse. The mustang took a wrong turn out of town, despite Jack’s guiding. It meandered off the trail and stopped to smell some fence posts. At one point, it walked straight into a creek and refused to come out until Jack dismounted and pulled it.

“I swear, you’ve got a brain full of rocks,” Jack grumbled, soaked to the knees.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time he reached the overlook. Warm light spread across the valley, catching on the tops of trees and shimmering along the Dakota River. Camp was just up ahead, nestled between the cliffs and the forest, smoke rising gently from the fires. A soft breeze carried the smell of stew and dust.

Camp was louder than usual. Laughter could be heard, and someone had pulled out a guitar. A few people danced near the main fire. Jack slowed his steps; it looked like another celebration, except this one was happier compared to the one for his arrival.

“Again?” Jack muttered. The camp sure liked to party. He tied the mustang to the hitching post. The moment he turned his back, the horse lunged and snapped at his shoulder.

“Hey! I just bought you some feed and a brush! What do I gotta do to get you to like me?”

He dug around in his satchel and gave the mustang an apple. The horse seemed content with that, because it stopped skittering. He scanned the crowd until he noticed a man standing on a crate, drink in hand, giving some sort of speech while the others laughed and cheered at him. “...The finest game in the pot, now that Dead Eye Macguire’s back!”

This must be Shawn? Sean? Jack only remembered some stories the others told to him and the few journal entries Arthur had about him. 

Jack hovered near the edge of camp, trying to stay unnoticed as the celebration carried on around him. He wasn’t in the mood for drinking or dancing, not with his ribs aching.

“Feels like they throw a party every other day,” Mary-Beth said, appearing at his side with a cup in hand. “But this one’s a little different.”

Jack gave a tired nod. “Yeah? Thought it was just another excuse to dance around the fire.”

“Nah. Sean’s back. They had to break him out near Blackwater. Bounty hunters had him.”

Jack blinked. “Huh.”

“Yeah,” she said, lifting her drink a little. “Suppose he’s worth all the noise, though. Always was good at stirrin’ it up.”

Jack didn’t answer and just watched the blur of movement by the fire. He wasn’t sure what kind of man Sean MacGuire was supposed to be; he knows he was a sort of… impish fella judging by what other people said about him, but that hadn’t exactly painted a clear picture.

A little while later, as the music swelled again, Sean finally peeled away from the main fire and wandered in Jack’s direction. He looked like he’d had a few drinks, but not enough to slow him down.

“You’re the one I haven’t met yet,” Sean said, pointing loosely at Jack. “Got that new face look about you.”

“Really?”

“Trust me. I’ve seen enough of those ugly mugs to know.” Sean grinned. “Sean Macguire, at your service.”

“Lance Morris.”

Sean blinked. “Lance? Ah, now that’s unfortunate.”

Jack felt a familiar flush creep up his face. “You get used to it.”

“Hope not,” Sean said brightly, taking a long swig from the bottle. “Name like that oughta keep you humble. Or angry. Either one’s good for character.”

He took a drink, then held the bottle out. Jack waved it off.

“You’ll regret that,” Sean said. “Drunk’s the only way to stand half these folks.”

Drunk has only gotten me to vomit on my father’s shoes, he wants to say, but holds it back.

A rough shout came from across the fire, someone yelling Sean’s name, demanding another song, or maybe just attention.

“There’s enough of me for everybody, calm down, ladies!” Sean yells, before turning back to Jack. He gestured with his bottle toward the fire. "Come on then, have a proper drink with the rest of us."

"I'm fine here."

"No, you're not. You're sittin' there like someone kicked your dog. What's got you all twisted up?"

Jack shifted uncomfortably. "It's nothing."

"Right, and I'm the King of England." Sean plopped back down on the log beside him, uninvited. "Look, I know we just met and all, but I got a keen eye for people who're carrying something heavy. So what is it? Family? Law?"

"I said it's nothing."

Sean was quiet for a moment, which seemed unusual for him. He took another drink, then offered the bottle again. "You know what your problem is, Lance?"

His lips thinned. "I'm sure you're gonna tell me."

"You're too serious." He gestured around at the celebration. "This here? This is a good moment. It doesn't matter that we're all outlaws and killers and God knows what else. Right now, we're alive, we got food, we got drink, and nobody's shooting at us."

Why do people always tell him this?? Jack looked over at Sean. "Is that your philosophy?"

"Damn right it is. Got me through four years of runnin' with this gang, and it got me through three days tied up in some bounty hunter's wagon." 

"They really had you for three days?"

"Aye. Caught me outside Blackwater, the bastards. Had me trussed up like a Christmas turkey." Sean took another drink. "But Arthur and the boys came for me. Now Sean Macguire is back for the family!"

"Family?" Jack asked. Everyone here seemed to think of the Van der Linde gang as some sort of family. In a way, he did too. It made him feel sort of guilty for comparing the gang to a cult.

"Well, sure it is. They came back for me; don’t that what family do? I’d do it too if anyone else here got kidnapped." Sean nudged Jack's shoulder with his elbow. "Even the new ones with unfortunate names."

Jack felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. "My name ain’t unfortunate!"

"Lance? Come on. What were your parents thinking? Were they hoping you'd grow up to be a knight or something?"

According to Arthur’s journal, apparently the whole gang thought so. "Maybe they were."

"Well, hate to break it to you, but this ain't Camelot." Sean gestured around the camp. "Though Dutch does like to give speeches like he's some kind of king." Sean stood up again, swaying slightly. "Now come on. Can't have you sitting here brooding all night."

"I don't really—"

"Ah, none of that." He waved the bottle in his hands around. "Trust me, Lancey-boy. Stick with me and you'll be the life of the party in no time."

Jack doubted that very much, but something about Sean’s determinedness made it hard to refuse him outright. Maybe it was the way he'd talked about family.

Another shout came from the fire, more insistent this time.

"Alright, alright!" Sean called back, then looked at Jack. "Duty calls. But you should come over. Sit by the fire, at least. Nothing's worse than drinking alone."

"I'm not drinking," Jack pointed out.

“Ah, fine. Suit yourself.” Sean stood up. “But sooner or later, you’ll warm up to all of us!” He laughed, not waiting for a response from Jack, and just started walking toward the fire.

With that, Sean disappeared back into the crowd, and Jack was left alone again. He watched as Sean immediately threw his arm around someone's shoulders and launched into what was probably an exaggerated retelling of their conversation.

Jack sighed; at least he managed to resist the bottle today. 

Jack stayed where he was but found himself listening more carefully now. The fire crackled and popped, throwing shadows that danced over faces he was still learning. Mary-Beth had moved closer to Karen, cigar in hand, both of them swaying slightly to Javier's guitar. Arthur remained by his tent, only half-listening to the chaos around him as he wrote something in his journal.

His ribs ached when he shifted position. The noise around him had settled into a comfortable rhythm. The longer he sat, the heavier his eyes got, but he found he wasn't quite ready to leave yet.

He didn't remember deciding to stand up, but eventually he did, walking slowly past the fire toward his bedroll. Someone waved at him in the dark—might have been Lenny, hard to tell—and he gave a nod back before ducking down behind one of the wagons. He laid back with a low exhale.

By the time he shut his eyes, the music was already fading.

–

Jack didn't know how he'd gotten into this situation.

He thought he'd have some sort of rest day today, considering that most of the gang members would likely have hangovers or just be flat-out tired after Sean's welcome back party. Hell, he'd even planned on spending the morning tending to that mustang and maybe finding a quiet spot to let his ribs finish healing.

But then, somehow, Sean and Lenny, despite both looking like they'd been dragged behind a wagon for several miles, had cornered him near the coffee pot at dawn.

"Morning, Lancey-boy!" Sean had called out, far too loud for someone who should've been nursing a splitting headache. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and there were grass stains on his shirt that hadn't been there the night before.

Lenny cradled a cup of coffee like it was precious cargo. "Lance," he'd nodded, then squinted against the early morning sun. "You sleep alright?"

"Better than you two, it looks like," Jack had replied, taking in their disheveled appearances.

"Ah, we're fine," Sean had waved dismissively, though the gesture made him sway slightly. "Nothing a little hair of the dog won't cure. Speaking of which..."

"Sean," Lenny shot him a look.

"What? I'm not suggesting we start drinking again. I'm suggesting we do something productive with our day, something that might involve a little excitement and a chance for our new friend here to prove himself."

Jack, who wanted to ingratiate himself within the gang some more after hearing those comments at his own welcome party about how he was too suspicious and how he kept to himself too much (damn his social skills!)—had said yes without really thinking it through.

And that's how Jack found himself an hour later, mounted on his horse, following Sean and Lenny down a dusty trail toward the main road between Valentine and Strawberry. Each inch the morning sun climbed left Jack regretting his decision more and more. 

"Remind me again why we're doing this?" Jack called out, his voice carrying over the sound of hoofbeats.

"Because," Sean said, "there's a particular stagecoach that runs this route every Tuesday, carrying payroll for some mining operation up north. Easy pickings."

"And you know this how?" Jack asked.

"Micah mentioned it a few weeks back. Said he'd been watching the route, timing the runs. Figured it was worth a look," Lenny spoke up.

"Micah," Jack repeated, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “I thought you told me to stay away from him?”

"I know, I know, but the information's solid. I checked it out myself yesterday before Sean came back.” 

Jack felt his mustang shift beneath him, ears flicking back nervously. The horse had been on edge all morning, and Jack couldn't tell if it was picking up on his own tension or just being its usual difficult self.

"Easy," he murmured, patting the horse's neck. "We're all friends here."

The mustang snorted, clearly disagreeing.

They rode in companionable silence for a while, the landscape rolling past in shades of green and brown. Jack found himself studying his companions, trying to figure out their dynamic. Sean seemed like… the do-before-thinking type, and Lenny was more the think-before-doing type. He guessed that was good, since they balanced each other out. Unless it actually got them into more trouble.

"So," Sean said eventually, breaking the quiet, "what’s up with you, Lance? One doesn’t go from being a rancher to an outlaw."

"Er, I did a few bounties right before I worked at the saloon in Valentine." he mumbled. And he did, once upon a time, take bounties, but that was before the law had eventually figured out who killed Edgar Ross and sent out their own bounty for his head.

"Bounty hunting? You didn’t mention that last time." Lenny perked up with interest. "That explains a few things."

"Like what?"

"I dunno. You got this… not your average ranch hand feeling about you. Like you’re ready for trouble." Lenny waved his arms around and gestured around Jack.

The young man was more observant than Jack had given him credit for. Most times he wished he had retained a bit of his childhood memory so at least he would have some sort of advantage in the long run. Or just to figure out the people around him.

"Speaking of trouble," Sean said, pointing ahead, "there's our spot."

They'd reached a bend in the road where the path curved around a cluster of large rocks and scrub brush. It was perfect for an ambush, as it had good cover, limited visibility for anyone coming around the corner, and multiple escape routes. 

They all pulled their horses over a couple meters away and walked the rest on foot. As they strode up to the spot, Jack couldn’t help but ask, “So… what is the plan?”

"Stagecoach runs this route every Tuesday, carrying mail and a strongbox from Strawberry to Valentine. Usually just a driver and maybe one guard," Lenny said, pulling out his Lancaster.

"Usually??" Jack repeated.

"Usually," Sean confirmed from beside him. "But that's what makes it fun, right?"

"That's what makes it dangerous," Jack corrected but grinned anyway.

Sean shrugged. "Same thing.”

"What if there are more guards than expected?" 

"Then we adapt," Lenny said with the confidence of someone who'd clearly done this before. 

"And if the law shows up?"

"Then we run," Sean said simply. "As far as we can, and we hope our horses are faster than theirs."

Jack stared at them both with a blank look on his face.

Lenny was quick to clear the air. "Look, I know this is your first job with us, and I know there's been... talk. But Sean and I, we've done this plenty of times. We know what we're doing."

"Well, Lenny knows what he's doing," Sean amended with a grin. "He’s always got a plan; just sometimes we don’t execute it as well as we want to."

"That's... not as reassuring as you think it is," Jack said dryly.

"It works!" Sean protested. "But there was that one time in Boston—"

"We don't talk about Boston," Lenny interrupted quickly.

"Right, of course. The point is, Lenny's got brains, I've got charm, and you..." Sean paused, studying Jack with those sharp green eyes. "Well, we'll figure out what you've got."

He stayed quiet. He had plenty to offer, but explaining exactly what would raise too many questions he wasn't ready to answer. “You both seem rather energetic for two who had more than a couple drinks last night,” Jack states. “Oh, no. I have to be this cheery because Sean’s this cheery.” Lenny grinned. Sean put a hand over his heart. “Aww. For little old me?”

Jack gave a huff of amusement, but before he could say more, Sean sat up a little straighter in the saddle, a familiar spark lighting in his eyes.

"You know," Sean said suddenly, "this reminds me of a job I pulled in Ireland. Just me and my friend Seamus, and this merchant who thought he was cleverer than he was." “Here we go,” Lenny sighed. Jack glanced at him before looking back at Sean.

"How'd that turn out?"

"Brilliantly! Well, mostly. We got the money, anyway. Seamus got shot in the arse, but that's character building. Pain makes you appreciate the good times more."

Lenny snorted. "Is that why you're always getting yourself into trouble? For character?"

"Among other reasons," Sean rolled his arms. "Lance here seems like he could use some character building of his own."

"I have plenty of character!"

"Course you do, but there are book characters, and then there's real characters—the kind you get from living a little," Sean stated. “Also, when is this coach appearing? I’m bout’ to fall asleep standing here.”

Lenny looked around. “Calm down, it’ll be here soon enough. But get ready, just in case.”

Jack tied his bandana in place and checked his revolver. He'd done this before, and not often with companions he actually cared to not die. Well, he guessed he couldn’t say often, because he’d never robbed a stagecoach with someone he cared not to die. 

"Remember," Lenny said, his voice slightly muffled by the bandana, "we want the strongbox, not a fight. In and out, quick and clean."

"When the coach comes around the bend, Sean steps out first to stop them. I cover from the left, you take the right," Lenny continued, pointing to positions. "We make our demands, get what we came for, and ride out."

Sean checked for his revolver. "What could go wrong?"

Jack cracked his neck. "Don't say that."

"Say what?"

"’What could go wrong.' That's like asking for trouble."

"Lance, my friend, we're about to rob a stagecoach. We're already asking for trouble."

Jack was about to respond when Lenny raised his hand, cutting off the conversation. "Should be along any minute now. Everyone ready?"

The sound of wheels and hoofbeats reached them before the stagecoach came into view. Jack felt that familiar mix of anticipation and adrenaline flooding his system. Beside him, Sean was practically vibrating with excitement, while Lenny had gone very focused.

The stagecoach came around the bend on schedule. It was a modest affair, painted dark green with brass fittings. The driver was a heavyset man with a graying beard, and beside him sat another man with a rifle across his knees, who Jack assumed to be the guard, just as Lenny had predicted.

Sean stepped out into the path first, his revolver drawn but pointed skyward. "Good morning, gentlemen! Lovely day for a ride, ain't it?"

The driver hauled back on the reins, bringing the coach to a lurching stop. The horses snorted and stamped, clearly agitated by the sudden halt.

"Who the hell—" the guard started, raising his rifle.

"Now, now," Lenny said, emerging from his hiding spot with his gun trained on the guard. "No need for unpleasantness. We're just businessmen looking to make a transaction."

Jack stepped out last, his own weapon drawn but held low. The sight of three armed men seemed to drain the fight out of both the driver and guard.

"We don't want any trouble," the driver said, his voice shaky. "Just take what you want and let us be on our way."

"See? Reasonable man," Lenny said approvingly. "We're looking for the strongbox. Hand it over, and we'll be out of your hair."

The guard looked like he wanted to argue, but a glance at the three guns pointed in his general direction seemed to change his mind. "It's in the back."

"Excellent. Jamie, would you do the honors?" Lenny looked at Jack, who nodded and moved toward the rear of the coach.

Jamie now, is it? Jack thought. Guess I've got an alias for my alias.

Jack moved to the rear of the coach, keeping one eye on the passengers—an elderly woman clutching a carpet bag and a nervous-looking man in a bowler hat. Neither looked like they'd cause trouble, but Jack had learned not to underestimate people when they were scared.

The strongbox was exactly where the guard had said it would be, secured with a heavy padlock. Jack grabbed it and hefted it. It was definitely heavy enough to make this worthwhile.

"Got it," he called.

"Wonderful," Sean said. "Gentlemen, lady, it's been a pleasure. Do give our regards to Valentine."

That should have been it. Quick, clean, profitable, like planned. But as Jack was turning to head back toward their horses, the elderly woman decided to be a hero.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves!" she shouted, standing up in the coach with more courage than sense. "Robbing honest folks trying to make a living! In my day—"

"Err… Ma’am," Sean started, but she was just getting warmed up.

"Don't you 'ma'am' me, you hooligan! I've seen your type before, thinking you can take whatever you want just because you've got guns and masks. Well, I've got news for you—"

The speech might have been inspiring under different circumstances, but it was also loud enough to wake the dead. More importantly, it was loud enough to be heard by the group of riders who were apparently approaching from the direction of Valentine.

"Shit," Lenny said, his calm demeanor evaporating as the sound of multiple horses became audible. "That's not good."

"How many?" Sean asked, already moving toward their horses.

Jack squinted down the road, counting the dust cloud. "Four, maybe five riders. Coming fast."

"Law?" Sean asked.

"Does it matter?" Jack shot back, adjusting his grip on the strongbox.

But as they reached their horses, Jack's mustang decided to have another one of its episodes. The horse reared back, eyes rolling white, and nearly trampled Sean in the process.

"What's going on with your horse?" Sean demanded, dancing backward to avoid the flailing hooves.

"I don't know!" Jack grabbed for the reins, but the mustang shied away, bucking and snorting like something had spooked it badly. "It's been like this since I got it!"

"Well, figure it out quick." Lenny was already mounted and ready to ride. "Because those riders are getting closer!"

The approaching horses were definitely law—Jack could make out badges glinting in the sunlight now. Five men, all armed, and they'd clearly heard the old woman's shouting because they were riding fast towards them.

Lenny suddenly looked at Sean while trying to calm his own horse. "I told you we should've waited another day! You could barely see straight this morning!"

Sean's voice cracked with indignation, his hangover clearly making him more irritable. "You're the one who said the information was good! Should've known Micah's intel would go sideways!"

"The intel was fine! You just had to go and be extra chatty with the passengers instead of getting us out of there quick!"

"I said three bloody sentences! How's that chatty?"

Jack watched this argument develop with a growing sense of déjà vu. Why does something always go wrong in every heist he’s in? He thought desperately, still wrestling with his horse's reins. It was like he was cursed to never have a simple job go according to plan.

The mustang finally stopped bucking, but only because it had managed to tangle itself in some brush. One of the approaching lawmen took a long-range shot that went wide but served as a clear statement of intent.

"Move!" Lenny shouted, spurring his horse toward the planned escape route.

Sean was right behind him, but Jack was still fighting with his horse when the second shot came. This one was closer, close enough that Jack felt the air displacement as the bullet passed his ear.

Sean's voice carried over the chaos. "Lance! Come on!"

“Come on, boy, we have to move.” He tried calming his horse. “You’re alright.”

Jack finally got the mustang untangled, but as he swung into the saddle, another shot rang out. This one found its mark, burning a line across his left shoulder that made him gasp and nearly drop the strongbox.

"Damn it," he muttered, feeling warm blood seeping through his shirt. It wasn't fatal—probably not even serious—but it hurt like hell, and his left arm wasn't working quite right.

The lawmen were close enough now that Jack could hear them shouting to each other, coordinating their approach. One of them was trying to flank around to the left while the others came straight on.

"This way!" Lenny veered off the main trail toward rougher country where the horses would have better cover.

Jack tried to follow, but his Mustang had apparently decided that being shot at was the final straw. The horse reared again, and this time Jack, weakened by blood loss and trying to manage both reins and the strongbox, couldn't stay in the saddle.

He hit the ground hard, jarring his injured ribs and sending fresh pain through his shoulder. The strongbox went flying, landing with a crash that probably scattered coins all over the brush.

"Shit, shit, shit," Jack gasped, trying to get his bearings. The lawmen were almost on top of him now, and his horse was dancing around like it was possessed. That’s on him for taking the horse with attitude out for a job.

Sean and Lenny must’ve heard the thump of Jack’s body hitting the ground, because instead of riding for safety like any sensible person would do, they wheeled his horse around and came galloping back, leaning low in the saddle with his gun drawn.

"Get down!" Lenny shouted at the approaching lawmen, firing rapidly to force them to take cover.

"Can you ride?" Sean called to Jack, his horse prancing nervously as bullets whined overhead.

"I think so," Jack called back, though he wasn't entirely sure. His shoulder was bleeding steadily now, and his left arm felt mostly useless.

"Then get up here!" Sean extended his hand. "We'll sort out your crazy horse later!"

Jack grabbed the strongbox with his good arm and managed to haul himself up behind Sean just as one of the lawmen got lucky with a shot. The bullet punched through the air where Jack's head had been a second before.

"Go, go, go!" Lenny shouted, and they were off, three men on two horses racing across broken country with five angry lawmen in pursuit.

The ride that followed was a blur of pain, adrenaline, and the very real possibility of getting shot again. Jack held onto both Sean and the strongbox with his good arm while trying not to pass out from blood loss.

They stayed ahead of the law through a combination of Sean's riding skills, Lenny's knowledge of the local terrain, and sheer bloody-minded determination. By the time they finally stopped to catch their breath in a hidden canyon about ten miles from the robbery site, Jack was swaying in the saddle and seeing spots.

"How bad is it?" Sean asked.

Jack groaned. "Could be worse. Went clean through, I think."

"Let me see," Lenny said, dismounting and coming around to help Jack down. "Come on, let's get you patched up."

They got Jack seated on a boulder while Sean kept watch for pursuit. Lenny examined the wound with surprisingly gentle hands, pulling out a small kit from the saddlebag on his horse.

"You're right, it went clean through. Missed anything important, too. You'll be sore for a while, but you'll live," he said, cleaning the wound.

"Lenny's got some medical training," Sean explained, still scanning the horizon. "Picked it up from his daddy before... well, before he ended up with us."

"Good to know," Jack said weakly, wincing as Lenny wrapped the wound. "Would hate to die before I got to spend my share of whatever's in that box."

"Speaking of which, we should probably see what we risked our necks for."

Sean retrieved the strongbox, which had survived its tumble better than Jack had. The lock was already damaged from the fall, so it didn't take much to pry it open.

Inside were neat stacks of bills, more money than any of them had seen in one place for a while.

"Well, I'd say that was worth getting shot at," Sean said, grinning as he counted the take.

"Easy for you to say," Jack muttered. "You didn't actually get shot."

"No, but I came back for you, didn't I?" Sean nudged him. "Couldn't leave you behind. Anyone willing to take a bullet during his first job with us is alright in my book." Sean glanced at Lenny. "What do you think?"

Lenny nodded. "Anyone who doesn't panic when things go sideways and still manages to hold onto the money while bleeding... yeah, I'd say he's earned his place."

Jack felt something warm and unfamiliar settle in his chest.

"Besides," Sean continued, his grin returning as he began dividing the money into three equal piles, "we make a good team. Lenny's got the brains, I've got the charm, and you've apparently got the luck."

"I got shot!"

"Yeah, but not fatally. And we all made it out with the money. In my experience, that's about as lucky as these things get."

Lenny snorted with laughter. "Your standards for luck are disturbingly low."

"My standards for everything are disturbingly low."

As they prepared to leave, Lenny divided the money into three equal piles.

"We split up from here," he said, handing Jack and Sean their cuts. "Different routes back to camp; meet up there later tonight. That way if anyone's tracking us, they can't follow all three."

"Smart," Jack said, pocketing his share. 

"I'll head north, then circle back through Strawberry," Sean said, mounting up. "You two take whatever routes make sense."

"I'll go east toward the river," Lenny decided. "Jack, do you want to come with me since you're riding double anyway?"

“I am?” He blinked.

“There’s no way we’re letting you ride your horse, mate. It partially caused whatever happened on your shoulder.” Sean glanced at the mustang, who had surprisingly not bolted and run away.

“Sure then.” Jack used his right arm to get behind Lenny on his horse. “Thank you both. For coming back for me,” he says suddenly. He feels a bit embarrassed at the words he’s going to say, but if there was one thing he regretted in life, it was not saying more to the people he cared about.

“No problem, but we’re getting you a new horse.”

"What's wrong with the Mustang?"

"Besides the fact that it's clearly insane?" Sean said. "Nothing at all. It's perfect for you."

Jack glanced at the striped Mustang he got yesterday. He felt sort of bad for it, already planning to replace it when he just got him. He couldn’t do that to it; the poor horse clearly had some issues, and despite all the devilish traits it had, it sort of reminded Jack of Rufus.

"See you boys back at camp," Sean said, spurring his horse toward the northern trail.

"Try not to get arrested on the way back!" Lenny called after him.

"No promises!" Sean's voice carried back as he disappeared around a bend, while Lenny gently kicked his horse into a trot.

The mustang followed behind them, its head low but keeping pace. Jack glanced back at it. It was a menace, but it didn’t run. That had to count for something.

"So," he said as they rode through the afternoon shadows, "what's our next job?"

Lenny glanced at him with a slight smile. "Well, there's this stable near Emerald Ranch that I heard about..."

"Oh no," Jack said immediately. "I am not robbing another stable."

"Why not? What could go wrong?" Lenny asked innocently.

Maybe getting shot hadn't been the worst thing that could have happened after all.

Though he definitely needed to do something about his horse.

so here is the missing late chapter (woops). IDK what happened guys :(((((( also this is sort of dialogue heavy--which I am going to assume how the fic goes from now on, there isnt much thinking in Jack rn and he's all just DO THIS DO THAT to me. Also im so happy everyone else thinks jack + lenny + sean is a good friend group combo cuz i lowkey love them LOL. I wish there were more fics with them as friends next chapter is going to be more exciting hopefully. mostly js wrote this one as a dialogue practice. I'm actually rlly happy with how the stagecoach robbery went. ALSO IF U GUYS SEE ANY MISTAKES IT WAS MY JETLAG EDIT 6/20/25: Fixed mistakes + added a few lines

[wileys-russo]

for the tiktok with Jule and lena you posted earlier - Lucy bronze and reader!! as friends or lovers

the video for reference: https://www.instagram.com/reel/CuT31-8uhwf/?igshid=YmM0MjE2YWMzOA%3D%3D

could be seen as friends or lovers, open to interpretation!!

the downpour II l.bronze

if there was something that went together better than jam on toast, it was england and rain, and today was no exception.

your heart yearned to return to the predictably sunny skies of barcelona, glancing down towards your tanned arms with longing, aware that after this next camp the brown color would be gone and only seemingly a fleeting figment of your imagination.

you conversed with your friends as you all returned from a late afternoon team walk together, coffees in hand and spirits still quite high despite the dark grey storm clouds which hung above.

this hadn't stopped lucy and leah shoving you to step into every puddle they could find, and though your socks were damp your mood was not, refusing to let them break your consistently bubbly attitude.

it was as you returned to the grounds of st georges park that you spotted it, an almost perfect opportunity for revenge. though it had only drizzled lightly with rain this morning, it had torrentially poured down last night, which meant that there was a strong stream of water pounding down like a waterfall from a hole in the gutters above you.

leah was too far ahead, having already passed the downpour, sipping on her hot chocolate.

but lucy was unknowingly in prime position, walking right beside you as she zoned out, in her own little world as tooney talked your ear off to your right.

stopping the girl with a nudge, you nodded to the man made waterfall and then subtly towards lucy as ellas face lit up into a grin, nodding enthusiastically and falling behind you, probably to pick her own victim.

you held your breath as the two of you marched closer and closer, silently praying lucy would remain on course. slinging an arm over the girls shoulder she checked back into reality, looking up and sending you a small smile.

it was then, in this moment of unknown weakness from the defender, that you made your move.

you tightened your grip around her, attempting to pull her underneath the downpour of rain water, only your trainers lacked the proper grip and you stumbled. lucy quickly catching onto your plan let out a scoff, grabbing at your hood and trying to now drag you under the steady stream of water.

"you cheeky fucking-" lucy grumbled, unimpressed with your attempts to dowse her as the two of you wrestled for dominance, both trying to push the other under whilst keeping enough balance not to allow it to happen.

but then, your luck returned. lucys footing slipped and without you even needing to push her, the girl stumbled backwards into the downpour, letting out a shout as she was suddenly self water-boarded.

you didn't even take a beat to relish in your victory, quickly sprinting off in the other direction as lucy dropped her backpack and chased after you. your team mates cheered, some for lucy to catch you and others for you to make a successful getaway.

you heard yet another scream as ella made her own move and shoved an unsuspecting alessia into the downpour, the blonde too caught up in laughing at yours and lucys situation to realise the similar one she had unknowingly entered.

"tooney!" the striker seethed and set off chasing after her, shouting about how she'd just had her hair done. it then appeared your luck had once more run out, lucys strong arms wrapping around your waist and effortlessly hoisting you over her shoulder.

"no no no no come on luce please! you already wet my trainers and made my socks soggy this is unfair!" you begged as you struggled in her hold, flipping off mary as the girl cheered lucy on from behind you with a rowdy clap.

you struggled to yank your hood over your head and tie it tight before your entire body was plunged into the cold, you struggled to breathe as the water filled your ears, nose and eyes. "okay fine enough! enough, lucy!" you smacked desperately at her strong tanned arms which held you firmly off the ground, feeling her body vibrate with laughter as it pressed against you.

finally she dropped you, though of course you didn't land on your feet as your shoes gave way from the lack of grip and you tumbled backwards onto your bum.

you let out a deep sigh of defeat as once more the water rained down atop your head, lucy leaning in to pull your hood down as your hair now copped a battering, the loose strands which had fallen out of your messy bun sticking to your forehead and slicked down the back of your neck.

with a triumphant smirk she offered you a hand which you begrudgingly accepted as she pulled you up to your feet, hands grabbing at your shoulders to steady you as you stepped away from the downpour and almost slipped again.

"you need new trainers." the girl murmured teasingly in your ear before letting you go, you shot her a glare as you undid your hair, ringing it out before wrestling it back into a ponytail, at least you had already planned to wash it tonight.

most of your team mates having disappeared inside to avoid meeting a similar fate, you watched as from not too far away jordan grabbed at her stomach, doubled over in laughter at the two of you.

one brief gaze shared between you and lucy was all it took, a curt nod and you'd silently agreed.

"oh jorddyyyy, how about a hug?" you grinned, opening your arms teasingly and taking a few steps toward her. the midfielders eyes widened and she tried to bolt but not before you'd already launched yourself toward her, jumping on her back as lucy joined in, hugging her tightly from the front.

"aw no come on!"

[edupunkn00b]

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

All Logan has left is his field work and with the impossible discoveries he's made in the great Vert Woods, nothing could keep him away. Well, Remus might have something to say about that.

Written for @syrcaljirk for the @tss-camp-and-coffee's Camp Cartoon event.

WC: 5243 - Rated: G

Another bolt of lighting crashed, over-illuminating the sopping field notebook cradled in Logan Stèle’s lap. Blinking against the temporary glare, and fingers long gone from cold to aching then to numb, Logan wiped away the rivulets of water collecting on his notebook and continued his work.

The rain had fallen, unrelenting, for hours, pouring down upon the trees, the ground. Him. It fell hard enough Logan might have believed literal buckets were dumped on his head as he sat scrunched under the partial cover of the stony shelter he’d managed to find beneath a basalt outcropping.

Grateful, as always, for the stone-based waterproof notebook his old advisor had insisted they bring in surplus, Logan scratched out another sketch of the Podaxis pistillaris growing before him.

This was his eighth trip in as many weeks to the Vert Woods and each visit brought a different, impossible discovery.

Despite the obvious visual evidence before him, fungi in the Agaricaceae family simply did not grow in this type of forest. Agaricaceae were strictly desert fungi, the specimens before him literally nicknamed ‘desert shaggy manes’ for their preferred climate and their shredded rings that more closely resembled hair than the remnants of their volva.

Not only could the Agaric. not survive in the wet, chilly climate of the northern rain forests, but here they would they find nothing resembling their preferred diet of desert termite casings. Its spores would have long dissolved in the combination of damp loamy soil and frequent soaking downpours Logan had observed over the past seven hours.

It had to be a mimic.

A carefully sealed spore print developing in the deepest part of his discovered crevice, Logan not-quite-patiently recorded his observations. These specimens truly were remarkable, sprouting so quickly their growth was visible, granting Logan the view he’d ordinarily need time lapse photography to record. Just as well, as all his previous attempts to leave behind field cameras had failed. The first set’s lenses had been smeared by some thick organic material. The next had drained their solar batteries so completely even their internal memory had failed. Another set of cameras had broken completely.

The last set had just disappeared.

His dwindling supplies would not in good conscience permit him to sacrifice any additional cameras after that incident.

With darkened skies raging overhead, he recorded his own observations and waited for a break in the storm before he began his hike back to basecamp and his tiny—and efficient—field lab.

For now, though, he thought to himself as another clap of lighting crackled overhead, he was safest here. And so was the developing print. Turning to a fresh page to capture a larger growth sprouting just past the first, he figured he might as well make good use of his time while he rode out the storm.

~

Eyes just barely closed but teeth gritted in concentration, Remus shoved down the irritation creeping up his throat. He chanted, calling for another bolt of lightning only seconds after the last. This one struck near enough to make the tiny hairs on the backs of his fingers stand on end. Bright enough to see his own veins through his eyelids.

And still the alchemist camped in the forest, in Remus’ forest, his ward. The forest air choking on the poison of his electronic gadgets, the ground weeping beneath the tread of his jagged plastic soles, the forest’s creatures shrinking from sight.

Draped in the skins and fur and hair of animals and plants whose deaths had been fast and brutal, executed without prayer or gratitude, the alchemist lingered, unbowed by his storm as he surveyed the sacred grounds, carving his rock-on-rock runes with undying perseverance.

Well, Remus would just have to see about the undying part.

Energy crackled between his fingers as he pulled up the heat and power of the ground beneath his bare feet. Freezing rain pelted his face, plastering his clothes to his skin. The wind whipped his long hair back and the scent of ozone rose up around him.

Bright white fire gathered in his hands and his eyes flew open. He focused on the small figure at the bottom of the cliff and aimed.

Power sizzled through his veins, hot and staticky, drawing on the anger of the earth, the broken rock and torn roots crying out for protection. And revenge.

Fingertips glowing brighter than the bolts carving the sky, Remus muttered the final words of the spell. Without warning, his brother’s old spores bloomed around the alchemist, copper spike and rose russulas and thousands upon thousands of amanitas bigger than his palm.

Remus dropped his hands with a curse and turned his back on the alchemist. He slunk back home under a clear blue sky.

~

The storm showed no sign of abatement, in fact each clap of thunder followed sooner after the one that preceded it and the rain pooled at the edge of his rocky shelter, already splashing over the lip of what would be delusional to call a cave.

If it weren’t for the racket of the storm—and the anxiety that rose with the level of the water, when the mushrooms around him sprouted to new life, Logan might have thought he was dreaming. Russula emetica, Chroogomphus rutilus, and Amanita muscaria bloomed from impossible surfaces. Amanita shot up from bare rock, the Russula twining around the trunk of a long-dead oak.

Excitement bubbling in his chest, he turned to a new page and hurriedly captured the scene, wishing bitterly his still camera had not broken on his first attempt. Even his hand-crank radio was malfunctioning.

Pencil on paper it was, then.

The skies darkened and Logan swore under his breath, briefly toying with the idea of venturing out from his shelter to get a closer look. Then, just as suddenly as the Amanita sprouted, the rains just… stopped.

A perfect blue sky broke through the clouds, the sun now well past its zenith. If he left now he might make it back to basecamp with enough daylight left for the solar chargers to revive what was left of his devices. Unwilling to risk being caught in another downpour, this time without even the minimal cover he’d managed to find earlier today, Logan slipped his notebook and pencil into his pocket and oh-so-carefully picked up the tiny covered box in the back of the crevice. And the blooming spore print within.

Tipping open the lid, he wrapped the Agaricaceae cap in many-times over reused stone paper paper and checked the print. A perfect canoe shape, dark brown spores from a cream-colored cap. “Remarkable,” he whispered, turning the print to catch the light. A literally incredible discovery, especially growing in tandem with—

Logan gasped, eyes snagged on the now fungi-free field before him. Where once had been a riot of contradictory species, now stretched a flat meadow of five kinds of clover, Papaver rhoeas and Pterostylis parviflora.

He checked the cap he’d secured in his bag. An empty parchment packet was all he found.

The print, however…

The spore print remained pristine and solid, the dark brown marks blurred at the edges, staring back at him, the sole proof of what he’d seen today. Gently stowing away the precious evidence, Logan hurried out toward the path back to camp, back to his lab where perhaps he could begin to make sense of this impossible forest.

~

“Why wouldn’t you let me get rid of him?” Remus spat, tiptoeing between a patch of poppies and a fallen maple. “One good strike and he’d’ve fed you for a century!”

More red blossoms unfurled before him, tiny camellias tracing his path back home.

“But it is me,” he argued. “Looking after these woods is my job now.” The petals reached for him, velvety soft brushes against bare ankles.

It was more soothing than Remus would ever admit aloud. Not that he needed to.

“I know,” he sighed, footsteps slowing. His house—their house—lay just beyond the mossy, weathered remnants of a pre-solar tower. The poppies grew thicker now, carpeting the path ahead.

Scattered across them lay a staggered set of bare patches between him and the front door, stepping stones across a floral creek.

“I know you’d be here if you could.”

~

The groundshake struck just before its warning alarm. Ancient systems reliant on an increasingly failure-prone network of sensors, the series of alarms meant to rouse the surrounding cities and villages from their beds in time to seek shelter were now little more than an added nuisance.

They’d have deactivated the seismic sirens long ago. If there had been anyone left who knew how to, that was.

Now Logan was faced with the choice of the certain danger of rockslides racing down from the summit or the high but vague chance of falling trees in the woods.

His feet and hands decided before the rest of his mind could, snatching up his go-bag and darting out into the cool, dark forest.

His feet had been rash.

Not ten paces into the woods, Logan realized his mistake. Towering Sequoia sempervirens, after centuries of strain and stress of acid rain, methane bursts, and decades of drought in the Dry Years, the once great Kings of the forest trembled with the earth, the crackling and splintering of the dry, rotten trunks drowning out the screeching sirens at base camp.

Too late, Logan turned back, old solar lights glittering through the trees, beckoning him to over-promised safety. A younger tree, not more than three hundred years old, split a dozen meters up from where he stood. It fell through its sibling trees and crashed to the ground, blocking his path.

The world cracked behind him and the sky was blotted out by the carcass of one more great Redwood.

~

Remus woke with a start, his own breaths deafening in the odd hush blanketing his home. He sat up and scrunched his toes against the ground beneath him.

It ached, pulled and stretched, crying in terror and pain.

Leaping to his feet, he grabbed the pot of sage ashes on the hearth. He ran uphill through the underbrush, headed for the still waters of Lake Frère.

He chanted with every step, pounding his message into the earth, scattering the burnt sage along the trail for any of the forest’s creatures to follow. The earth shakes. Seek water. The earth shakes. Seek water.

The first shuddering jolt threw him to the ground. Remus dropped to his knees but kept the ashes safe, with only a little spilling over the lip of the pot. Back on his feet, he ran on, dusting the trail step by step as he carved out a path to safety.

Three tiny red poppies appeared just as the cool, heavy scent of lake air filled his lungs, the promise of safety within its depths. “No!” he paused the spell to shout. “We’re going this way,” he said, then resumed his chanting.

Another blossom appeared, several steps to the left.

“No way,” he insisted, slowing and pointing up the hill. “We’re going that way.”

Two more steps forward and a wall of English holly shot up, barricading the path.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

Deep roots shrieked around them, the pained cries of ancient ones meeting a final, violent death and the ground broke beneath them. Remus touched a shoot nearest him, whispering condolences, ease and calm, and shouted at the sky. “This is no time for—“

The ground shook again, jolting him forward. And away from the water.

Bright red poppies lined the path ahead. “Fine!” he shouted. “We’ll do it your way!”

~

Remus smelled the alchemist’s blood before he saw it. “Serves you right,” he muttered, yelping when a vine slapped his bare calf. “What?” he snapped back. “Who runs into a forest in an earthquake?”

As he’d trekked downhill through the woods, the great growling rumbles of the earth dissolved into little more than periodic spasms, the last hiccupping gasps as the ground finished its seizing and settled into another long, fitful slumber.

One such aftershock dropped a ferny branch down on the bloodied alchemist’s face and he sputtered to life.

“Wha—Agh!” Confusion turned to pain, seeping through the soil and digging cold fingers into Remus’ skin. The alchemist pushed weakly at the trunk, barely more than a branch, really, holding him fast to the ground.

Red amanitas sprouted around his head, near enough to touch.

“What are you doing?” Remus hissed, too low for the clumsy alchemist to hear.

Or so he’d thought.

“Who’s there?” he croaked, fear and pain tightening his throat. Even if Remus hadn’t already felt the man’s injuries through the ground between them, his choked words would have drawn him closer.

“No-one,” Remus answered. Red petals nudged him closer and he shook his head. Yes, fine, he would help him. But he didn’t need to be nice about it.

“Wha—“ he began, twisting to see. The alchemist’s voice broke, a stifled whimper. Besides the gashes and what looked like a sprained if not broken ankle, he likely had at least a few cracked ribs. And maybe worse.

“Stay still,” Remus growled. “You’ll only make your injuries worse flopping around like that.”

Ignoring his advice, the alchemist turned and stared. “You’re—“

The ground shifted beneath them, twisting the tree on top of him. With a pathetic little groan, the alchemist’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

~

Logan was warm. Not hot, with the sticky heat of humid nights or the glaring sun bearing down on him and the baked, barren ground back home. No, warm like soft springs, tea perfectly steeped and cooled. Gentle sunrises as the steam lifted up off the forest lakes.

Warm and comfortable and—

Logan’s eyes flew wide open, unseeing through an inky blackness surrounding him. The last he’d remembered, he’d been trapped under the biggest tree he’d ever seen, a monstrous specimen so large he’d mistaken it for part of the cliffs. It had hurt, far more than rad poisoning, far more than decompression, far more than anything else he’d ever experienced.

And now? Now he felt warm, wrapped in dark softness, dry and safe and completely without any pain.

“Am I dead?” he whispered into the black silence.

It was not a voice that answered him, but a snore. Several feet away, a very soft, very human snore.

Logan pushed himself upright and sat listening. Other, smaller sounds reached his ears. The distant call of a night bird—an owl, perhaps?—followed by a rustle and the snap of twigs. Wind through the trees.

It was only then a flicker of thin, silver light shot over his legs—rather, over the chunky knit blanket covering his legs.

Next to him was a window, draped in heavy, tightly woven hemp. It waved gently with the breeze, releasing a flicker of moonlight with each movement. Reaching for the curtain, Logan peeled it back, drenching the room in soft moonlight.

He was lying in a nest of blankets, a soft mattress beneath him, overstuffed with grasses and dried moss. If the scent wafting up with each movement was a reliable indicator, of course.

The bedding was tucked into one corner of a small stone house, a hut, really. The floor nothing more than packed dirt. A paneless window stretched alongside it, a sturdy brick-lined stove at the far end.

Two walls lined with books bound in all colors, baskets—both filled and empty—teetered in a haphazard stack by the door, bits of dried and drying herbs hung from the rafters, the walls, the doorway.

And at the end of the bookshelves slept a man.

Wrapped in a blanket much like the ones piled around Logan, most of the man’s face was tucked beneath the covers. Thick eyebrows and a mass of dark, plaited hair peeked out above them. He turned, a beam of moonlight spilling over his temple.

The front door swayed with the breeze, and Logan’s go-bag sat undisturbed beside it. Nothing would stop him from leaving.

Still holding the curtain open, Logan tried to peel away the covers one handed, but he only succeeded in getting himself further tangled within. He released the window coverings, plunging the room into darkness. He’d seen enough to know he was no longer dressed in his own bedclothes, the shirt and pants he’d gone to sleep in before he was woken by the groundshake.

Logan managed to free one leg but when he worked the other out, pain shot out from foot to hip and he cried out. He slapped a hand over his mouth but the snoring across the room suddenly stopped.

“You’re awake,” the man growled. He groaned and the sounds of movement filled the room.

Twisting, Logan tried to reach the curtain, to allow some light inside but he only succeeded in getting further tangled, foot twisted painfully in the blankets. A cry leaked out past his lips and he fell back against the bed, helpless.

“Yeah, I know he’s hurt,” the man muttered.

Was there someone else there? Logan clawed desperately at the bed, trying to reach the curtain but he’d gotten twisted up so badly every movement sent fire up his leg. A sharp crack-crack-crack stilled him and, after a moment, a soft glow filled the room.

The man stood at the other side of the room, a tiny antique lantern held aloft. Logan’s eyes darted around, searching for whoever the man had been speaking to, but there was no-one else there. In the brighter light, he could now see what he’d thought were herbs were vines of Mandevilla spp. and Phaseolus coccineus, their bright red blossoms seemingly uncaring their species did not grow indoors.

Nor bloom at night.

“H—how?” Logan stammered, curtain and blankets forgotten.

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he set the lantern atop the brick stove and knelt next to Logan. Careful, deft hands extricated his leg from the covers and Logan got a better look at the stiff splint wrapped around his ankle. Scowl notwithstanding, he maneuvered Logan’s injured leg gently, adjusting a pillow beneath it Logan hadn’t even realized was there. The elevation helped.

“Did—did you do all this?” Logan asked, gesturing to his leg, his clothes he realized were from the same cloth as the man’s own tunic. “Did you bring me here?”

He grunted. “You didn’t walk yourself here.” The breeze blew one of the Mandevilla close enough to brush against the man’s hand and he glared at it.

“Thank you,” Logan said, holding his breath when the man’s head whipped around, glaring at him instead. “F—for all of this, for finding me, for—“ His voice cracked. With the surprise and pain fading, his thirst made itself known and he licked dry lips.

Without speaking, the man pushed up to his feet and lit the stove. He picked up an ancient-looking kettle and poured some into a small clay cup then set the kettle on the hottest part of the stove. “Here,” he said, moving to his side. He helped Logan sit up and held the cup to his lips. “Drink.”

Logan sipped at the water. It was fresh and clean, not recycled or even silty like the rainwater he collected at base camp. He wondered how much of basecamp survived the groundshake. Likely not much.

“Thank you,” he said again when the cup was empty. He leaned heavily against the supportive arm the man still wrapped around his back.

Movement caught his eye and, over the man’s shoulder, he spotted—hallucinated, surely—one of the longer vines stretching down where it draped over the bookshelves. It snaked its way across the floor and up over the man’s other arm. It sniffed at the cup in his hand like a favored pet.

“Cup’s empty,” the man said. “Yours is outside. It’ll rain in the morning.”

“Did you just—“

The man grunted again and slowly lowered him onto the bed. “You’ll recover faster if you rest,” he said, ignoring his question.

And ignoring the blossoms insistently poking at his foot. That was the final evidence Logan needed, the final proof that he was utterly and completely delirious. “Agreed,” he whispered, the soft bed buffing away his earlier curiosity. “Thank you,” he said one more time and let his head sink into the pillows beneath him.

“You’re—“

The man hesitated and as his eyes closed, Logan imagined he heard the rustle of leaves against the floor.

“You’re welcome.”

Logan was asleep before the kettle began to boil.

~

The sun was more than half-way in its march across the sky and the alchemist still slept.

Remus had not.

“I know he couldn’t get far with his foot like that,” he muttered, crushing another bundle of dried burdock root. The rhythmic scrape of granite against granite and scent of cloves and lemon balm simmering on the stove soothed the dull ache behind his eyes. “He wouldn’t hafta go far to damage yo—“

“Hello?”

He nearly dropped the pestle. One arm hugging the mortar to his chest, his other hand outstretched and a spell on his tongue, Remus spun around.

The alchemist looked just as startled as he felt. “I… I apologize, I hadn’t meant to interrupt…” Eyes darting around his home, the alchemist floundered, mouth working like a thirsty fish before finally shaking his head. “If I may ask… Wh—who were talking to?”

Remus ignored the question—and the red blooms dancing in the window sill behind him—and brought the poultice to the alchemist’s bedside. His bedside. “This is for you,” he said, allowing the alchemist to smell the mixture like he might with any creature of the woods.

The wind laughed through the poppies, only growing louder at his glare.

“Is there—“ The alchemist twisted, looking back at the window. “Is there someone outside?”

Remus didn’t answer and simply peeled back the bottom edge of the covers, revealing deep red and purple bruising on the alchemist’s injured leg.

He gasped, tensing until the poultice touched his skin. “I… I expected that to hurt.”

“Pretty messed up way to heal something if you have to hurt it first,” Remus muttered, watching the poppies from the corner of his eye as he worked. The blood red petals crept down from the window, dragging their stems behind them in a train.

“I suppose that makes sense,” the alchemist said after a few moments. “Do you… do you heal a lot of people in the woods? I—I’d thought, well… I’d thought there wasn’t anyone for kilometers, not… Not recently at least.”

Remus shrugged. “You’re here,” he said, blowing at the first layer of poultice. It needed to crust over before he applied another or he’d end up with a soggy mess and have to start all over again.

The alchemist seemed to consider that and finally nodded. “Well, yes, I… we—“

“We?” Remus put down the mortar and stared at him. “Who’s we? Who else have you brought here? Where are they?”

“N—no—nowhere,” he stammered, doe eyes wide with fear. The sudden movement had jostled his ankle and it screamed its pain through the air, but Remus held his gaze. “They—they’re… they’re gone.”

Remus started to rise. “And where did they go?” He had enough basil but would need to gather more sage before he confronted them. Alchemist tribes were finicky. Their tribesman’s presence could be protective. Or be considered an act of war.

“No—where,” he said at last. “They’re all… dead,” he finished at last, avoiding his eyes. “My advisor was old, at least forty. He found the gravi—the environment was insurmountable. The other two assistants…” Lips pressed tightly together, he shook his head and breathed hard through his nose. “The snows took them.”

Against his better judgement, Remus sat back down and touched the blanket next to his hand. Poppies curled around the man’s head, much like the halo of amanitas he’d seen when he’d found him. “How long have you been here? It hasn’t snowed since…”

“Six sol—years ago.”

Remus frowned, glancing up at the poppies. The blossoms showed no reaction to his strange dialect. “Let me finish,” he said at last and picked up the mortar. “Then you should rest.”

The alchemist nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he spread another layer of the poultice. The pain fizzled away from the air and he sighed. “Thank you… ah…” He opened his eyes, placid blue deeper than Frère Lake. “M—my name is Logan…”

He fell silent then, watching, expectant. The petals around his head tapped the pillow behind him, also waiting.

“Remus,” he said.

Logan smiled. “Thank you, Remus.”

~

Time marked by a daily reapplication of Remus’ pungent concoction, Logan managed to maintain a semblance of coherency. There were days when the only time he was conscious was when Remus carefully peeled away the blanket to check on his ankle. Whatever other, less visible, injuries he’d suffered seemed to be taking their toll as he slowly recovered.

Still, the relief he felt as the angry purple bruising faded to greens and yellows was marked.

“You’ll soon be back on your feet,” Remus said one morning—No, afternoon. Long, dappled shadows cast by the old maple outside Remus’ window meant it must be afternoon by now.

“I wish…” There were still several months until the weather would turn. If Remus was right, he’d be well enough to make the trek back with enough time still to assess and repair basecamp for the oncoming season. He’d been making due with the remaining supplies, recycling what he could and jury-rigging what he must.

There were benefits to only requiring a single functioning sleeping shelter.

“I wish I knew how to properly thank you for… helping me,” Logan finally said.

“You can stay away,” Remus grunted, covering his ankle with a fresh cloth and loping across the room in two strides. He busied himself with scraping the stone bowl he used for the treatments, back turned to him.

“Oh… ah, of course.” Logan’s chest tightened painfully. Had a blood clot shifted into a dangerous vein? Was his fatigue something more than simple recovery? Under the covers he felt his pulse. It was steady. “You have been more than generous in my convalescence. I apologize for the inconvenience, I—“

A green tendril unfurled from the Papaver spilling in from the window. It trailed over his leg, red blossoms opening along its path.

Logan stared, breath caught in his throat. He… he was fully awake, fully aware, completely lucid. But this… this couldn’t be real. “Re—Remus?” he stammered. “Please, I… Is…” Finally Remus turned and glared at the flowers as they spread over his legs. “Is this real?”

“Don’t think this will change my mind,” he snapped, addressing the flowers.

“What?”

Remus looked at him then and sighed, arms crossed over his chest. “I—“ He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, they’re real. What, you thought you were still dreaming?” he asked. “You talk in your sleep but not like this.”

“I—I what?” Logan shook his head, a thousand questions colliding. When did he talk in his sleep? When had Remus noticed? Did he watch him as he slept? What did he say? “I—wait, these… Is this… Is this normal for these woods?”

The flowers seemed to turn to Remus, like they, too, awaited his answer.

“It’s not… abnormal,” he said after a moment.

“They’re remarkable,” Logan whispered, reaching to touch one of the petals before thinking better of it. “May I…” He looked at his go-bag still sitting by the door. “May I have the notebook and pencil in my bag?”

“Are you kidding?” Remus stomped closer and the flowers rose up between them. He tried to wave them away, scowling. “Oh, stand down.” He looked at Logan then. “You think I’m just gonna let you cast runespells in my own home?”

“Rune—What? No, I…” Logan pushed up to a seat and the flowers moved with him. “No, I have a field journal. It’s in my bag. For notes?” He mimed holding a book with one hand and writing with the other.

Remus hissed, eyes squeezed shut and both hands up like a shield. After a moment, he lowered them.

The flowers in his lap danced.

“Oh, ha ha,” he spat at them. “Very funny.” He looked at Logan again, eyes narrowed. “Fine, but if you try anything, even he can’t stop me from defending us.”

He? Logan glanced at the flowers. “Okay,” he nodded.

Pinching the strap with a thumb and two fingers, Remus picked it up and carried the bag back to the bed without letting any other part of it touch him. He set it down within Logan’s reach and backed away, eyes sharp. “Open it slowly,” he ordered when Logan reached for the bag.

Nodding, Logan carefully unfastened the front flap and pulled out his field book and a pencil. It was getting dull, but it would work well enough. He didn’t think taking out a knife to sharpen it would engender any additional trust from his already jumpy healer.

The flowers seemed to watch him, as well, inching closer as he opened the book, flipping past pages of fungi and spore print reproductions and various flora he’d found on his trips through the woods. He’d once imagined he’d share his findings with the follow-up research team.

Five years of silence disabused him of the hope one would ever arrive.

Remus flinched when his pencil touched the paper but eased as Logan traced the rough shape of the nearest blossom. Remus stepped closer, watching.

It was difficult to accurately capture the form of the moving blossom, and he kept restating his lines as he worked. After a few minutes, Remus muttered, “You gotta stay still or he can’t do it.”

At first Logan wasn’t sure who he was talking to but the flowers nearest him stopped moving, so still even the breeze from the window didn’t move their petals.

Logan stared for a moment before smiling. “Thank you,” he murmured and quickly sketched the rest of the bloom. When he was done, he turned the book so they both—Remus and the flowers—could see. “They’re quite lovely. I… The picture can’t properly capture their behavior—his behavior?” he asked, noting Remus’ single nod. “But… These flowers don’t grow like this anywhere I’ve ever seen before.”

Remus looked down at the book. “May I?” he asked, voice soft.

“Of course.” Logan passed him the book and watched as he slowly turned each page back to front. “You… made all of these?”

“I—I sketched them, yes,” Logan nodded. The flowers nudged Remus’ hands the way a pet or a tiny toddler might bop its head against a beloved person to get their attention. “Did you… make them?” he asked, impulsively reaching out to stroke one of the flowers.

“You hear that?” Remus asked the nearest blossom, chuckling. When he looked up at Logan, he was smiling. The first smile he’d seen on him. “It’s a long story, but it’s a little bit the other way around.”

Something in that smile gave Logan a courage he didn’t deserve and he reached for Remus’ hand. “I’d love to hear it someday.”

[16mistypaw]

@skyloftian-nutcase Thank you for providing comfort stories for me yesterday, here's one for you in return ❤️

-

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60521602/chapters/160702309#workskin

-

Twilight stepped out of his car, keys in hand as he fumbled through the keychain for his house key. He heard shuffling on the other side of the door, and as soon as it opened a furry bundle of energy slammed into his legs. He crouched down, accepting wet doggy kisses and scratching Wolfie's ears.

Time and Malon had mostly taken turns caring for the wolf-dog the past few days, Twilight far too exhausted from an extended work stretch to do much more than greeting scratches before heading to bed to pass out before doing it all over again.

He stood, nudging Wolfie back inside and closing the door behind him. The place was strangely quiet, with Time and Malon at work and Wild gone camping for the weekend with Hyrule. Despite the empty house, the smell of food permeated the air. Malon had been the last to leave for the morning, barely an hour between her leaving and him getting home.

Making his way to the kitchen, he found breakfast in the microwave and an insulated grocery bag on the counter. Tapping the microwave to reheat the food, he checked the bag to see it filled with several packed meals. A beep redirected his attention, grabbing the reheated food to sit and eat. And if his breakfast was shared with the puppy by his feet, Malon didn't need to know. Something about ‘people food is not for animals’ and all that.

Placing his now empty plate in the sink, he grabbed a travel mug and poured the rest of the lukewarm coffee from the pot into it. The bag on the counter was hooked onto one arm, while he wrangled Wolfie into his harness with the other. Then they were off, piling back into the car to make a food delivery.

Time had been reluctant to ask the favor, knowing Twilight would be exhausted after work, but Twilight had easily agreed after they found out that Sky had been sick for several days.

Before long they turned onto the long, narrow drive to Sky's house, and Wolfie perked up in his seat. By the time he brought the car to a stop the puppy was practically bouncing in excitement, knowing whose house they were at. He didn't even bother putting the leash back on, letting Wolfie jump out and race to the door while he gathered his things.

A knock on the door didn't gain any response, even though Time had said he'd let Sky know someone would be over. The door was unlocked though, so Twilight let himself in, Wolfie immediately taking off down the hall. A muffled shout of surprise sounded moments later, and he hurriedly kicked his shoes off on the mat to follow his dog to Sky's room.

“Twi?!” Sky called again, attempting to push Wolfie off him. But Wolfie was large for a puppy, and lay across Sky's back, effectively pinning him.

“Wolfie, down!” Twilight ordered. He was grateful he was training Wolfie to be a therapy dog, because Wolfie obeyed immediately, hopping off the bed to sit beside it instead. “Sorry about that.”

“S'lright.” Sky mumbled, pushing himself over to free his face and look at Twilight. He started coughing, only stopping when he ran out of breath with a raspy wheeze. Twilight helped him sit up, adjusting his pillow so he could sit comfortably against the headboard. Sky continued wheezing, unable to properly catch his breath.

Twilight glanced around, snatched the inhaler off the dresser, and shook it briefly before placing it in Sky's hand. Sky took a moment to steady his breathing as much as he could, then pressed the inhaler to his lips, taking two deep breaths. He held his breath for a moment, coughing again once he released it. It had helped somewhat though, while his breathing was still shallow, it was at least a bit more steady.

“Thanks.” Sky set it aside on the nightstand, which Twilight now realized had an open textbook with a bottle of cold medicine sitting on the pages.

“Yer studying? Like this?”

“Renewal’s coming up soon. Signed up for a class to get my CE's in.”

“Fair enough.” As if their line of work didn't keep them busy enough, they had to keep up with CE's on top of everything else. “Time and Malon send well wishes and lunch.” Twilight reached down to pull a container of chicken and rice from the bag, along with napkins and plastic utensils.

“Oh nice, she made it with broth.” The chicken and chicken broth flavored rice didn't stand a chance as Sky practically inhaled it. Knowing him, he had probably been living off crackers since falling sick.

After lunch and another swig of medicine from the bottle, Sky insisted on trying to study a bit more. So he collected the dishes and trash as Sky pulled the book to his lap. He suspected it would put him to sleep faster than anything else would.

Sure enough by the time he had finished cleaning up, Sky was barely awake, textbook sliding off his lap. The book was gently pulled from loose fingers, and a spare pillow located to lean Sky against in a semi-upright position. Sleeping sitting up wasn't comfortable for anyone, but laying down would only cause the congestion to build up again into another breathing attack.

“Twi?” Sky mumbled.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Get some rest.”

With that short exchange Sky somehow managed to nod off while sitting up, Wolfie climbing back onto the bed to lay on Sky's lap. Satisfied Sky would be okay for a bit, Twilight left him to rest, practically collapsing on the living room couch.

Sky wouldn't mind if he crashed here for a bit, and Wolfie would alert him if Sky needed attention. He clumsily pulled the throw blanket off the back of the couch, and was out before he knew it.

[orchid-and-bone]

"I'm Yours" ||

Arthur Morgan x GN!Reader

Rating: None

Length: 1.3k words

Asked by @yyiikes IN LOVE WITH THIS SO MUCH ?? we need another part when he finally says it back

Part 2 of "Here With Me"

Oh, I can absolutely do that for you! I adore this man so much and he's been occupying my mind a lot, so I'm glad to have you guys enjoy my writing! I'd love to do more!

*

‘It's been a few weeks. A few weeks of my silence and their patience. I don't know what else I could possibly say to them that I already haven't written or thought here, it's… it's obvious, ain't it?’

*

Arthur stared up from his leather journal as he leaned further back against the tree in camp, the cover of the shade made it easy to stare at you across the camp as you did your usual chores, completely unaware of the set of eyes on you. The brim of his hat offered that extra layer of protection from being caught, but even if he were caught, would he even deny it?  No, he wouldn't, and he just chuckled at himself at how obvious it had been to probably everyone, excluding himself until recently.

Yes, he truly did have feelings for you, whether he cared to address them or not. He would have just chalked it up to loyalty to those in the gang, but you were a different case altogether. When he was faced with you being injured, it struck a nerve with him, and the urge to protect you outweighed anything that required any sense of logic, his instincts just took over, and that wasn’t just caring for a fellow gang member, there was something more in the depths of his gut. Arthur’s eyes flickered back down to the page and there you were, sketched carefully across the page like you were a carved statue. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d focused on such little details of you face, how he paid that much attention to those small things that made your face so…you.

He’d been thinking of you so often now, his mind full with so many ways to get you alone to have a talk, but no matter what he did, there was always someone wanting his attention, a day’s work was never finished. Today, it was a day of peace, or at least he’d hoped it would be, it was early and there were people who were barely awake. Arthur had let out a sigh and slipped the journal back into his satchel, then pushed himself from the ground and got to his feet. Instead of making his way straight to you, he went to pour himself a cup of coffee to calm his nerves, the warmth of it in his hand made him focus when he couldn’t. 

You’d been petting the horses after feeding them, and his eyes barely wavered from you for more than a moment, the intensity would have worried onlookers if it weren’t the people he’d known for years, but they knew how Arthur was. ‘He keeps his walls up’, ‘he’s not much of a talker’, all those things that were said about him weren’t necessarily a lie, but there was more to it than that. He did feel, he felt more than he let on because things of that nature were much more complicated. The one person in camp that he felt he could really talk to,besides yourself, was Charles, and even he had given him the best advice he could. 

“Talk to them,” he said bluntly. “Don’t be ashamed to tell them, they obviously put enough trust in you to confess. So, even if you don’t feel the same, it’s best to tell them exactly what you feel.”

Charles was always smart, incredibly intuitive, and Arthur was always the second guesser, but overall, his friend was right. He had been so wrapped up in thinking that he didn’t notice you going for your own cup of coffee right beside him. Arthur stood beside the fire and stared out at the water, the trees along the horizon brought him comfort in serene moments like this, but as if his body was reacting, he turned to see you staring up at him.

“You okay there?” You asked, a small smile on your lips as you brought the cup up, taking a small sip. 

Arthur cleared his throat and nodded as he brought his own cup to his lips, his eyes darted from you to the water again. “Been thinkin’ is all,” he said gruffly. 

You nodded in reply and hummed. “Yeah, I felt bad bothering you, but I wanted to be sure.” You had wanted to reach out to him to offer your support, or any comfort he might take solace in, but you decided against it. 

What you were greeted with though was Arthur beckoning you toward the large rock that sat by the shoreline. You would follow him, of course, and looked around curiously as he motioned for you to sit on the rock. As much as you wanted to question him, you kept your mouth shut and waited, patience was a virtue with this man. He then removed the journal from his bag and flipped more than halfway through until he stopped on a page, and then handed it to you with little to no hesitation while you balanced your coffee in one hand with the journal in the other. 

As you were about to ask, your eyes caught the drawing on the left, it was you, and it was sketched so beautifully that you were at a loss for words as you stared at it for a while. Arthur cleared his throat after a moment and chuckled as he tapped the other side of the journal, which was filled with words written in neat writing. You’d never seen his journal before, so all of this was a lot to process, the fact he trusted you with it in the first place showed how important you’d been.

Wordlessly, he stood there as you read the page. 

‘It's been a few weeks. A few weeks of my silence and their patience. I don't know what else I could possibly say to them that I already haven't written or thought here, it's… it's obvious, ain't it? Of course I love them, I have for a while now and it scared me. I’ve loved in my lifetime and yet, whenever I had, something bad always followed, like a curse upon my heart. But if there’s one thing I’d been told that really stuck with me, it was to take a gamble on love. It’s ridiculous to be afraid of something so natural and yet it’s been the hardest thing to admit. But I admit it, I love them. And I ain’t gonna regret it, not this time.’

When you finished, you stared up at the gunslinger with large eyes, you were struck with disbelief, dazed at the fact that this man was so articulate with how he felt and how he saw you… Your eyes went back to the pages and you stared for a long while, unable to truly say how you felt. 

Arthur shifted and took a large drink of coffee, then looked back at you. He then chuckled to himself and sighed. “Is this how you felt when you told me all that stuff and I said nothin’?” He asked you. “Because now I get it, that’s… agonizin’ to wait.” He offered a wide smile and continued to sip his coffee. 

“Arthur… I…” You couldn’t do it, you couldn’t say it, this man had your tongue. Quickly, you stood up with his closed journal, then threw your arms around his bulky frame, which almost caused him to drop his coffee, and most definitely spilled a majority of yours.

He laughed and looked down at you, your arms around him as you hid your face in his jacket. Arthur patted your shoulder gently at first, then he pulled you in with one arm and hugged you in return. This ain’t so bad, could get used to this. 

The sun was finally beginning to rise in the sky, the colors like a watercolor painting as the pinks and purples slowly faded with the hues of gold, and staring out at the sky while you were wrapped around Arthur was more of a dream than you could have ever imagined. His hand placed gently on your shoulder, allowing you to just remain with him, taking in the comfort of his scent. 

You could get used to days like this.

[gwiyeounsonyeon]

Hate Me? So Do I.

Pairing: cis!Simon Riley x Male Reader

Summary: Simon is angry and takes it out on his boyfriend

Words: 666😳

Warnings: Depression, drinking, angst? (not too bad)

Notes: sorry it sucks and how short it is, I'm tired and I got back from camping the other day, originally I wasn't going to write anything but I figured that I should if I'm trying to make this a habit. i figure that if I work up quantity over quality while I try to get into the habit of writing and work myself out of writers block then maybe later ill be able to focus on quality

The weather had been gloomy all day, not for even a moment had the sun shown through the rain-heavy clouds. To say it had put a damper on y/n’s mood was an underestimate, the young man had woken up with an off feeling that followed him around for the rest of the day, not giving him any rest. Simon naturally hated that his sweet loving boyfriend had to feel like this and even more, he hated that there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Simon hated feeling helpless like this, he’d tried to cheer Y/n up but none of his attempts were successful and he was beginning to get restless. Simon’s boyfriend was in their bedroom bundled up in the covers with the lights off, unable to get out of bed. Simon sat on their couch in the living room, staring solemnly out of the window. He knew he should be in there with you but he couldn't do it, It killed him to see you like this, you were so sweet and understanding, and you did so much for him, he should be able to do this for you.

That’s what Simon thought, he was terrified, There was so much he could do and all of it was so easy, but he couldn't make himself get up and face you, so he kept his distance and sat in silence listening for you to make any sounds or call for him or get out of bed. Simon sipped on his whiskey and looked down at the liquid, swirling it around in the glass before deciding ‘fuck it’ and knocking back the whole thing, it burned on the way down, he looked over at the bottle debating on pouring himself more but he hesitated.

He couldn't help thinking he was pathetic, sitting here wallowing and drinking while his boyfriend was in pain. There's a soft thud from the bedroom and Simon's ears perk up to listen, he looks up at the open doorway into their dark bedroom expecting you to finally come out. Minutes pass and nothing happens, Simon sighs and sets the glass down on the coffee table with a harsh thud. The anger building up in his throat wasn't toward you, it never was, but it was using you to make Simon more irritable, angrier, Simon stands up from the couch and saunters into the bedroom, he flips the lights on aggressively and stares down at your covered body.

Simon knows he's not angry at you, not for something like this but in the moment he can't help it. “Are you just going to sleep all day? 5 in the evening” His tone was harsh and cold, There was a small movement from under the covers that Simon recognized as a flinch, he wanted to feel bad but you’re lack of response only worked to fuel his frustration. “Y/n!” Simon knew there was absolutely no need to raise his voice, but he hadn't realized that was what he did until after, You flinch harder, his breath catches in his throat as you finally fold the comforter back to look up at him for the first time that day, your eyes red and cheeks tear-stained.

Simon's heart tugs in his chest “fucking-” His voice is soft, Simon can't believe how fucking stupid he is, he moves in and gets into bed next to his boyfriend and tugs you to his chest regretting his senseless anger. “I'm an idiot Y/n…” He whispers, tucking his face into your hair, You shake your head and turn to clutch onto Simon, not wanting him to blame himself, You press your face into the older chest and inhale his comforting scent. “I shouldn't have yelled… You didn’t deserve that” Simon’s voice is soft, he holds you to his chest and rubs circles into your back soothingly ‘You don't deserve me’ Simon doesn't say it out loud, saying something like that would only cause you more grief.

[typically-untypical]

Two for the Price of One

This was written for @i-will-physically-fight-you as part of the Camp Cartoon event hosted by @tss-camp-and-coffee Enjoy!

Ao3 Link Here

Early August was probably the worst time of year to be traipsing around the forest. Sure the forest was shaded but the humidity made it hot nonetheless and there were so many bugs Virgil was forced to wear long sleeves. He was still tempted to take his shirt off, to give his skin some room to breath, but his mind raced with the likelihood of extra injuries. He would end up with a bunch of scrapes for branches, and what if that only made the bugs more enticed to eat him. Also he'd get salt from his sweat into his wounds and that just wasn't something he wanted to deal with today.

He was hunting for rare herbs, but he mostly knew where they grew, maybe he could shift to moving around at night? No, the nights here were just as hot and then he'd have to face more deadly predators. Honestly it would be best if he wasn't here at all. About 20 miles north he would be in his home town where the forest wasn't affected by the enchanted bog's humidity, but Virgil had a job to do. He could go home and relax when it was done. 

The adventures guild typically gave him the worst quests, not because they hated him. Gods, Virgil hoped they didn't hate him, but because he was willing to do them. No one wanted to hunt for Enchanted Nettles in the bog thick forest, but since Virgil also didn't do a lot of quests, he didn't mind the occasional inconvenience. He wasn't in adventuring for the glory, he just needed a bit of money to tide him over sometimes. 

Virgil poured a bit of water on his face, putting the water skin back on his belt. He had already collected half of the herbs he needed to, they typically grew near the roots of trees, hidden from the sun by the large trunks. He was being responsible with his collecting practices and leaving some of the animals and for the plant to continue growing. Being responsible, however, meant it would take him another day before he could finish up and he'd need to go deeper into the forest. It was so hot out, was it worth him taking a break?

Off in the brush he heard a cry of pain. He immediately turned toward it, trying to judge the noise. It sounded like it came from something large, not dragon sized but probably panther sized? He was tempted to ignore it. Even if he went to help there was no guarantee whatever it was wouldn't want to eat Virgil after he helped. He stood there, for longer than he'd admit, before letting out a deep sigh and turning toward the still echoing whimpers. If he was hurt he would want someone to come to his aid. It was the right thing to do, even if it was a seriously dumb thing for him to do. Honestly, what was he thinking, going out of his way to help a dragon.

He stopped in his tracks.

A Dragon?

That's what he was seeing in front of him. Not a full grown dragon, but a young one. Its white scales glittered in the sun and it felt like heat was coming off of it. A defense mechanism? Could it control it? The dragon had to be so you. It wasn't bigger than Virgil's torso, and its ankle was caught in a strong bear trap. There was a young, unclothed, human kid pulling at the trap but making no headway. His skin was tanned, his hair dark black and he also looked young. Oh god, a kid and a dragon, but the dragon wasn't snapping at the kid. 

They both noticed him, and the child shot forward, arms wide open to protect the dragon. There was a growl on his lips and a feral look in his eyes. Virgil held up his hands. 

"Look, I'm not here to hurt you," He said it once in the common language and then again in draconic, though he knew his draconic was rusty. Most of his languages were rusty. The dragon and the boy looked at one another. Did they both understand? Gods he hoped they did. He was bad enough with people who understood him much less kids who didn't. The child also had scrapes all over his body. He needed a good set of clothes. Virgil stripped his shirt off, it would have to do for now.

"Here, put this on, it'll protect your arms." He handed the black shirt to the boy who continued to look at him with suspicion. "I'm going to free your dragon friend from the trap." He repeated both in draconic again, one hand offering the shirt and the other had up. Virgil took a step forward and the human boy growled, snapping the shirt out of Virgil's hand.

"You better not hurt him." The boy was speaking in draconic, which left Virgil with a whole lot of questions. First of all, was the kid raised by dragons?

"I'm not going to hurt him." He tried to be reassuring, responding only in draconic this time. It was hard to wrap his mind and tongue around the words but if the boy knew and was more comfortable in draconic, then that's what Virgil would use. At least this would give him a little practice. "I'm going to release your friend's leg, we should probably get the wound wrapped up and cleaned as well."

The boy was still looking at Virgil skeptically so he moved slow. He released the catch on the trap and pried it open. The trap was hot from the heat pouring off the dragon and it burned to touch the metal. Still, Virgil pried it open until he saw the dragon's foot dart out. It limped away, whimpering and hiding from Virgil behind the human child. That was also new, a dragon taking shelter behind a human? Fuck, Virgil must already have heat stroke or something.

"It's okay," Virgil said holding his hands up, noticing the slight burns. No wonder his hands hurt now. That was going to make herb collecting harder. He lowered his hands, trying to keep the injuries from the kids. "You'll be okay. I'm not trying to hurt you."

The kid and the dragon continued to stare at Virgil for a while, before the human finally putting Virgil's shirt on. "Thanks mister," He said his small arms flapping in Virgil's far too long sleeves. "Don't follow us." Then the kid turned to lead the dragon off, occasionally he shot back a few looks at Virgil until they were both out of sight. Well that was the strangest interaction he had had in a while, but at least it was over. Virgil sighed, rolling his head around his neck until he realized, he was now down a shirt. Well shit. It's fine, he had been thinking of taking it off anyway, and he had an extra in his pack. 

Maybe he should take that nap he had been thinking of, and get some clean water. He needed to do that first. Shit his hands hurt. He didn't have any healing potions, they were too expensive, but he had so salve, but he would need to clean his hands before applying it. He stood up, swaying a bit as he got to his feet. He went to adjust his backpack straps and hissed at the rough fabric against his hands. Well, it would have to hang awkward for now. He started to walk forward, mind fuzzy. It was too hot, and he needed rest.

[Section break]

Virgil didn't wake up with the clarity he was used to. Instead, everything felt just a little bit hazy. Everything was hot, the world, his skin, his brain. Virgil reached for his water skin, hoping to cool down, but when his hands brushed against it they stung. He immediately retreated his fingers. Virgil had wrapped them up but they were still tender and it was too much right now to push through the pain.

"You burnt him." He heard one voice speak in draconic. That was a weird language for thieves to use, and Virgil was helpless right now, he couldn't move. Fuck, what was he going to do? He didn't have the strength to get up.

"I didn't meant to, and you're one to talk, you stole his shirt." It was a second voice, and Virgil realized it sounded young. Both voices had. 

"He gave it to me!" 

Virgil groaned and the voices got quiet. He felt someone putting a hand on his face. The hand was cold and refreshing. Virgil relaxed a little bit as he felt a bit of fog clear from his mind. "He's hot."

"Then lay on him, that'll cool him down."

Virgil heard the person next to him groan, "Fine, but if you steal my shirt I'm gonna fight you."

"Whatever baby." Virgil heard another growl, but soon he was being covered by a soft chill and everything felt easier. The heat was disappearing, and his mind was clearing, but his exhaustion came back harder. He could feel himself falling asleep, but someone was touching him. There were small fingers around his wrist, moving them about. Virgil pulled away but the hands just came back again and again until he gave up. His palms were put on something cold and he let out a contented groan before sleep claimed him again.

[Section break]

When Virgil woke up, again, he could feel a weight on his chest, an actual weight. He looked up and saw two deep black eyes looking at him. They were surrounded by even blacker scales and a snout looking down at him. Fuck. There was a dragon on his chest. There was a fucking dragon on his chest. He was sure his own eyes were wide as he tried to process what exactly was going on.

"Um... hi... can you... can you get off me?" He asked in common, too tired to even try to find the words in draconic. The dragon tilted it's head to the side, blinking at Virgil, the covers in it's eyes going vertical instead of horizontal, and then it licked Virgil, from his chin to the top of his head before it bounced off. So it could understand common, good, but the dragon he had helped had been white.

Right?

This one was black. He didn't think dragons could change colors, that certainly wasn't common knowledge about them. Had he accidentally saved the leader of a dragon cult or something and now all of the baby dragons thought he was a friend? this one was about the same size as the first one Virgil saw. 

"Remus, stop, that's rude!" Virgil sat up slowly. Pushing himself off the ground. His hands didn't hurt nearly as much as before. Standing in front of him, holding his water skin and wearing the shirt Virgil had given him, was the boy from before.

No, this boy was slightly different, his hair was a bit lighter and he was a little thinner and paler. He was wearing Virgil's shirt, but it was inside out now. He also had a poorly wrapped wound on his ankle... where the other dragon had been in the snare. Virgil groaned, lying back in the dirt. The little boy hesitantly walked closer. "I refilled your water thing and made it clean, so it would be healthy. You drank a lot while you weren't feeling good, so I thought you would want more."

Virgil hesitantly took the water skin and drank from it. It was fresh and deliciously clear. He drank more than he probably needed to. "Thanks," He muttered to the kid when he was done. Sitting back up and not wallowing in his new revelation. Virgil looked down at the boy's ankle, it needed to be properly wrapped. "Can you grab my backpack and bring it over here?"

"Um, sorta." The boy stepped out of the way, and now there was another kid who looked just like him, trying to pick up things that were scattered on the ground. "You told us to wrap the wound and clean it so we did that, but we didn't know what to use or where anything was so we kinda pulled out everything."

Virgil sighed, rubbing his face. "Do you two have parents?" Two dragons, and apparently they can look human. Great. Wonderful.

"Nope," the black dragon, who was apparently the kid Virgil had met the first time, was smiling at him with a toothy grin. One of the things he was holding was Virgil's extra shirt. He only had the two, it was best not to over pack on a trip like this, but he would need it if Virgil was going to take them into town, and if they didn't have parents he was probably gonna need to do that.

"Anyone who helps take care of you."

"No sir," The white dragon, now kid, responded. 

"Right.... How have you two been making it by so far?"

"We're both dragons!" The one who had been a black dragon said indignantly, Remus, that's what the other one had called him. "We can hunt and stuff."

"Re is right, we're good at taking care of ourselves."

Virgil raised his eyebrow, and the other twin blushed, turning his head away. "That trap came out of no where and bit me." He protested and Virgil suddenly felt very very old. He rubbed his hands down his face. 

"And how often do the traps bite you?"

"This is the first time!" Not remus protested, "Normally it's like a net snare and I can burn my way out of those."

"Right," Fuck, Virgil couldn't leave two kids alone. It was only a matter of time before one of them get caught in a way they couldn't escape. "This is what's going to happen. I'm going to take the two of you to my house. You're going to rest there until your ankle is healed." He pointed to the white dragon, "Also you're gonna tell me your name." He lowered his hand. "Then when you're healed... well... we'll take it from there. It would be hard for him to raise two kids, and yeah they might be dragons, but he wasn't going to leave them alone. What if they got hurt? What if no one was there to save them the next time. If he hadn't been in the forest maybe a hunter would have caught the white dragon and what would have happened to them then?

"Roman,"

"Hm,"

"My name is Roman, and this is my brother Remus, oh, but I said his name, so you know that right?"

"Can I have your shirt?" Remus yelled. "Ro stole mine."

"Did not! I was keeping it safe for now."

"Yeah, but now I'm in my squishy form and you aren't giving it back."

"Well I'm cold"

"And I want it back." 

Virgil could already feel a headache brewing. "Yes, you can have it for now, but we are going to have to get both of your proper clothes." And he was going to have to figure out how to afford two sudden children. 

Remus shimmied into the shirt, smiling once it was on and cuddling into it.

Virgil had a feeling he wasn't going to get that shirt back, but he couldn't find it in himself to mind. These two kids needed someone, they needed an adult who wanted to protect them. What did it matter if they were dragons? They were also just kids.