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soaps-mohawk · 5 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 39: Life

Summary: Something begins to throb in your chest as you lay there. Something thrums deep within you, something you haven’t felt in weeks.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,194 words

Warnings: Angst, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, PTSD, nightmares, POV changes, depression and anxiety, illness, language, slightly graphic imagery, very slight violence, rumination, lots of feels, and yes finally some comfort

A/N: Yes, it has finally arrived. The time has come. We are now in the comfort. This very much is a good place to end things for the next month. If you haven't seen my post then I'll say it here, I will be putting the fic on a brief hiatus for the month of October. I have Kyletober planned and trying to do CRCB at the same time will be too much. So this will be the last chapter for a couple weeks while I focus on other things and just give my brain a little break from CRCB. It's been eight months of just pumping out long chapters every week, or almost every week, so I need a little break to focus on other things. I'll still be writing and posting things here (and Ao3 of course) but there won't be another CRCB chapter posted until November.

But anyway, I hope you enjoy this one and the comfort starting and I'm super excited for what's coming next month (can't believe it's almost October)

11/30/24: **This chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

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“I need you to be brave.” Christine says, staring up at him.

His heart thumps in his chest. How bad is it that not only did she summon him down here, but she’s asking him to be brave. He knows you’re sick, that you’ve fallen ill after your moment of anger earlier. She had informed them over dinner as she made some broth that you came down with a fever.

They had all been worried, sharing glances at the news. John looked like a dog that had been scolded. It was his fault, after all.

If anything happens to you, it is his fault.

Johnny swallows the lump in his throat, nodding slowly as he stares down at Christine. “I can be brave.”

Christine stares up at him for a long moment before nodding. She pushes the door open, leading him inside your room. The scent in the air is thick, tainted by the bitter scent of anxiety still lingering in the air, and the sour scent of illness. He misses the fresh scent of strawberries, he has missed it over the last few weeks. Your scent had taken on a bitter edge ever since the cameras were revealed to them. It’s only gotten stronger recently after the events that transpired.

All of their scents have been off lately.

It’s dark in the room aside from the bedside lamp. It casts a soft glow around the room, elongating the shadows in the corners. They loom threateningly, and his fingers twitch to turn on the overhead light.

You don’t like the overhead light. It’s too bright.

You always prefer softer light. Is it an omega thing, or is it just a you thing? He’s not quite sure.

How little they really understand you.

The lamp illuminates a pile of blankets on the bed, stacked one on top of each other to create a lump of soft fabric. You’re underneath that pile, he knows it. You’ve always liked blankets, always carried one with you in the barracks, eternally cold in the harsh world they existed in on base. This many blankets though? It was excessive even for you.

He approaches the bed slowly, scared at what he might find. Images of you laying in a puddle of blood, cold and stiff fills his mind. Images of a skeletal figure reduced to nothing but skin stretched over bones has his heart racing. What will he find on the other side of that pile obscuring you from his vision?

He swallows down his fear, reminding himself that he’s a soldier. He’s seen dead bodies before, he’s killed before. So why is he so scared now?

This isn’t war. It’s you.

He steps up to the side of the bed, looking down on you. You’re shivering, trembling under the blankets. Sweat beads on your forehead, skin dewy and clammy in your fever. You look more alive than the skeletal figure he had pictured in his mind, but you don’t look well.

You look near death.

“I’m worried about her.” Christine says, closing the door behind her. “She needs someone from her pack close. You’re making the most effort right now, and if anyone might get through to her, it’s you. She needs...someone.” Christine sighs. “Someone who can offer what I can’t.”

“She needs a member of her pack.” Johnny says, easily putting together what Christine was saying.

He knows what she’s asking. He’s scared. He’s not sure how you’ll react. The last people you want to see right now is your pack, including him. How will you react to having him so close?

“Exactly.” Christine says, stepping up right next to him.

Her fingers wrap around his wrist, and he lets her guide his hand to your cheek. It’s hot and clammy against his palm, a fire blazing under your skin. You let out a shuddering breath, the air fanning weakly against his wrist. Your head turns just slightly, pressing into his hand. It’s a good sign, despite the delirium you have to be stuck in. What are you imagining is happening right now? What is your brain telling you?

“Touch her, talk to her.” Christine says, releasing his wrist. He keeps his hand there, pressed against your cheek. “We need to try and get her back before this gets worse.”

Before they lose you.

She won’t say it out loud.

She doesn’t need to.

Johnny nods, turning his head to look at Christine over his shoulder. She looks exhausted, and not just because of the late hour. She’s done so much over the past few weeks watching you and caring for you. Maybe it is time one of them tries to step up and help her. You can’t avoid them forever, no matter how much you might feel like trying.

He has to try. For you.

“I know what tae do.” He says, his eyes flickering to the books stacked on your dresser, the ones Simon and John picked up.

Christine squeezes his arm. “I’m just across the living room if you need me.”

“I’ll try not to.” He says.

She stares up at him for a long moment before nodding. She understands. He doesn’t have to say much else. She leaves the door cracked and he doesn’t mind, moving away from you to look through the books on the dresser. A handful of them are new, or at least ones he’s never seen you read before. A couple are ones he knows are in your collection at the barracks. He picks one of those, some fantasy novel he’s seen you read more than once.

He looks between the bed and the chairs. He could pull one over and sit by your side.

No, Christine said it was better to touch you.

Instead he climbs onto the bed, sitting close enough he can feel the heat from your body. He cracks open the book, flipping through to the first page. He clears his throat, staring down at you for a moment before he begins to read.

Rain batters the roof, coming down hard outside. The wind is blowing, whooshing past the house, rattling the shutters. The storm blew in from the sea, dumping rain by dinner and then the wind picked up by the time they were all getting ready to settle in for the night.

It feels fitting, a storm blowing in at a time when a storm is brewing within their pack.

The storm he blew into their pack.

He lays there in bed, listening to it rage outside. It’s quiet in the house, Simon and Johnny already settled in, and so are you downstairs. Kyle is beside him, but not asleep. He’s laying awake again as they have done since their arrival. He can feel the heat of Kyle’s body against his arm as he lays on his back, Kyle on his side facing away from him.

“You just had to do it, didn’t you?” Kyle asks quietly, breaking the silence. “Can’t even go a week without trying to apologize knowing full well she won’t forgive you.”

John stays silent, having expected some kind of reprimanding for his actions. He really was selfish for what he did. Kyle is right. You won’t forgive him, no matter how many times or ways he tries to say sorry.

“You’re just making it worse.” Kyle huffs out. “You’re the last person that should try apologizing right now.”

“You’re right.” He finally says. “It was selfish of me to do that. I just wanted her to know-”

“She knows.” Kyle snaps, cutting him off. “She’s not stupid and oblivious. She knows we’re all feeling guilty, she knows how sorry we all are. She won’t let us apologize until she’s ready. Shows just how little you actually understand her, trying to do that.” Kyle pushes himself up to sit. “She doesn’t want words. She’s had words spewed at her, her whole life telling her what to do, how to feel, how to act. She wants actions. She wants us to prove to her that we do care, that we are sorry, that we’re making an effort to make things up to her. She wants us to prove that we’re putting her first by putting her first.”

John knows he’s right. Words won’t solve a situation like this. None of them know where to start, though. How do you try and make things up to someone when you’re not even sure that person wants you to try?

“She’s sick now, because of what you did.” Kyle continues. “If anything happens to her...” He trails off, shaking his head.

“I’ll let you take the first shot.” John says. “I know. I’ve been a miserable excuse of an alpha. It’s easy when you have the confines of the military to hold everything in place. When those expectations dictate your life and how to run a pack. It’s easy, when you can exist as a pack with those set routines and structures. The facade that makes everything seem like it's working.” He shakes his head. “We never would have worked outside of those confines.”

Kyle’s head turns slightly towards him, but his gaze is still on the far wall. “No, we wouldn’t have. None of us would have chosen this in the first place.”

“Probably not.” John agrees. “Then we got an omega added, an outsider that showed us just how weak we really were.”

“We were crumbling long before that.” Kyle says. “We weren’t ready for an omega, we shouldn’t have ever had an omega.”

“I should never have been head alpha.” John says. “Being an alpha is different from being a captain. It shouldn’t have been me.”

Kyle snorts. “He would have never agreed.”

“That delay might have saved us.”

“Or it would have made things worse.” Kyle says. “Shepherd wanted us to bond with her right away so his control over us would strengthen if he had to use that power. If those bonds weren’t put into place when they were, they might have tried to force it.”

“That would have only destabilized things further.” John says. Kyle isn’t wrong. Who knows what lengths they would have gone to, to ensure what they wanted would happen. “They were watching us from the start. They knew exactly how to play all of us.”

“Simon was right all along in his suspicions.” Kyle says, laying back down on the bed. Their shoulders are touching. It feels nice, having him close again. They’ve been close for the last few days, forced together by their sleeping arrangements, but it feels different now.

“He’ll be a better alpha than I ever could be.” John says quietly, almost speaking to himself.

“I think she will come to forgive you eventually.” Kyle says, turning his head to look at John. “You just have to give her time. A lot of time. You have to figure out how to prove yourself worthy of that forgiveness.”

“I want to take her to the beach.” John says. “Once she’s recovered.”

“If she recovers.” Kyle had pieced together the worry in Christine’s voice combined with her words. They all had.

“She will.” John says, sliding his hand across the sheets. “She’s a tough little thing. She’s not going to give up just like that.”

“I hope you’re right.” Kyle says. He doesn’t pull away as John’s fingers brush his hand.

“I may not have the best track record with being right currently, but I’m confident in her and her strength.” John turns his head to look at Kyle in the darkness. The storm is calming outside, the wind dying down and the rain lightening. “She’s stronger than all of us combined.”

The corners of Kyle’s lips twitch. “You are right about that.”

It smells good.

There’s a rich scent in the air as you begin to wake. It smells like Christmas, like spices and citrus. Warm gingerbread and cider. Freshly squeezed orange juice on Christmas morning just like every year. It had been your favorite, though you never understood the lengths your mother went to, the early morning and the hours spent in the kitchen on Christmas slaving away to make everything perfect. Everyone got something they wanted, something they loved. You never appreciated that effort until now.

Oranges. Spices. Warmth.

You know that scent.

It’s hot in the room, sweat soaking your skin as you lay on your right side. Heat surrounds you like a cocoon, just like the scent. Warm and soft and too much. You try to wiggle out from under the blankets but you can’t move, so instead you shuffle them off. Some of them hit the floor with soft plops, the others just barely hanging on the side of the bed, trapped under your body. You’re still stuck, still hot as you lay there, a comforting weight around you. The scent floods your nose, fills your body with a pleasant feeling as you lay there, breathing through your nose. Oranges, spices, warmth.

Someone is baking a pie.

It smells good. You want to bury yourself in it, press yourself into that scent until it’s the only thing you can smell. It brings you a comfort you didn’t realize you were missing. Something fills your chest, a weight beginning to press down inside of you.

Your hair sticks to your face as you lay there, tempted to get up and see who is baking and why. There’s weight pressing down on you from the outside as well. You can’t move. You’re stuck.

The weight around you moves.

No, it’s not pie.

It’s Johnny.

That’s why you know the scent. That’s why it feels so familiar, so comforting. It’s Johnny. Johnny is pressed up against your back, his arm tossed over your waist. That’s why it’s so hot, his body putting off warmth like a heater.

You should be angry at the breach of your clearly placed barriers. You should be upset that he would come in here and just climb in bed like this. You should be pissed that one of them would try something like this after your outburst yesterday.

You shouldn’t be crying.

Not out of relief.

Oh how you missed this.

Something begins to throb in your chest as you lay there, crying quietly in Johnny’s arms. Something begins to thrum deep within you, something you haven’t felt in weeks. Life? Hope? Happiness?

You should be upset.

You can’t be.

Johnny grunts quietly behind you, his arm leaving your waist as he stretches. He’s awake now, or maybe he hadn’t been at all and had been waiting for some sign of life, some movement from you, something to try and give him a hint at what you must be feeling. He doesn’t say anything, laying still as you sniffle in the silence. No one else is up yet, despite the blue light of dawn coming in through the gap in the curtain.

“Johnny?” You whisper, even the quiet sound hurting your sore throat. You’re thirsty, desperately so, but that’s a problem for later.

“It’s me, kitten.” He says hesitantly, the pet name making a sob tear from your throat.

“Johnny,” You cry, the tears falling in a cascade. You can’t stop them. You’ve lost complete control as you lay there sobbing. “Hold me.”

He doesn’t say anything else, his arms wrapping around you and tugging you close against his chest. He locks you in his embrace, holding you tightly against his chest as you cry. It feels good. Life and energy flows through you again for the first time in weeks. That empty space in your chest begins to fill slowly, warmth blossoming in your body despite the sweat soaking you both. Johnny offers no complaints as he presses his face into your hair.

How you missed this.

How you need this.

You seem more relaxed at dinner. Despite your angry outburst the day before, and your sudden illness, you look significantly less miserable than you did your first attempt at joining them for dinner. The yelling did a number on your throat, but even now it’s nothing compared to that first day. You’re having soup again, and this time there’s a side of mash and peas next to the bowl.

You even walked to the table without the crutch.

Simon sits beside you again, all of them taking their respective seats at the table. They’ve assigned themselves these seats, even when you don’t join them for a meal. You’re at the head of the table as you were the first time, Simon and Chrstine on either side of you. Kyle and Johnny are seated next to them, and John is across the table from you. You’ve been avoiding looking at him. You haven’t even so much as glanced up at him.

Simon is watching you carefully out of the corner of his eye, trying not to make it obvious. If you’ve noticed, you haven’t shown any disapproval. He’s ready in case he has to act fast again, but you are far more steady than you were that first time. There’s no tremble to your hand as you bring the spoon up to your mouth.

The others look happier than before too. Johnny has stopped crying. Not even a sniffle from him ever since this morning when he emerged from your room. None of them had said anything about it, though they have an inkling of what had happened, judging by Christine’s lack of reaction to it. Kyle looks happier too, sitting straighter like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. It probably has, with the lightening of the mood. Whatever happened with Johnny this morning, it’s made a huge change already.

John has never been much of a religious man, but god bless Johnny for whatever magic he worked this morning.

You don’t even look feverish as you sit there, spooning soup into your mouth. A lingering low-grade fever, Christine had informed them earlier that afternoon, but significantly less concerning than things had been yesterday.

He’s glad to hear it. He’s always glad to hear Christine’s updates on how you’re doing, how well you’re healing, at least physically. The body heals easily. Mentally...there’s still a long way to go. Healing physically will help mentally, but with all the trauma, years and years of trauma, it’s going to take a long time to heal from that.

The clink of your spoon in your bowl draws him from his thoughts and he glances up at you.

“Getting full?” Christine asks as you take a sip of your water, wincing slightly as you swallow it.

“Can I have some tea?” You ask.

“Sure,” Christine says, going to push her chair back, but John is already standing.

“I’ll make some.” He says, not offering any room for argument as he turns his back on the table to head for the kettle.

You’ve been drinking more tea lately, likely to soothe your throat. He never thought he’d see the day, given your determination to stand with Johnny on the side of coffee. It’s a bit late for coffee, but he does know it wouldn’t keep you awake in the slightest. You love your sleep, as most omegas do, and nothing will get in the way of it. Not even some late evening caffeine.

He sets mugs out on a tray, deciding to make tea for everyone. At least that way it’ll make it seem less targeted at you. He’s not doing it to try and impress you or win your affections back. He just wants to help take the load off of Christine’s shoulders. She’s done so much for you, for all of them, already.

He steeps the tea before bringing the mugs to the table along with some milk and sugar. He knows at least Simon and Kyle will drink some, and he will as well. He brings the kettle over, filling the mugs with tea. All of them sit there watching him, waiting tensely for what will happen next. Will you take the mug of tea he offers? Or will you refuse. Even if you threw it in his face, it wouldn’t make him mad. It would be horribly painful, yes, but he would deserve it.

Perhaps him doing this was a mistake.

He stares at the sugar and milk as he grabs one of the mugs. Do you like sugar or milk in your tea? He’s not sure. He doesn’t even know how you take your tea. He knows you like creamer in your coffee. But how do you take your tea?

What a sad excuse of a human being he is.

You don’t look at him as he sets the mug next to your water glass. You’re still eating your soup, your hand trembling just slightly now. Your scent is tainted still, a whiff of it filling his nose. Displeasure, a hint of burning anger.

This was a mistake.

He sets the milk and sugar next to you first, letting you finish making your tea. He won’t push that boundary and risk making it wrong. It would only add fuel to the fire, make it more obvious that he knows and cares so little for you. He doesn’t even know how you take your tea.

He takes his seat again as the others help themselves to the tea, even Johnny taking a mug. Whether he’s doing it because he wants to make the moment feel less awkward, or because he genuinely wants some, John will never know.

He made a mistake in doing that.

Still, despite the awkwardness, it felt good to do that.

Maybe that’s how they get closer to you.

The little things, things that take some of the pressure off Christine. She has to be getting tired, going nonstop all day. Anything they can do to help, they should. Things seemed to go well with Johnny, so maybe the others can have some success in their attempts to gain your favor once more.

John will have to stay away for now. Distance is what you need from him.

That’s alright. He has other things he can do.

He tries to hide the small grin on his face as you pick up the mug, taking a sip of the tea.

They’re fighting.

You stand at the back door watching them throw punches. They’re solid punches, nothing held back, no pulling them. They’re all breathing heavily, two of them watching the other two fight.

Simon’s fist meets Kyle’s shoulder, Kyle’s fist going for Simon’s head but he’s too fast, ducking before he drives his shoulder into Kyle’s stomach. Kyle hits the grass, disappearing from your view.

John steps forward, pulling Simon back and speaking to him, but you can’t hear from this distance.

“Still out there?” Dr. Keller asks, stepping up beside you.

“Yep.” You say, watching as Johnny takes Kyle’s place against Simon.

“John did say it would be good for them.” Dr. Keller says, wincing as Johnny’s fist hits Simon’s ribs.

“They’re gonna start a real fight.” You say, watching as Simon starts to get more aggressive. You can tell because you’ve been in that position before. You’ve seen when that switch starts to flip, when the alpha starts to take over. He was never this aggressive with you, but perhaps even his alpha could be rational given your obvious size and strength difference.

And the fact you’re an omega.

“Well, that’s their problem.” Dr. Keller says. “As long as they keep it out there.”

“They might make you patch them up afterwards.” You say.

She lets out a snort. “There’s ice packs in the freezer and a first aid kit in the bathroom.”

You try to hide your smile as you watch John get in between Johnny and Simon, speaking to Simon again. Maybe it will be good for them to get some of that pent up energy out. They’re all used to being so active and always having something to do. Being stuck inside has to be driving them stir-crazy. Simon has been going on runs in the morning, and you know John has been going on walks every so often.

You’re starting to feel a bit stir-crazy yourself. It’s taking you back to the days shut up in the barracks, unable to go anywhere or do anything, having to entertain yourself for hours while they were gone. At least there you had space and room to move around, even when you were being trailed, one of them constantly following you around. They might not be hovering quite as obviously here, but it still feels suffocating, like you can’t truly have a moment to yourself.

“I want to go for a walk.” You say, shifting on your feet. The likelihood of you going very far is slim, at least right now.

How far you’ve fallen from your running days.

“I suppose you could go for a little walk.” Dr. Keller gives you a sideways glance. “Might be good to help get your strength back. I doubt they’d let us go without one of them, though.”

“Probably not.” You agree, knowing they won’t even let you sit out on the porch without one of them watching. If you left the house without even telling one of them, all hell would break loose and you’d be condemned to your room once more.

The thought makes you wince.

You almost wish you could go out there and throw some punches at one of them. That might make you feel a bit better. Hell, line them all up and you’ll take turns beating the crap out of all of them. Maybe that might heal some of the anger and pain still stuck inside of you.

That’s an idea for a different day, though.

It’s oddly warm out today, or at least that’s what Ashley said. Soon the weather will turn, though, and the cold rain will come. Lots of rain.

Your eyes flick between Ashley and Dr. Keller. The three of you are seated in a circle around a table outside, steaming mugs of tea in front of you. Neither of them are staring at you, instead focused on each other as Ashley speaks.

Dr. Keller has a crush.

It’s not hard to tell. Her eyes are focused on Ashley, a smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze only flicks to you when you shift and move in your seat before she’s staring at Ashley again. You can’t blame her. You can hardly bring yourself to look away from Ashely too.

It makes you almost miss Kyle.

They have the same soft brown eyes and the same bright smile. They’re both perfect, like they were chiseled out of marble and brought to life. They even laugh the same, a genuine chuckle coming right from the chest.

It makes you want to laugh, even if you have no clue what was being said.

How has Kyle been handling this? You’ve hardly paid him any mind. His connection to John puts him too close to the source of your anger and rage and pain. Johnny cries, Simon is a brick wall, John reeks of guilt and misery. Kyle...you don’t know. He’s been a blank spot, a hazy figure in the distance.

It almost makes you feel bad. You’ve completely cut him off, isolated him. Has he cried? Has he been sulking? How miserable does he feel about everything? Does he feel guilty or miserable at all? He has to. They all do.

Good. You think. They deserve it.

“You do get stuck in your head, huh?”

Your gaze snaps up, looking between Dr. Keller and Ashley. They’re both staring at you quietly, a small smile on Ashley’s face. You did get lost in your thoughts again, stuck in your ruminations as you usually do. Lately it hasn’t been a problem, as you’re alone or with Dr. Keller often. You’re supposed to be thinking and processing. It just happens at the worst times.

Simon would hate it still.

“Something specific on your mind?” Dr. Keller asks.

You probably shouldn’t say anything. How would you explain how your mind went from Dr. Keller crushing on Ashley to hoping the guys feel guilty? You’re not even sure you should reveal that you know about Dr. Keller’s crush, especially if she hasn’t said anything yet. You don’t think she has. They’re not...close in the way a couple would be, a distance still between them. Does Ashley feel the same way? It’s hard to tell since you don’t know her quite as well yet.

Maybe that can be your goal, besides healing. Something to focus on, something to distract from the constant emotions and pain. Get Ashley and Dr. Keller together.

They’d be perfect for each other.

“Not really.” You finally say, looking down at the book in your lap. You’re about halfway through it. It’s fine. Nothing to write home about.

“What do you think of the book?” Ashley asks, sensing your end to that discussion. She doesn’t push. You like that about her.

“It’s alright.” You shrug. “Kinda slow.”

“They are spending a lot of time on character development.” Dr. Keller says.

“We should keep a tally of how many times the phrase “his dark eyes” gets mentioned.” Ashley says, making you laugh.

“It’s good to hear you laugh.” Dr. Keller says, smiling at you.

“It...feels good to laugh again.” You say. “It’s nice to have something to laugh about.”

“Well then I’m going to make that my mission.” Ashley says, taking a sip of her tea. “Get you to laugh as much as possible.”

You don’t think you’ll mind that one bit.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

You don’t turn to look as Dr. Keller sinks into the seat next to you. It’s raining again, the rain pattering against the window as you sit in front of it. They won’t let you go out in the rain.

“Something that is rather important.” She continues. “Something you should know.” She clears her throat, not waiting for a response. She knows she won’t get one. “When you told John that he left you there to be tortured...is that what Graves told you? Did he tell you they left you behind?”

Her words have something sinking in your stomach. Your insides are squirming, your intestines tying themselves in knots. You haven’t even thought about that. You’ve been so caught up in the emotions, swept up in the anger and devastation. The memories of what happened are still blurry, still stuck in the recesses while your body heals.

That pit in your stomach continues to drop as she stares at you, waiting for an answer.

You don’t want to answer.

“Hey,” She says softly, leaning to try and stay in your line of sight as your eyes begin to drop to the side. “We need to talk about this.” There’s a serious look on her face as your eyes slowly lift to stare at her again. “Do you believe they chose to leave you behind with Graves?”

Tears prick behind your eyes as you stare at her. Of course you do. Why wouldn’t they? They’ve left you behind so many times, what’s another? They don’t care that you were being tortured. They never cared that them leaving you before was like torture. Why would they waste the chance to go after Shepherd before he found a place to hide?

The job comes first.

“Yes.” You breathe, a tear sliding down your cheek. You want to say it, let all the thoughts rushing through your mind pour right out of your mouth but the tears choke you, keep you silent.

The serious mask on Dr. Keller’s face melts away to a sympathetic look. It doesn’t surprise you. It’s the look she often wears when she looks at you.

“Oh, honey.” She says, reaching out, but you withdraw yourself further away. “They didn’t leave you behind. They were doing everything they could to try and find where you were. John about blazed a path across the US to find you.”

You don’t want to believe it. It sounds too good to be true. Her words stir the bitter pot in your stomach, the anger at them and at yourself. You let yourself believe that they would care about you, but they led you to believe they cared. They left you so easily and you never said anything to them to try and keep them with you. They left you behind when they knew it was dangerous, and you believed Phil when he told you they had abandoned you.

Why would Phil tell you the truth? He wanted to torture you, wanted to take out his anger on you. It wasn’t your decision, nothing was your decision, but in the end the mark on your shoulder sealed your fate. You’d never belong to him. The more he could tear you and your pack down the better. The more hopeless you felt, the more you hated the members of your pack, the more satisfaction he would get.

He wanted to drive the wedge between your pack, and you fell for it.

Tears glide down your cheeks as you turn to face the window. They mirror the droplets of rain sliding down the glass. Your fingers curl against the fabric of the chair, your breaths starting to come in gasps as reality begins to settle in.

“You’re okay.” Dr. Keller says, kneeling next to the chair. “I was there with them, I saw just how desperate they were. They wouldn’t leave you like that. Trust me.”

Can you trust her? Can you trust any of them? Part of you would like to. The part of you that wants things to go back to the way they were, when things felt fine, when you still believed your pack loved you. Back when you could be delusional and believe something good could come of this entire situation.

Now you’re stuck with a pack that never wanted you. Now you’re stuck with the trauma of the last few weeks, trauma you should have never faced in the first place. Not if your pack truly cared about you. It was always a risk, but you always believed they would take care of you, they would keep you safe.

Now look at you.

A sob tears from your lips as you sit there, the thoughts quickly growing to be too much. Dr. Keller reaches for you but you pull away, pushing yourself up to stand. You move towards the bed, grabbing one of the plush pillows. You bring it to your face, letting out a long, muffled scream.

The scream dies in your throat as you jolt awake in bed. The book that had been in your hands when you fell asleep drops to the floor with a quiet thud as you jerk up into a seated position. You’re breathing heavily, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you try and calm your racing heart. It’s beating hard like it might beat right out of your chest. You’re shaking, your hands clutching at the baggy shirt you’re wearing like you’re trying to cling to some hope that it was all a dream, that you’re awake now and this is real life.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you sit there, shaking in the darkness. You need someone. The shadows are closing in around you, your nightlight unable to keep them completely away. You need someone to fight them back. You need someone to reassure you that it was all just a dream, someone that can wipe the tears streaming down your cheeks and whisper softly to you that it’s all okay. That it’s all over.

You need Kyle.

Where is Kyle? How do you get to him without waking the others? You could go upstairs but what if they think you’re an intruder? You don’t even know which room Kyle is in. You wish you had a phone. You wish you could call him. You wish you could just telepathically reach out and tell him you need him and only him.

You’ll wake them all anyway trying to find him.

You suck a breath in, your hands still shaking as they cling to your shirt. You have to do it. It’s the only way to get them all down here, to get Kyle down here.

You take a couple deep breaths before you scream.

Within seconds the house is alive, footsteps racing across the living room towards your room as others thud from above.

The overhead light stings your eyes, forcing them closed. It’s too bright, intrusive even with your eyes pinched closed. You can still see it behind your eyelids, harsh and too artificial. Just a price you have to pay to get what you need.

Dr. Keller’s hands are soft as they peel your hands off your shirt, your fingers trembling with nothing to hold on to. They open and close, seeking out something to grip, something to give you an anchor to reality. You’re still panicking, your breaths shaky as you shit there, trembling in fear.

“You’re alright,” She tries to soothe you, brushing your sweaty hair back. “It was just a dream.”

You wish it was.

“Kyle.” The name comes out as barely a whisper, stuttering out of your trembling lips.

“What was that, sweetie?” Dr. Keller asks, leaning in closer.

“Kyle.” You whisper louder now, the name shaky in the tense silence of the room.

“Kyle,” Dr. Keller repeats, standing up straight.

Quiet, hesitant footsteps approach the bed. Your eyes are still pinched closed against the harsh overhead light. You can’t bring yourself to be brave enough to open them, to face that harsh light. It might reveal the truth, that it was all just a dream, that this is still just a dream.

It might not be Kyle approaching the bed at all.

You can’t know. You don’t want to know. You’re afraid to open your eyes.

There’s a click as the lamp is turned on. You still can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. It’s supposed to be comforting, the soft light, but it could be used against you, giving you a false sense of hope and security.

You flinch as the overhead light is turned on, still too afraid to open your eyes. Your hands have closed around the blanket pooled at your waist, gripping it so tightly your fingers are aching. It’s real. You’re touching it, you can feel the texture of it in your hands. It’s real.

It’s real.

Your breaths are shaky as you breathe in and out, trying to catch a scent. Any scent. Something to tell you that you’re really awake, that it really is Kyle standing next to the bed.

“I’m here.” A soft voice says, something hovering in the air next to you.

Kyle.

You know that voice. You’d know it anywhere.

You finally crack your eyes open, tears brimming as you turn your head to look up. Kyle is standing there awkwardly next to the bed, his hand raised as if he was reaching out to comfort you, but thought better of it. You’re glad he did. You might have spiraled into another panic if he’d touched you before you knew it was him.

You stare at his hand for a moment before you peel one of your hands away from the blanket. Your hand is shaky as you lift it, reaching out towards his own trembling fingers.

His fingers are warm and rough, just as you remember as they close around yours. You’re still shaking, a cold sweat forming on your skin as fear trickles down your spine.

What if this is a dream? What if this isn’t real?

“I’m here.” He says, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles.

You want to believe him. You really do.

You pull his hand closer, pressing your cheek against it. His skin is warm against your cheek, and like Johnny, he makes no complaints about your sweat smearing on his skin. You’ve been that close to them before, sweat mixing together, slicking skin. How far things have fallen since then.

Your tears drip onto his skin as you hold him there, just breathing him in for a moment. He smells like the sea, but with that soft, light scent underneath. You missed that scent, more than you realize you did.

You let out a quiet sound as you rub your cheek against his hand, almost like you’re trying to embed his scent under your skin.

He doesn’t say anything as you lean against his hand, tears still streaming down your face. The lamp is pushing some of the darkness away, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. You can still feel the eyes from the dark corners of the room, the shadowy figures just out of view threatening to reach out and tear you away.

A shudder runs down your spine, your fingers squeezing around Kyle’s in what has to be a painful grip.

“I’m here.” He says again, pulling you from the dark thoughts plaguing your mind. He’d know if someone was here. He’d know if anything threatening was nearby.

It’s his job.

The job.

The thing that’s kept you so separated from them, kept you at a distance. The thing that put your life in danger, that exposed them all as liars. The thing that’s left you an empty shell.

Maybe having him down here was a mistake.

But the shadows...

You tug on his hand, pulling him closer to the bed. He sinks down on the edge carefully, still a bit hesitant. You don’t blame him. It’s not like you’ve been the most welcoming of them. For good reason.

You need him right now. That need for safety and security far outweighs the conflicting emotions battling in your brain right now.

“Stay.” You say, the word tumbling out from your trembling lips.

“You’re sure?” He asks, his thumb still stroking your knuckles. You’re not sure if he even knows he’s doing it.

You nod, tugging him closer as you scoot over in bed. He lets you guide him, laying on top of the covers.

You try not to think about it too much.

It’s nice having him close. The shadows don’t seem quite as dark, the threats in them silent now that he’s here. He’ll keep you safe. He’ll protect you from the silent threats. That’s why you want him. That’s his role to play in all of this. They all have roles, they all have their places in the pack. They all have a part to play, not just for you but for each other.

They’ve been struggling.

They’re struggling because you’re struggling.

The silence is loud as you lay there listening to the hum of electricity. You’re not quite sure what to say, how to break the silence. What is there to say that you haven’t already conveyed by your silence? What is there to say beyond what you’ve conveyed in your anger? They all heard your outburst, they all know the source of your anger and what they did to cause it.

What’s left to say when you have nothing tying you together anymore except a claim and a half-broken bond? What is there to say when saying the wrong thing might fray that bond even more than it already has been?

“I’m sorry.” Kyle says, finally breaking the tense silence.

Of course he’d start with that.

You let out a huff, turning on your side to face away from him. “I know you all are. You don’t have to keep saying it.”

He lets out a sigh. He knows it. He’s not apologizing to you, for you. “Nothing can change what we did and we know that. We just...want you to know that we’ll do whatever it takes to help you and support you. We don’t want to push that boundary too far, but we’re all here if you need us.”

You let out a hum. You already know that too. That’s why Johnny came so willingly, that’s why he stayed. That’s why they all tiptoe around you and stare at you like you’re a wild animal that may strike at any moment.

Part of you wishes they wouldn’t.

Part of you wants to go back to the way things were. Part of you wants to pretend that everything is normal again, that you love them and they love you just as much. You want to go back to that comfortable, seamless flow of one around the other, the way they all moved in sync, aware of each other without even needing to look. You want to insert yourself into that flow again and let them guide you along with them. You want to trust them blindly again and know they’d catch you if you fall.

They proved they won’t though. They proved you can’t trust them to catch you. You’re on your own again, forced to catch yourself, forced to save yourself. You have to make that rope to catch yourself with.

Yet, a deeper part of you yearns for that connection. Your omega screams for it, for your alpha, for your pack. You want them back with you, you want the bonds to heal and to be stronger than they were before. You want them to do as they said and prove to you that they’ve changed, that they're putting you first.

The omega should be first. The omega should be the center. The omega should be the sun they gravitate towards, revolve around.

That’s what the book said. That book that’s sitting on your desk in the barracks. That book you read over and over, convincing yourself that it was true and they were a good pack like that book said.

They’re not.

We all make mistakes.

They’ve never had an omega before. How are they supposed to know how to have an omega in their pack if they’ve never had one before? None of them came from big packs. John is the only one who’s ever even dated an omega before. They’re just as new at this as you are.

You probably know more than them.

You spent years learning how to be an omega in a pack. You read the books and wrote the essays and did the research. You read that book.

Simon read that book too.

Yet he did nothing.

“Why did you want me?” Kyle asks softly, pulling you from your ruminations.

You turn your head to look at him, staring into those soft brown eyes. Brown eyes you’ve missed. Tears trail down your cheeks as you stare at him, wetting the paths of the ones that had slowed to a stop in your rumination.

Why did you want him and not Johnny?

Johnny was the one that came for you, that comforted you, that got you through your fever. Johnny was the one you asked to hold you, to give you that support you’ve been so desperately clawing for.

So why did you ask for Kyle?

You turn onto your back again so you’re laying side by side, your shoulder brushing his. He’s warm, and you just want to nuzzle into him and never let him go again.

Another tear slides down your face as you stare at him, at that concerned look on his face. “I need you to tell me it’s going to be okay.”

That concern morphs into understanding as he shifts slightly, reaching out for you. You let him, you let his thumb brush the tear sliding down your cheek away. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just staring at you as you lay there in the warm light of the lamp. The shadows don’t seem so close now, so threatening with him here. The things that lay in the darkness waiting for you to sleep so they can seep into your mind and stir up the horrible memories lying there in wait are at bay for now, fought off just simply by his existence in this room.

His thumb continues to brush your cheek, your skin tingling along the path it follows. “It’s going to be okay.” He says softly, quietly.

You’re not sure if he’s convincing you of that or himself, or perhaps both. You don’t know what he’s feeling, what he’s been feeling. You’ve been ignoring him, pushing him away out of fear that if you looked too closely, you’d break down. That bond will never break between the two of you, held tight with steel simply because of that claim your alpha and his alpha has on the both of you. No matter how much you hate John, that bond can’t be broken. It can’t be cut. It can’t go away. It can’t be denied. Not completely.

A small smile tugs at Kyle’s lips, a reassuring smile. His words are stronger this time, spoken with more conviction and surety, like he’s speaking it into existence, manifesting it for the future when things perhaps can be different.

When things are better.

“It’s going to be okay.” He says, cupping your cheek, staring right into your eyes as he speaks. “We’re going to be okay.”

NEXT ->

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #poly 141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #Johnny mactavish x reader #soap x reader #Kyle Garrick x reader #gaz x reader #John price x reader #captain price x reader #Simon Riley x reader #Ghost x reader #a/b/o #alpha/beta/omega #omegaverse

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ashton-ryder · 2 days ago

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"Do you?" Because that doesn't feel like love. Nothing she's told him about them felt like it was about love, it felt like it was about control. A question with just enough doubt uttered caressing over the surface hooking onto a crack in her foundation of the declaration thrown back at him.

tw: choking, self induced vomiting, abuse

That was all he could say before his jaw was held and his mouth was forced open, thrashing about what he could to pull away from what she was about to infect him with. His tongue did what it could to block the passageway from the liquid going down his throat, effectively blocking his own airway as long as he could while he continued to resist. But with her aiding to cover his mouth and airway, there was only so much he could hold his breath and hold back.

The moment she called for his release, Ashton fell over to his knees, spitting out whatever he managed to keep out from swallowing, sticking his fingers as far into his throat as possible to induce some way to get it all back out. He retched and gagged but there was virtually nothing in his system to even throw up. The panic settling into his bones at the very reality she forced upon him. He's faced death so many times before they probably were friends at this point, but to face death this way? He rather she just kill him now. His gaze was widened but distant, when he realized trying to throw it all back up was not working, he simply stays kneeled on all fours, until the coughing fits reduced to wheezes and panicked heaves.

Ashton refused to look up from his tear-stricken gaze boring into the floor, Sada once again listing her demands, more cruel than before. He will not control whether Jeremiah would ever touch him or talk to him or look at him. And there it was again. The toxic control masked as sickening love, the gross gloat that he was hers, Ashton hasn't forgotten the way she once called him her plaything. Even if she brought up Ruth's name, it was an immediate flinch of Sada even dare dragging her name into it as his bloody and bruised hands curled into fists. But Ash said nothing, throat raw from bile trying to vomit back out the infection of liquid death, because, he knew he had some kind of upper hand. Someone, somewhere with power over Sada wanted him alive. There could only be one - that was enough of a comfort. She wasn't going to kill him right now, not if he had anything to say about it, and there's a tiny flicker of warmth in knowing that Jer did.

And even if she did kill him, like she said before, no one would care, right? So what if he died, people's lives would still move on without him, so why was he trying to hard to stay alive? It'd be so much easier if he was dead. Jeremiah wouldn't need to waste his energy on him and he'd have one less problem in his life, Ruth wouldn't be crying over an outcome she couldn't choose. Charlie and JP don't need one more thorn in their side when he'd only make them feel guilty for choosing others over him. Death didn't seem that bad when he looked at it that way, remove himself from people's lives if all he does is cause them pain.

And so he will not comply. He refused to beg. He'd rather gamble with the reaper than say the things he'd never follow through with. He's said it multiple times before and accepted it in his core since he was a marine - he was ready to die. Doesn't mean he wants to. Doesn't mean he wasn't scared. But he was ready. "-fuck you."

Her insides bristled at his declaration, a dark pallor falling over her her as she watched her two henchmen struggle to hold him down, the pair seemingly knowing enough to get rougher afterward. Perhaps reading the danger in her expression. The murder in her eyes.

Nails tapping on the glass of the vial as she made her way over, Sada popped the cork and gave it a little swirl as she came over to bring her lips once more to Ashton's ear, tone low like the warning rumble of a broiling volcano. "Guess what... I love him, too." Leaning back just enough to see what she was doing, Sada took a hold of his jaw once more with a nails in grip and with the help of James, yanked his mouth open.

"Say ahh..." Tilting the vial over with a little 'oop' she watched as the contents of the infected wine tumbled over and down his throat, her hand pressing over his mouth to stop him from spitting it out. "Let him go." Speaking once she was sure he'd swallowed it back, the trio released his bonds and stood back, the two men staying on either side to prevent attack, while Sada turned and headed for the syringe.

"Now. Let's try this again." Vaccine in hand, tantalizingly out of his reach, she watched him with a smile that said she felt that she'd won. "You will never let Jeremiah touch you, ever again. You will not look at him, or speak to him, or I will let you turn into one of those things... and I'll sick you on your friend. Doctor Ruth? Say it, and I'll give you the vaccine, right now. Say it, that he's mine and that you will never try and rise up against me. Then top it all off with: 'I'm sorry, Sada'."

#tw: choking #tw: self induce vomiting #tw: abuse #big yikes #pls read tws #aw geez sry i think this entire thing needs a read more #u will never find this man begging #unless its a sex thing--#this was like a big brain self awareness moment of his own plot armor huh ash u big smart boy #i have no gifs for this #time to use our disturbing imaginations #not me tho i don't wanna cry thinking about my baby boi like this #i once again did not proofread it it was actually written as a halluciply #ch: Sada #;Sada7 #;April22nd #;Ashton's Cell

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ofbatsandballads · 3 months ago

Text

i love you, i’m sorry

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k

warnings: injured character, explicit descriptions of wounds, brief mention of reader having a panic attack, emotional angst, bad dad Bruce implied

a/n: i just feel like jason showing up half dead at your door would be a massive turning point in your relationship, y’know? can be read as a successor to this or as a standalone.

divider credit: saradika

When Red Hood comes to you, he’s almost always hurt. You’ve learned to keep a first aid kit that would make any hospital jealous and with no formal training you’ve picked up skills that rival that of an army medic. Over the last year, you’ve seen gashes, bruises, concussions, even a dislocated shoulder.

You have never seen anything like this.

You spot him the second you walk through your front door. He’s slumped against the wall just below your window. His armor has gashes in it and blood steadily drips from the tears. There’s more blood dripping down his chest, making the red bat symbol look like it’s melting. More concerning than anything else is the helmet. It’s broken. There’s a huge chunk of it missing on the left side of his head. You can see the red domino mask underneath, the battered skin that’s already coloring the initial red-purple of a black eye, and the blood flowing from a nasty looking cut on his eyebrow.

You freeze. A bolt of panic shoots from your head to your toes. No, not panic. Fear. Pure, undiluted fear. Because he looks like he’s dying. The thought startles you out of your haze and you slam your front door shut, locking the five different locks he’d insisted on installing around three months into your partnership. You run to him. You don’t know what to do. All you know is you need to get to him.

You drop to your knees and place your hands on either side of his head. For the first time, your right hand meets skin instead of cool metal. Maybe another time you’d savor that, but your hand is slick with his blood the second you make contact.

“Red?” you call, voice frantic.

You repeat the nickname over and over, fear rising into your throat when he makes no acknowledgment of you, when there’s no sign of life. You continue to call for him, begin gently shaking his shoulder. Finally, the white lens of the domino mask narrows and expands. A blink. He’s alive.

“Hey.”

His voice is broken, weak, filled with pain. He’s hurt in a way you’ve never seen him hurt. Underneath the fear you feel a surge of anger. Whoever did this to him…you want their head on a pike.

“Hi…hi,” you greet him shakily.

You’re lost. He’s in such bad shape you don’t know where to begin. You decide to look at the wounds on his torso first. There’s many, but the blood that leaks from them is the bright red of surface wounds. Most of the blood he’s drenched in comes from a brutal gash situated just between his helmet and his body armor. It’s a tiny sliver of skin, maybe an inch of exposure, but it’s raggedly cut open.

Whoever hurt him had aimed just right to target the inconspicuous vulnerability. The rage flares again before it’s swallowed up by fear. You press your hand against the wound to stem the flow of thick, dark blood. Your heart breaks at the groan of pain he lets out.

Finally, you look at his head. This is the first time you’ve seen any part of his face. You’ve longed to know who your nighttime companion is, who your friend is. You never wanted to see him like this. The eyebrow cut is long, a slice from just above his eyelid to the middle of his forehead. Bruises cover his brow bone, his cheekbone, his forehead. Every bit of exposed skin looks battered. It clicks in your brain in one horrifying instant.

His wounds aren’t from a shootout or a tussle with a criminal gone south. He’s been beaten. Badly. And there’s only one person who you can think of that would be capable of harming him like this. You pull your curtains shut and say a prayer to whoever’s listening that the World’s Greatest Detective isn’t still hunting him.

“Red? I need to get you to the bathroom, okay?” you ask, the cracking in your voice betraying any sense of strength you were trying to convey.

He doesn’t respond and you feel fear shoot through you again. Then his arm wraps around your waist and you breathe a sigh of relief. You can’t lift him to his feet, nor could you support his weight if you managed it. You realize you’re going to have to crawl to your bathroom.

The process is slow and awkward. Red Hood lifts himself off the wall, slumping forward toward you. You pull his arm over your shoulder, and even with both of you on the ground his weight is heavy against you. You keep one arm wrapped around his waist, the other slowly helping to drag the both of you towards your bathroom.

Your muscles are burning and your arms are shaky when you finally make it. With his help, you manage one last burst of strength to get him into your bathtub. You think that that’s the last bit of help you’ll get from him tonight when he goes limp against the tub wall.

You feel a sudden wave of anxiety come over you. You’re going to need to get his clothes off. Worse, you need the helmet off. You feel wrong even thinking about it. Once when he’d had a bad concussion, you’d woken him every hour on the hour with your eyes closed so as not to see his face.

“Red…I know you’re not going to like this, but I have to take off your helmet, okay? I need to see if there’s any other wounds under there,” you say carefully, slowly, like trying to comfort a wounded animal ready to bite.

You feel his shoulders stiffen under your hands. You wait for him to tell you no, to fight you on it like he has every time before. Instead he gives a nearly imperceptible nod of his head. It makes you feel even worse. You had hoped that if he ever revealed himself to you it would be because he trusted you, not out of necessity.

His hands reach up to push on the undersides of the helmet and you hear the distinct click of it unlatching. He weakly pushes it off his head and drops it on the bathroom floor. It’s more of him than you’ve ever seen and you try not to look too long. But then his hands are up by his face again and you can’t stop the look of shock that creeps on your face as he willingly pulls the domino mask off.

For the first time, you see his eyes. They’re a beautiful seafoam green. You feel your breath catch in your throat. You already felt a fondness in your chest for the man that keeps you safe. He scoffed when you told him that for the first time. Made some snide comment about if you were aware of the fact that he kills people. You just remained steadfast, told him that he protected good people, innocent people. You told him that he was good.

You never doubted the phrase, but now you know firsthand how true it rings. Eyes are the window to the soul. Now there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s good. And no doubt that you care for him deeply. He lets out one shaky breath that pulls you from your trance. He looks a little nervous, a little vulnerable. You suppose he is, so you keep moving.

“Lean forward for me, just a little? I need to see the back of your head,” you murmur.

He obeys, a slight hiss leaving him at having to crane his neck. You’ve got your hand pressed against the cut under his jaw and you feel blood gush as he tilts his head down. Your other hand gently combs through his hair as you look for gashes or bumps. Thankfully you find none, though you suspect he might be concussed.

“I’m gonna patch you up now, but I need to get all this off. Is that okay?” you ask.

He looks extremely put out by the idea of being undressed. The last thing you want to do is make him uncomfortable. After all, you don’t know how thrilled you’d be if you had to strip down in front of him. You think you could stitch him up through the tattered gear, but then he’d need to shower. He can’t even stand by himself right now. He realizes it too. He gives one jerky nod, his sea green eyes staring right through you.

You pull the easiest stuff off first. His boots, socks, and holsters lay abandoned on your bathroom floor next to your small waste bin. You move on to his body armor. He has to help you but you get it off without causing him too much pain. His tactical pants are next. Belt, button, zipper. Simple. You pull them off and add them to the pile of bloodied gear.

Now that he’s undressed you see that your lightbulb moment was correct. Bruises are starting to color across his body, a memento of blunt force. You fix what you can. It’s easy to stitch the little cuts on his torso, slightly harder to close the neck gash. Soon he’s all patched up, the blood beginning to dry on his skin in that uniquely gross sticky-crusty mix.

“Can I—I mean, would it be okay if I ran you a bath?” you ask quietly.

He looks wide eyed at you. You tell him that it’s fine if not, that you can figure something else out. It’s important to you to be careful of his boundaries, always respecting what he was willing to give. Perhaps that’s why he finally gives a slow nod of consent. His final item of clothing comes off and you add his boxers to the literal laundry list of clothing on your floor.

You start running his bath, leaving to grab a washcloth and toss his bloodstained clothing in the washer while the tub fills. As you're setting the cycle to run, your mind flashes with muddled, disjointed thoughts.

Thoughts about pain and sacrifice and betrayal and trust. The Batman did this to him. The Batman also helped him take down a Falcone drug ring three weeks ago. The man in your bathtub was Robin, a bright light in a city so dark that it snuffs any glimmer of hope that shines through. The man in your bathtub is Red Hood, a scourge to the ilk of Gotham with so much blood on his hands that he’s drowning in it. It’s all so much. Then you wonder if anyone has ever extended their hand to him and never curled it into a fist later on. And it hits you hard and soft all at once: you’re in this forever now. You won’t leave him. You love him.

It’s ridiculous. You love this man whose face you had never seen until tonight, whose name you don’t know. But you know that he loves classic literature after the night that he’d browsed your bookshelf after you wrapped his sprained wrist. You know that he has a fondness for chocolate chip cookies after the night he crawled through your window while you were baking a batch. You know he’s kind after the night he came by just to check on you, only to find you having a panic attack on your bathroom floor. You know he’s gentle after he picked you up off the ground and carried you to your bed, after he put your hand to his chest and made you breathe in time with him, after he held you until you fell asleep. And what was a name or a face compared to a heart and soul?

You swallow down the confession you’ve made to yourself and head back to the bathroom because right now it doesn’t matter. He needs help; you can worry about your being in love with him later. The tub is just about full when you get back and you turn the knobs shut. You dip the washcloth beneath the warm water and grab your bottle of soap off the ledge.

“This is all I’ve got, so you may just have to deal with smelling like me for the night,” you say, attempting to crack a joke.

“Well, y’smell nice, so ‘m okay with that,” he mumbles, Gotham accent thicker than you’ve ever heard it.

You can’t see yourself, but you’re pretty sure your face is as red as his helmet. You busy yourself by squeezing an unnecessary amount of soap into the cloth, scrubbing it until it’s more suds than fabric. You begin slowly, making sure his watchful eyes can see every move as you bring the cloth to his neck. You wash the blood and sweat off him gently, careful not to go near the stitched up gash.

“Can you raise your arms for me, Red?” you ask quietly as you run the cloth over his shoulders

“Jason.”

Your head snaps to face him and you feel like someone’s just slapped you.

“My name’s Jason.”

He whispers it like it’s a confession. You smile at him, soft and warm.

“Okay, Jason. Can you lift your arms?”

You spend the better part of an hour bathing him. Once all the blood, sweat, and grime is gone, you give him a towel fresh from the dryer to wrap himself in and leave him to dry off. You give him a thick red hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants you’d bought for him after the concussion incident. You still feel bad about him having to sleep in his gear that night.

You turn your favorite classical music playlist on low volume and the two of you sit comfortably in silence on your couch. You’re reading an Agatha Christie novel and Jason is resting with his eyes closed, no doubt nursing the migraine you gave him some Tylenol for. You think that maybe he dozes off a couple times when his breathing goes even and deep.

You take the time to memorize details of him, uncertain if you’ll ever get the blessing of seeing him as he is again. He’s got inky dark hair that’s on the longer side of short. There’s a stark white tuft in the front that stays neatly curled to itself, not a single hair slipping into the night black mess of waves and curls. His hooked nose and strong jawline give him a striking, rugged handsomeness. Scars litter his face. Some are barely there little white lines, while others are thicker and jagged at the edges.

Scars cover the rest of his body too. Every bit of skin you saw while bathing him has some form of scarring. You recognized healed slashes from knives or glass, thick circles with rough edges from bullet wounds. The one that took you by surprise is the largest of them. It’s red and raised in the shape of a Y, the two forks extending from the edges of his collarbones and meeting in the middle to carve straight down, taking a little curve around his belly button before disappearing into the dark trail of curls that leads to his pelvis. You’ve seen enough NCIS to know what it is: an autopsy scar.

You can’t even begin to fathom how he got an autopsy scar. You quickly remind yourself that it’s none of your business and push the sharp ache in your chest down, down, down. Your mind is still a hazy mess, a deluge of thoughts that leave a faint numbness and sorrow in their wake. You feel so deeply for this man that lies quietly on your couch. You wish you could protect him, as ridiculous as the idea sounds. You don’t even realize you’ve lost yourself to your thoughts until his sweet voice pulls you out.

“You’re in your head again,” he says quietly.

You turn your head to him slowly, still in a daze.

“Sorry, just thinking,” you reply, giving him a strained smile.

Anxiety washes over his face. He pushes himself forward, elbows on his knees like he’s trying to take up less space.

“I’ll get goin’ soon. ‘M sure I’ve wasted enough of your time,” he murmurs.

“Please stay here tonight.”

You spit it out without thinking. The last thing you want is him to think you were spacing out because you didn’t want him here or because he was an inconvenience.

“What?” he asks blankly.

His eyebrows are furrowed and he looks an odd mix of dumbfounded and agitated.

“Please stay. I don’t want you heading back out there tonight. Please, just stay here where you’re safe,” you whisper.

It’s a quiet request, but a desperate one. You need him to stay. You need to know he’ll be safe, that he’ll make it through the night.

“I…” he trails off uncertainly.

“You don’t hafta take care of me, y’know?” he finally spits out, “I’m not somethin’ you can fix.”

You bristle. Is that what he thinks of you? Even after all these months? That he’s some fixer upper to you? Some pet project?

“I’m not trying to fix you, Jason,” you say firmly.

His name is new in your mouth, but it feels natural even in the midst of your frustration.

“Good, ‘cause I can take care of myself. Been doin’ it for years now,” he bites.

Okay, now you’re starting to get a little annoyed. He’s done this a couple of times over the past year. Pushing you away when you just want to help him, just want to make sure he’s okay. And that’s fine. You can handle that most times. But not tonight. Not when you’ve just coaxed him back to life, not when you felt like you were so close to losing him.

“Well, you don’t have to do it alone anymore!” you snap.

You see him tense at your harsh tone and you take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm your storming emotions.

“I…I’m not doing this because I’m trying to fix you. I’m doing this because you’re a human being. That first night…I’m sure you could’ve handled it yourself once you woke up. But I couldn’t leave you alone, hurting. Not then, not now,” you begin, leveling him with a stare so fierce that it holds him in place.

He goes to open his mouth, no doubt to argue, and you hold up a finger to quiet him.

“And I have no illusions that you won’t come back hurting again. None. I know you will. I know we’ll keep doing this over and over and over again. And I don’t care. I’m not leaving you alone. I won’t do it. So push all you want, but I refuse to be anything less than someone you can count on.”

Silence. The weight of your words is heavy in the air. You’re expecting him to leave. Even with his clothes still in your washing machine. You’re sure if he wanted to go, he’d just unplug the thing from the wall and throw his damp gear back on. You brace yourself for it. A small part of you even feels the pang of heartache at the thought that he might never come back.

You’re not expecting him to surge forward and thread his fingers into your hair to pull you into a kiss. You’re not expecting the burning intensity you feel him pour into it. You’re not expecting the warmth of his scarred mouth pressing against your soft lips. You’re not expecting how easy it is to kiss him back, as natural and simple as breathing.

He pulls away all too quickly. Doubt flashes in those sea green eyes and his entire body recoils back from you. You don’t let him run far, fingers curling in his night black mess of hair. You pull him back to you, his forehead resting against yours even as his body is strung tight as a bowstring.

“Well now I can’t let you go,” you whisper.

“I shouldn’ta done that,” he mutters shakily.

“You should do it again.”

You have no idea where the sudden burst of confidence has come from. It’s so very unlike you, you who are normally so passive, so calm and docile. But it seems to bring Jason to his knees because a desperate noise sounds from deep in his chest and his big, warm hands come up to cradle your face as he slots your mouths together again. You sigh his name against his lips when he pulls you closer and then he’s pushing you away. With no effort at all, he picks you up and gently shoves you to the other side of your sofa. He rises too quickly and sways on his feet.

“I can’t–I can’t do this. I won’t do this to you,” he rushes out as he staggers toward your window.

You’re bolting in front of it before you can even think.

“You’re not doing anything to me. You’ve already told me the risks of being associated with you. I’m okay with them. I want this. I want you,” you tell him, and you’re so earnest that it leaves no room for doubt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for. You can’t just show me a little kindness and fix me up to love you right,” Jason insists.

You should be mad again, but this time his statement lacks all the bite that it held before. Instead, you can hear the self-loathing in his voice, recognize the burn of it from the countless nights you two have sat on your floor debating whether he’s a hero or a necessary evil. And that just won’t do. You cradle his face and angle his head down to lock eyes, anchoring him in place.

“All I want is you, just as you are, come what may.”

There’s a shine to his pretty eyes, soft silver pools in the pale moonlight of the Gotham night. He shakes his head.

“Can’t make me somethin’ I‘m not,” he says, “‘m not made for this.”

And, oh, how your heart aches for this beautiful man. He’s so convinced that he’s violence incarnate, nothing but blood and gunpowder.

“We decide what we’re made for, what we want to be made for. What do you want, Jason?” you ask him softly.

Your hands are so gentle combing through his hair, thumb stroking his cheekbone sweetly. He flinches at the contact and you go to pull away, but he leans into your touch once he recognizes it won’t hurt him.

“I…don’t deserve it,” he whispers.

There’s something unspoken there. Something buried deep down in his chest. It aches to get out. He wants to scream it but the walls he’s built brick by brick around himself muffle the noise. I don’t deserve it, but I want it. He doesn’t have to say it, though. You understand loud and clear. And that alone is comfort to him, that he doesn’t have to say the quiet part out loud, that you just know him. No one has known him in years.

“This isn’t something you have to earn. And even if your answer truly is no, I’ll still be here in any way you want me to be.”

That’s what breaks him. Because it has only ever been something he’s had to earn. He had to earn it from his mother; earned it with cans of stolen soup heated in a rusted pot when Catherine was lost in the fog of her addiction, earned it with each spoonful he held to her mouth. He had to earn it from Bruce; earned it with every case solved, with every batarang that landed home in a bullseye, with every civilian saved. He had to earn it from Talia; earned it with every hit and kick, every blade mastered, every life taken. He’s had to earn love, earn affection, earn open hands instead of curled fists all his life. And you’re here offering up your love for free. You’re not even asking for him to love you back.

So as his defenses scream at him to tell you a thousand words that would cut you to ribbons–I don’t want you at all, go find another soul to save, you’re wasting your time–his heart hammers, demanding he be honest for once. He takes one shuddering breath before he whispers two words that change the trajectory of his life.

“…I’ll stay.”

And he does. He lets you nurse him back to health with water and painkillers. He lets you read to him after he sheepishly asks what your book is about. He lets you sit closer to him, shoulders and knees brushing under the soft blanket you’ve tossed over both of you. He even lets you guide him to your room, lets himself fall asleep tucked under your covers with your pinkies interlocked. It’s the first night that Jason Todd spends in your bed. It will hardly be the last.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #remy writes 🖋️#yeah this is a long one folks. sorry about that.#jason gets the girl universe

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not-neverland06 · 5 months ago

Text

conflicted spaces

Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

a/n: He doesn’t get TB in this. Why? Because this is fanfiction and I’m god and fuck canon (I just finished the game, I’m emotionally distraught and needed this)

Warnings: brief attempted SA

Summary: Your father is a gambling man and you’re always the collateral. He refuses to pay the wrong man and now you’re being dragged across country roads to a man you’ve never met. Arthur Morgan, an outlaw down to the bone, is in charge of making sure you get there in one piece. Except, he doesn’t feel right selling a woman off like she’s property.

You’re done being a doormat and letting the men in your life tell you what you’re worth. You’ve got three days to escape him, but you’re not prepared for the reality of the real world.

“Put your hands where I can see ‘em, cowboy.” Arthur’s shoulders tense and he curses under his breath. His hand darts to the revolver on his hip, but the second his fingers twitch towards it he hears a hammer being pulled back. The cool barrel of a gun digs into his neck and he raises his hand in surrender.

The man behind him lets out a familiar laugh and tugs him around. Arthur rolls his eyes and glares at Dutch. “The hell are you doing?”

Dutch clears his throat, still laughing slightly. “Relax, Arthur, but if I had been an O’Driscoll you’d be dead right now.” Arthur doesn’t point out that the only thing they have to worry about out here are the Lemonye raiders. He’s more focused on why Dutch is even out here. Rarely does he leave Shady Belle to traverse the streets of St. Denis.

None of them are particularly fond of the place. If he wanted to step in horse shit every other step he’d go to a stable. At least those smell better. Dutch slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, tugging him away from the saloon he was heading towards.

“You’re gonna have to save the cheating for later, Arthur, I need you for something.”

“You know I don’t cheat,” Arthur jokes and Dutch grins at him and it’s nice. This is familiar to him. This feels right. Dutch has been odd lately, the jobs he’s been taking, the risks he’s been imposing, none of them feels like the man he knows.

Now, Arthur would follow Dutch straight into hell without being asked. But he can’t abide by how he’s putting their people in harm's way. He’s felt like a stranger more often than not and he’s been doubting the people he shouldn’t. Right now, though, he can see the man he knows in the teasing curl of his lips.

“What’dya need?”

Dutch pauses in front of a tailor and pats Arthur’s chest. “I need you to look prim and proper for a party we’ve got tonight.”

Arthur’s brows furrow cynically and he scoffs. “Someone invited us to a party?”

Dutch hesitates, a stiff smile on his face. “Well, let’s just say someone is interested in our work.” Arthur wants to question him further, he’s hiding something from him. But Dutch is pushing him towards the door of the shop before he can argue. “And get a haircut, we need to look presentable not like a bunch of mountain men.”

Arthur watches as Dutch leaves, something heavy weighing down on him. Dutch doesn’t usually tell people about his plans beforehand. At least not every step of them. But this is odd, he’s definitely hiding something and Arthur isn’t sure he wants to know what.

With a resigned huff, he heads into the tailor. He has to mentally prepare himself for being stuffed into a starched collar and a stiff suit for the rest of the night. He hates these damn parties, hates having to pretend like he knows what the hell is being said.

Most of the people that attend are educated or pretend to be. And when he lets it slip that he’s more likely to shoot a gun than read a book they turn on him like jackals. You can’t let them see that you’re different than them or you’ll never get a word in edgewise.

The only part he enjoys is the booze and robbing them of their money. It’s not like they earned any of it. Most of it was made by breaking the backs of the people they mock for being too poor to afford a fancy suit.

Arthur takes a deep breath and looks for the cheapest suit he can find in the overpriced shop.

“Now,” Mr. Crane’s hand tightens around your bicep and he jerks you closer to him. You keep your face impassive, not letting him see just how much he’s hurting you. But you can feel your skin being stretched to its limits by his clammy fingers. “You’re going to behave tonight. I’ve got a few gentlemen I’d like you to meet.”

He looks at you expectantly but you keep your mouth firmly shut. His eyes narrow and he jerks you around roughly. “Understood,” you force the word out through gritted teeth. You’re trying to breathe as little as possible, not wanting to smell his cigar-laced breath any longer.

Finally, after a tortuously long moment, he releases you. You take ten steps back, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from the silk skirt he’d forced you in. You glance out the window of his office, watching as the workers scramble to set up the tables for tonight. You can hear cooks in the kitchen, shouting out orders for the food for tonight.

Everything must be perfect. Mr. Crane never fails to deliver on his extravagantly indulgent parties. The man himself is the very embodiment of greed. You glance over with a disgusted sneer as he sinks himself into his leather chair and pulls out a wad of cash.

He catches your eye and sends you a sickly sweet smile. “This,” he waves the money at you and you track the movement boredly. “Is how much you’re worth, sweetheart.” Your brows raise in amusement and you scoff. More than you thought he would put up for you.

You wonder who he’s going to have transport you. He’ll need you out of the city soon, your father is starting to catch onto what’s happening. It took him long enough. You’ve been missing a month, you’d think he would have put two and two together faster. Then again, he’d never been very interested in you beyond what you were worth to others.

“When will I be able to meet these gentlemen?” You ask, taking a step towards him. Your eyes dart towards the letter opener on his desk and for a brief moment you picture yourself strabbing it into his fattened jugular.

But he flicks his wrist and like magic the door opens, his men coming inside and standing resolutely by your side. “Not anytime soon, my dear.” He looks to the men surrounding you and you take in a sharp breath, wishing you’d just taken the chance when you had it. “My associate is feeling quite tired, take her back to her room, please.”

They grab you by the elbows, even though it's entirely unnecessary. You wouldn’t run, and even if you did you wouldn’t get far with the chains he has hidden under your dress. A punishment for the first time you snuck from his home. You’ve been well behaved since then but he doesn’t trust you.

You’re whisked away without another word. The trek of the stairs is a slow one. They’re forced to help you navigate by lifting your skirts and not tripping on the chains. It no longer brings you any satisfaction to cause a hindrance in any of their days.

Before, you would think of being an annoyance as a small victory. But it’s not, it never was. It was just a way for them to keep you complacent by allowing you to think you’d done something for yourself. You believe your father used to do the same thing.

It’s just another way of keeping you quiet.

When you make it to your rooms, they shove you inside. Like clockwork, you hear the jingle of the keys and then the lock clicks. You sigh and take a step towards your vanity, working on touching up your hair.

You think the worst part of this must be how well you’re treated. You have meals made by a private chef. Your quarters are decorated more lavishly than they ever were at your father’s house. Yet, you hear the suffocating tick of the clock as it counts down your doom.

You’re not entirely sure what their plan is with you. You know your father had made a promise to Mr. Crane involving some land. Or perhaps it had been a wager. But as always, you were collateral when your father refused to pay up.

You know Mr. Crane wants you out of town so that he has more time to negotiate with your father, to call in the interest he owes him. You also know the only reason your father is interested in finding you is because you’re meant to marry the son of a business partner in two months. The money he’ll get from that will be enough to finally pay off his debts.

Except, now, Mr. Crane tells you that should your father refuse to pay you’ll be married to one of his associates. And the deal he’ll make from that will be enough to cover what your father has refused to pay.

No matter what, you’re going to be married off to some man you’ve never met and yet again be a quiet trophy on a shelf. It’s a very convoluted situation, one which makes you think leaping from a window might be a better fate.

None of the men your father or Mr. Crane is in business with are particularly kind. They’ve got more skeletons in the closet than there are in the graveyard. You doubt you’ll live a very happy life with whoever they pick for you.

You slump forward onto the vanity, trying to fight off the burning feeling in the back of your eyes. You’ve known this would happen for years. Even before Mr. Crane had you kidnapped, you knew that this would be your destiny. You would never get to be one of the free-spirited women who fought for the right to choose. You would always be forced into this role.

Yet, being so close to it coming to fruition makes you feel choked and suffocated. You can feel the noose around your neck tightening, the hangman’s fingers twitching as he waits to see you drop.

You dig your nails into your palm, taking in a deep breath and fighting back the wave of despair. Where there is doom, you also see a sliver of hope. Your next journey will be a long one. He’s hiring someone to have you transported to an area further up the map.

If you play your cards right you might be able to escape while you’re traveling. If you’re incredibly smart about this, thinking with your head and not your heart, you might have a shot at freedom.

You take in a deep breath, reapplying your makeup and resolving yourself to another night of mindless entertainment. But you hold onto that fleeting feeling of hope. You have a shot, you just have to take it.

Arthur’s heard of these parties before. Some Mr. Crane fella that likes to blow all his money on food and booze. He indulges his guests and when they’re weakest, gets their secrets from them. He’s a snake and everyone knows it. Yet, missing his party is social suicide. They have no choice but to go and indulge in him.

Arthur had never had any interest in meeting him or doing any business with him. But Dutch had informed him that’s exactly what’s happening tonight. They’ll mingle for a little while, maybe scout some other jobs, and then Mr. Crane will invite them up to his office for a private discussion.

Dutch still hasn’t told him what exactly their business with him is. He brought Hosea along tonight so he has to assume it’s not going to be anything violent. But he can’t think of anything else they could be good for.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Dutch places his hands on Hosea’s and Arthur’s shoulders, a scheming smile on his face. “Try not to embarrass me.” He slips behind them, heading up the stairs of the home. Hosea and Arthur share a brief look before they split up, blending into the background of the garden.

Arthur lurks near the bar, he knows he should be talking to these assholes, possibly learning something useful. But he can’t be bothered. He orders a whiskey, gaze surveying the partygoers. They’re all loud with painted faces and fake smiles. Not a goddamn person here seems to be genuinely interested in anything they’re doing.

“First time?” The soft voice beside him catches him off guard. He glances to the side and is surprised to see that you’ve slipped past him. He hadn’t even noticed you slide up next to him. You laugh at the look on his face and it’s the first thing here that seems real. “Sorry, it’s just that look on your face, I recognize the disappointment. You’ve never been to one of Crane’s parties before?”

“No,” he clears his throat, still recovering from the surprise. “Uh, I can’t say I have.”

You suck on your teeth, narrowing your eyes at the people passing by. “They’re not worth the effort. Everyone who leaves here leaves carrying his debt on their back.”

Arthur chuckles a little, lips twitching up into a small smile. He’s surprised by your frankness, most people like to hide behind passive-aggressive digs. He appreciates the straightforward attitude. “Then why are you here?”

You shrug and Arthur finds himself enchanted. He shouldn’t be, he’s never been one for romance. He finds women pretty and he’s been in love before, but he’s never bought into the idea of love at first sight. Or any of that mushy stuff that Mary Beth devours in those books of hers.

But you are absolutely gorgeous, dressed in a silk dress that’s so expensive he’s sure he could buy two new horses with it. Your fingers and neck are decorated in dainty jewels that you fidget with as you stare down at your drink. When you set your eyes on him again he thinks he might have been struck by Cupid’s arrow.

“I don’t have a choice,” you finally answer, sending him a stiff smile. “What about you? Why are you here?”

Arthur suddenly remembers himself, remembers why he’s here and what he’s supposed to be doing. The fog in his head dissipates and he’s disappointed in himself. Pretty women have never done anything except get him in trouble.

“Business,” he answers vaguely. Your eyes narrow and your brows twitch in discontent. Something like realization dawns on your face and you back away from him. The easy attitude you’d carried yourself with is gone, replaced by a vague look of distrust.

“Right, should’ve known.” You let out a rough sigh and Arthur can’t help but feel like he’s said the wrong thing. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you again soon.” You slip past him before he can ask you what you mean. He hears the faint sound of metal clinking as you walk back up the stairs.

Something silver flashes under your skirts but he can’t get a good glimpse of it. He feels unsettled as he turns back to the bar. The whole interaction was odd. From how stricken he was with you to how cold you turned.

He doesn’t know what you saw in him but it was probably for the best that you left when you did. Neither of you needed the trouble the other would bring. He shakes his head, downing his whiskey and muttering nonsense to himself about not thinking with the wrong head.

It’s not that much later that Dutch is appearing on the balcony and silently motions him forward. Arthur leaves the bar behind and slips up the same stairs you’d disappeared on. Dutch says nothing as he leads Hosea and Arthur through the house.

The mansion is a maze more than anything. Arthur loses track of all the turns they take and the winding staircases they descend. Finally, Dutch stops them all in front of two large oak doors. He raps once on the door and then lets himself in.

A large, balding man with a shiny head is perched on top of a leather chair. He looms behind his desk, fingers steepled as he greets them all with a false smile. “Ah, gentlemen, so nice to finally meet you.”

Dutch grins and motions to Arthur, “This is the man who will be doing the transporting, Arthur.” Arthur’s eyes narrow in confusion but he says nothing as Dutch moves to Hosea, “And this is my associate, Hosea. He’s a lot better with money than I am, Mr. Crane. You understand.”

Mr. Crane lets out a boisterous laugh that makes Arthur’s ears hurt and nods his head, his cheeks jiggling with the movement. “That I do! Well,” he waves them forward when they linger in the doorway too long, “come in, come in.”

Arthur closes the doors behind them as Mr. Crane lifts himself from his desk. There are two couches positioned in front of an unlit fire. He takes one of them and Dutch and Hosea take the other. Arthur perches himself on the armrest of their couch, eyes surveying the office like it might reveal the truth of their visit.

“I trust Mr. Van der Linde has kept this all quiet?”

“He has,” Arthur grouses.

At the same time, Dutch says, “Of course, Mr. Crane. I promised confidentiality and Dutch Van der Linde is nothing if not a man who keeps to his promises.” Crane nods, looking satisfied and Arthur holds back a laugh at how easily he seems to trust Dutch.

“Good, good.” He dips his hand inside his jacket and Arthur’s palm instinctively drops to where his gun should be. Of course, they’d had to give up their weapons before they came into the party, if he does has a gun Arthur can’t do a damn thing.

But he doesn’t, instead, he pulls out the thickest stack of cash that Arthur has ever laid his eyes on. A loud thud resounds through the room as he slams the bills on top of the table between them. Arthur’s eyes widen and Hosea’s jaw nearly drops at the sight of it all.

This would be enough to get them out of St. Denis tonight. Shock sours quickly into suspicion. What the hell has Dutch signed up for? “Now, this is the first half. This is simply for accepting the job and,” he gives them all severe looks, “for your silence.”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably on his perch and waits for Mr. Crane to finish. “The other half will be given once the package has been safely delivered.” There’s a certain lilt to his words when he says package that has Arthur’s hackles raising. Whatever is getting delivered is not going to be good.

Crane turns towards the bookshelves on the wall and calls out, “Darling, won’t you join us?” Arthur figures the man must have lost his mind, they should just take the money and leave. But there’s a loud creak and something like metal gears grinding together. One of the shelves pops open and the panel swings forward.

You pop your head out, glancing towards Crane and then taking a step forward. Arthur, without even thinking about it, finds himself sitting up, and brushing some of the dirt off his pants from the ride over.

At first, he’s so confused by seeing you again that he doesn’t realize why exactly he’s seeing you again. Then you glance towards him, a knowing look on your face and it clicks. You’re the package. You’re what he’s meant to be transporting.

He glares over at Dutch, when exactly did they get into the business of trading women?

Hosea voices his doubts in a much calmer manner. “If I may, sir, why does she need to be delivered so discreetly?”

Mr. Crane laughs and your face twitches unpleasantly. You grimace, glaring at the back of the man’s head with something like murder in your eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause such a visceral look of hate and he doesn’t want to think about it. This whole situation is bothering him. You’re not here willingly, which means you’re not going to be transported willingly either.

None of this makes sense. Dutch would never have taken a job like this before, even when they needed the money. And there’s no way in hell a rich man like this one would want to pay a couple of grungy outlaws so much money. There’s got to be some sort of trick in all of this.

Cran clears his throat, “She’s a daughter of a, well,” he frowns and struggles for the words. “Let’s just say we’re in a hostile competition for a lot of land. This land, boys, could be very beneficial in expanding my business. He’s not interested in selling and, well, desperate times, desperate measures.”

You scoff, laughing slightly at him and rounding the couch. Dutch ignores you, Hosea looks uncomfortable, and Crane continues prattling on without missing a beat. “Should her father not pay me, she will be married to the associate you’re bringing her to. He’s promised me enough land and money to cover what I lost to her father. And if he does pay, she’ll be returned in time for her wedding here.”

Arthur’s eyes dart towards you and you send him a bitter smile. It makes him shift where he sits, hating the way your eyes bore into him. “I just need someone who's not afraid of getting their hands a little dirty to make sure she behaves while she’s delivered to my friend,” Crane glances over at Arthur. He asses him, the bulge of his arms in the suit and the scars on his face, whatever he finds must be satisfactory because he smiles over at Dutch.

Arthur stands, ready for Dutch to tell Mr. Crane that they’re not in the business of selling women off. But Dutch doesn’t, he smiles at Mr. Crane and reaches for the money, passing it off to Hosea to count. “Well, I do believe my friend Arthur is just the man for the job.”

“I think you’re right, Dutch.” He stands up now, pot belly nearly bursting the buttons of his shirt, and reaches for Dutch’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Dutch smiles and takes his sweaty palm, “You as well, sir.” Dutch walks towards you and holds his arm out. “This way, my dear.” You glance between him and his elbow before rolling your eyes and reluctantly placing your hand on his arm. You follow him silently and obediently, no fight is left in you. Hosea follows after you both, a concerned look on his face.

Arthur remains in the office, standing dumbfounded and staring at the doorway you’d disappeared through. He’s struggling to process what just happened. Arthur has helped people get home safely before and provided protection. But he’s never been one to traffic a hostage.

Crane glances up, finally noticing him still standing there. He walks past him, patting his shoulder as he does and giving him an approving smile. “Don’t be afraid to take care of her should she get out of hand.” He’s nearly out the door but he looks back and adds, “Just don’t bruise her too much.”

Arthur’s fingers twitch for his revolver once more and he’s never wanted to shoot a man more. But he knows Dutch is waiting for him and he’d never make it out of here alive if he started a fight right now. Reluctantly, he makes his way out of the manor and towards where you’re all waiting for him.

He’s fuming by the time he stops in front of Dutch. He’s trying to help you onto his horse and Arthur finally realizes what the metal sound he heard earlier is. There are chains around your ankles and you can’t maneuver yourself on the saddle.

His eyes narrow and he glares at Dutch, “What the hell are you doing? We’re selling women now?”

Dutch glowers at the tone of Arthur’s voice. You watch them both passively, fiddling with the rings on your fingers and looking unbothered by the entire situation. “Watch yourself, Arthur,” there’s a clear warning in his tone but Arthur’s too upset to care.

They’ve done a lot of bad things. They weren’t good men. But this was just going too far. “We need this, Arthur. You want to get out of here, you want to keep our people safe?” Arthur let out a deep exhale, gritting his teeth together and nodding reluctantly. Dutch huffs, “That’s what I thought. We’re not selling anyone, Arthur. It’s a simple delivery.”

His jaw clenches as he watches Dutch struggle to help you again. “It’s not going to work,” you inform Dutch. You lift your skirts, flashing him the chains he hadn’t seemed to notice yet. Neither of you gets a chance to say anything as Arthur pulls out his gun and shoots the lock off.

He feels a little guilty at how startled you look. Your eyes widen until they look like they might bulge out. Your hands fly up to cover your ears as the sound rocks through you. It breaks violently through the silence of the night.

Dutch turns and gives him a stern look, “Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?” Arthur can tell he’s trying not to shout and drag any more attention towards you all.

Arthur glares at Dutch, something wicked brewing in his stomach. “The lady wouldn’t be able to ride a horse like that.” He mounts his horse and rides off without a look back. He can’t stand to be near you or Dutch any longer.

The reality of what they’ve turned into hits him like a bag of rocks and it makes him irate. They’ve never been these people. Never traded a person off like they were an object. He’s sure plenty of people in camp would have a problem with this. But he doubts Dutch will let them know the truth until the job is done.

And by then, everyone will be too happy with the money to complain. Dutch is nothing if not good at saving his ass. He’s hitching his horse as the rest of you ride into camp. He lingers by Diablo, resting a hand on the thick neck of the shire while Dutch helps you off the saddle.

His eyes narrow in on the way Dutch’s fingers glide along your waist as you jump down. You take a step back the second your legs are steady sending Dutch a dirty look that almost makes Arthur laugh.

He starts towards Dutch, ready to try and reason with him again. But he holds his hand up and walks away, not even giving him a chance to speak. Arthur lets out a rough sigh as Hosea comes up behind him.

He pats his shoulder comfortingly, “You should get some sleep, Arthur. You’ll ride with her to Strawberry tomorrow morning.” He almost walks off but he whispers a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before he goes.

Arthur glances towards you but you’re looking around the camp, eyes lingering on Javier as he sings by the fire. He swears he almost sees you smile but it's gone as quickly as it came. He takes his hat off, running his hand through his hair and letting out a tired sigh.

“Alright, come with me,” he starts towards the house. It takes a minute to realize you’re not directly behind him. When he looks over your shoulder he sees you with your skirts lifted, tiptoeing through the mud and trying not to get your pretty skirts dirty.

He rolls his eyes, storming back towards you. Your eyes widen at the look on his face and you stumble back a few steps. Undeterred, he bends over, throwing you over his shoulder and walking towards the house.

Your hands claw at his back, desperately grasping onto his shirt so you keep your balance. He storms up the stairs, ignoring the alarmed looks he gets from others in camp. He can already hear them whispering, wondering who you are and why he’s dragging you into his room.

They can make up whatever the hell they want. Arthur’s too pissed off to give a shit about rumors tonight. He drops you unceremoniously onto his bed and storms back out. He heads downstairs, rooting around in one of the chests for some extra clothes.

You won’t be able to ride to Strawberry in those ridiculous clothes. You’ll need some pants if you’re going to sit on the horse properly. He tucks the outfit under his arm and makes his way back to you.

When he opens the door your hand immediately darts away from his shaving kit and shoves itself under your butt. His brows furrow as he catches a flash of silver in your hand. He places the clothes down on the end of the bed, eyes drifting towards his shaving kit. Sure enough, his razor seems to be missing.

He lets out a sigh and you tense up, hand clenching around your prize. He briefly debates taking it from you. But he figures you should be allowed a modicum of comfort. Even if you did try and use it against him it’s dull, he hasn’t sharpened it in a while and you wouldn’t be able to do much damage anyway.

He lets you keep it, leaving you on your own without another word. He can hear the exhale of relief you let out when he walks away and it makes him feel just a little better about this. At least you’re not completely terrified.

You change into the clothes Arthur gave you. They’re a little big, but you appreciate the pants. It’s much better than the ridiculous dresses Crane had you in. You collect your dress and toss it out the window of Arthur’s room, watching it sink into the mud pit below. It brings you some satisfaction to see Crane’s pretty silk getting ruined.

You take off the jewelry you’d been given and stuff it into your boots. If you did manage to escape while you were traveling with Arthur then you were going to need some cash. You could sell off the jewels and hopefully, it would be enough to keep you comfortable.

It feels nice, to wear real clothes. Not being dressed up like a doll for once. You envy some of the women here, who can wear what they want. There is an appeal to the outlaw life. As long as you’re on the right side of it, which, currently, you’re not.

You slip out of the house before anyone has a chance to retrieve you. The whole night you were curled up around a dull razor with your eyes wide open. Spending a night surrounded by outlaws isn’t exactly restful.

You figure you might as well try and walk around before you’re on the back of a horse for the rest of the day. There are more people up than you’d expected. Luckily, you don’t see Dutch around anywhere. You don’t feel like having to deal with any more of his false charm or empty apologies.

The same man you’d seen strumming his guitar the night before is asleep next to the dying fire. A blonde woman catches your eye, she’s walking past some other women in dresses. They’re still asleep but she looks like she’s been up for hours.

There’s a bit of blood on her pants and you briefly wonder what she’d been doing. “Who are you?” She asks, surveying you from head to toe with suspicion in her eyes.

“A package,” you tell her bluntly, walking past her towards the only lit fire of camp. She follows you, a wry grin on her face as she watches you pour yourself some coffee.

“You’ve got a real attitude, I like it.”

You huff out a laugh, taking a sip of the burnt coffee and giving her a brief smile. “I’m sure my future husband won’t.”

She rolls her eyes and scoffs, waving you off. “Husbands, good for nothing. I loved mine but he was useless as a sack o’ flour. You’re better off without them.”

Your smile turns strained and you look down at your feet, at the boots that aren’t your own. You’ll never get to dress like this again. Or speak like this to a woman who isn’t afraid to voice what's on her mind.

“Yes, well,” you shrug and meet her eyes again, “I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”

Her eyes narrow and she frowns, “What’s that supposed to-”

“Mrs. Adler!” Dutch’s voice booms from across the camp and forces the others awake. Most of them grumble, but they’re quick to get started on morning chores. “I see you’ve met our guest,” he says your name with a flourish that almost makes you laugh.

He’s a good actor. He’s especially good at covering up his mistakes. “Yeah, what’s going on, Dutch? Who is she? Why don’t you guys ever let me in on this stuff?” She fires off questions rapidly, you almost don’t catch them all. There are clearly underlying issues here other than your unexpected presence.

“In due time,” he assures her, laying the charm on thick. But even you can tell he’s full of it. He’s not planning on letting her in on anything unless it benefits him. “And this is our guest, her fiancee has paid us handsomely to provide her safe passage back to him.”

He walks towards you, laying a hand over your arm and squeezing slightly. You give Sadie a stiff smile and let him lead you away. “I do believe it’s best that you just wait for Arthur, dear.” He gives you a look that lets you know it’s an order, not a suggestion.

Still, you play along, “I think you might be right, Mr. Van der Linde, thank you for the hospitality.” You run a tired hand over your face, sitting down on the stoop of the house and finishing off the rest of your coffee. Dutch watches you for a while, never straying too far from where you are and intercepting anyone who asks about you.

He spins quite the romantic tale of your lost love and how he desperately wants you back. You wish it were true, that you were living out some wonderful fairytale and were about to be reunited with the love of your life. Instead, it feels like one long walk to the gallows.

The wood creaks behind you and you don’t need to turn to see who it is. “Ready?” Arthur asks and you figure he means, ready to leave freedom and happiness and the will to live behind?

No, “Sure,” you toss the rest of the coffee into the grass and leave the mug on the stairs. You get to your feet and let him lead you towards the horses. He shares a brief look with Dutch as you pass by him but it doesn’t look entirely pleasant.

He makes his way toward a towering black shire and your eyes widen in horror. “What’s this?”

He works on saddling the horse up, not paying much attention to you. “This is Diablo.” You take a step closer and the horse starts huffing, swinging his neck towards you with his lips pulled back. You jump back a step back, eyeing him warily.

Arthur glances over and lets out a low chuckle, “He won’t bite. He’s just curious.”

“Mhm,” you give him a disbelieving look. “You’ll have to excuse me for being wary, I’ve not met a lot of horses.”

Arthur looks a bit shocked by your admission. “Really?” He questions, sounding doubtful.

You give him a brief smile and nod. “Hard to believe, I know, but I’ve lived a very sheltered life, Mr. Morgan. Haven’t had many opportunities for exploring on my own.”

He opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something. At the last second, he stops himself, instead taking a step closer to you. You flinch away from him when he reaches for you and he lets out a sigh. “You can’t spend the next three days terrified of him, come on.”

He coaxes you forward and you reluctantly step closer to the beast. He chuckles at the scared look on your face. You don’t appreciate how much amusement he’s gaining from this. “Come on,” he mutters, taking your wrist and leading you closer to Diablo.

The damn thing is named Devil, how could you not be terrified of it?

“He won’t bite, I promise.” You don’t trust him but he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He presses your open palm to Diablo’s nose and you wince, bracing for him to lash out at you.

But he doesn’t, he lets out a soft knicker and it seems like he doesn’t even care that you’re there. You let out a relieved laugh, running your hand tentatively over his muzzle. It’s shockingly soft and oddly squishy.

He doesn’t seem to mind as you awe over him. You smile and glance over at Arthur but it drops when you see the odd look on his face. He seems perplexed by your reaction and you can’t fathom why. “You really never have ridden a horse before, have you?”

You shake your head, “No. I told you.”

He purses his lips and nods. You don’t know what it is about this that’s bothering him and you don’t care to ask. If he doesn’t believe just how strict your upbringing has been then fine. “Alright, come on, we need to get a move on.”

He leads you around to the saddle and helps you up on the back of the horse. It’s beyond odd, sitting on something in pants. Getting to spread your legs freely is something you are going to greatly enjoy during this journey.

Arthur takes off without much warning and you yelp, throwing your arms around his waist to steady yourself. He glances over his shoulder at you but says nothing. You turn your head, watching as the camp gets smaller and smaller.

The people mill about, greet each other, and break bread together. It hits you suddenly, this will be the last time you get to see people being free. If you don’t get out, if you can’t escape, your life will be filled with starched collars and powdered faces. You’ll never have a genuine conversation with someone again. You’ll be turned into pretty jewelry hanging off the arm of a man you never met.

The ride to Strawberry is three days at least. You have three days to get your plan together and to escape. You almost feel sorry for Arthur and the repercussions he’ll have to face losing you. But not sorry enough that you’re not gonna try.

Arthur’s speed evens out and you let your arms relax, easing away from him slightly. Your wrist jolts against the gun on his hip and you eye it curiously. If you had a gun there would be no doubt you could escape. You see Arthur’s fingers twitch on the reigns of the horse and you move your arms higher up his torso.

You doubt you’ll be a quicker draw than he is. He is an outlaw after all. You don’t think he’d have many qualms about delivering you to your fiancee with a few extra holes in your gut. Your mind drifts to the razor in your pocket and you consider it for a moment.

You’re sure you’d be quick enough to just whip it out and slit his throat. You sigh and dismiss the thought. You were a lot of things but you were not a murderer. There are lines you can’t bring yourself to cross. Besides, as wicked as what he’s doing to you is, you know he’s a good man.

It was an instinctual feeling. Mr. Crane and your father were both horrible, evil men. They knew nothing but greed and would never be satisfied by all the riches they reaped. They were the type of men you looked at and knew deep down that there was nothing left to save.

Arthur has undoubtedly bad things. You don’t become an outlaw without spilling some blood. He was weathered and rough from a hard life, but that didn’t mean there was nothing good left in him. You won’t have his blood on your hands, no matter how much you might want to get away from him.

As grateful as Arthur is for the silence, it is odd. He’s helped a few ladies find their way back home before and for some reason, they seem to think he’s the best listener in the world. It seems everyone who rides with him wants to tell him their life stories.

You’re completely silent, though. He has to keep looking back just to make sure you haven’t fallen off the back of the horse. You’re pretty complacent, following along with whatever Dutch said and coming along quietly. You seem beaten down, the fight dragged out of you.

He wonders what Mr. Crane had done to you. A few times, he’s seen just a glimpse of the spark that used to be there. But it was snuffed out before he got a chance to know it. He almost wishes you would talk. It would distract him from what he was doing right now.

It didn’t feel right, bringing you along to marry a man you’ve never even met. He has to keep reminding himself that it would have happened no matter what. Ladies like you are always sold off into a profitable marriage. The only thing he’s doing is switching up who the fiancee might be.

None of that makes him feel better, though. He should be helping you, not dragging you away to your worst nightmare. But, his people come first. The amount of money Dutch’ll get from this will be enough to get them all out of here. This could finally be the last score.

You gasp behind him and he whips his head around, immediately expecting someone to be following along beside you both. Maybe your father’s men or just some raiders. But he doesn’t see anything except a herd of deer running through the trees.

His brows furrow in confusion and he glances back at you. You’re watching them like they’re something spectacular. Arthur’s always been a fan of the quiet beauty of nature. He appreciates them in ways most folks don’t understand. But you’re looking at ‘em like you just found God.

“Never seen deer before?” He teases, chuckling a little at your reaction.

You startle, not realizing he had been watching. You clear your throat and look away from them sheepishly. He almost feels bad for ruining the moment for you. “No. No, I haven’t.”

He knows it's possible, but it’s astounding to him that someone truly lived their whole life in the city. It just doesn’t seem right. Cities are full of shit, smog, and bad people. Not even having a moment out of that your whole life seems like torture.

“I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts,” you mutter, eyes darting back to the tree line. But the deer are gone and you don’t look very interested anymore.

“Right,” he shifts forward, the air between you awkward. He’d only meant it in jest. He didn’t mean to remind you of what was about to happen to you. He doesn’t like the silence, not this time, it feels wrong. It makes him stew in his shame and that’s a nasty feeling.

Selfishly, he prods you for more. “A few days on the road, you’ll be eager for the city again.”

You laugh but there’s no humor to it. “I very much doubt that Mr. Morgan.”

“Arthur,” he corrects, “just call me Arthur.”

“Right,” your tone remains cold, “well if you don’t mind Arthur, I’d like to ride there in silence.”

He's got no other choice but to comply. If you don’t want to talk he won’t make you. He just wishes he could make this a little easier for you both.

Camping is something. You don’t have a word for it. It’s nice to be out in nature and embrace it for the first time in your life. But you really would not mind the comfort of your bed right now.

Rocks digging into your spine and head do not make for a good night’s sleep. You’ve been lying in front of the fire for hours, flipping around uselessly. It doesn’t matter how much you shift, the rock stays digging painfully into you.

You let out a loud huff, flopping onto your back and glaring up at the starry sky in defeat. At least the view is nice. In the city, you can’t see the stars. The smoke’s too thick and you never get a good look at them.

Out here, they almost feel fake. They’re so bright and beautiful, you thought the paintings in the museum had always been exaggerating just how breathtaking a night sky can be. But you were wrong. And you hate that there’s a potential future where you’ll never get to see this again.

“Would you quit squirming so damn much?”

You shoot up, resting on your elbows and glaring over at Arthur. He’s got his hat over his eyes, arms crossed, and looking like he’s been asleep for the past few hours. You hadn’t realized you’d been keeping him up.

“Some of us aren’t used to sleeping outside,” you hiss, throwing yourself back down to the ground. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you figure that’s the end of it. You clench your eyes shut, counting sheep in your mind and trying to force yourself asleep.

You hear boots crunching across leaves and your eyes fly open. Arthur’s standing over you, hands propped on his hips as he glares down at you. “Can I help you?” You snap when you get tired of the staring.

He scoffs and shakes his head, kneeling to be eye level with you. You’re startled by the proximity, an odd heat creeping up your neck. “Come on, I’m gonna tire you out. Maybe then you’ll get some sleep.”

You gasp, astonished at the audacity of his suggestion. “Excuse me?” You demand, tone incredulous.

His brows furrow before he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Not like that,” he grouses. “Get up,” he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He places his hand under your back, shoving you onto your feet. You stand with a slight stumble, glaring at him as you brush dirt off your shirt and pants.

You can’t help the snotty tone of your voice as you ask, “What are we doing?”

“Huntin,’” He answers gruffly, going over to the horse and taking the bow out of his saddle.

Your brows furrow as you recall the few stories your father told you of hunting bison. “Aren’t you supposed to use a rifle?”

He shakes his head and nods towards the treeline. You glance back at the fire before reluctantly following him into the dark forest. The moon is full enough that it provides just enough light for you not to be terrified of what’s lurking in the underbrush.

“Got a friend,” he tells you, kneeling and glancing at some tracks on the ground. “Taught me how to hunt properly. Bows are quieter, less disruptive, and they provide quicker, cleaner kills.” He looks back at you and motions towards the arrows, “Less pain for the animal.”

Your face slacks with something like astonishment. All you’d heard from your father was the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill. He never mentioned keeping anything from the animal, using it for meat, or about how long it took for them to die. You’d never thought there was anybody who actually cared for the creature’s comfort as it died.

You suppose there’s going to be a lot about Arthur that’s different from the men you know.

“Arthur,” a twig snaps behind you, and your eyes widen. You drop your voice to a whisper, not wanting to draw too much attention towards you both. “I don’t want to kill anything,” you hiss.

“Ha!” He barks out a laugh and you purse your lips in irritation. He stands and looks at you, chuckling again before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so confident in your huntin’ skill, kid.”

You click your tongue and glare at him, “Don’t call me that,” you snap. It’s the same patronizing nickname your father loved to use on you and you detest it. He raises his hands in surrender and you roll your eyes at the smirk on his face. “Then what’s the point of this?”

He shrugs and heads further into the trees, you have no choice but to follow along behind him. “Figure you should be taught a few skills before I get rid of ya.”

You want to argue with him that there’s no point. If you are given to Crane’s associate, you’ll never set foot in the woods again. However, if you do manage to escape him, learning a few survival skills wouldn’t be a bad idea.

So, you keep your mouth shut and let him lead you through the forest. “How do you know where to go?” You ask, trying to figure out what it is he keeps looking at in the mud. He waves you forward, moving you so you’re standing directly in front of him.

“You see that?” You have to squint, relying solely on the light from the moon, to make out what he’s pointing at. There are some tracks in the mud that look vaguely like hooves. “It’s buck tracks, you can tell by the size.” He kneels and when you don’t follow he tugs you down by the sleeve. “You can’t rely on just the tracks, though. You have to look for other signs of ‘em.”

You glance around, noticing some crushed twigs and grass a few feet ahead. “Like that?” You point towards it and he huffs in amusement.

“Caught on quicker than I thought.”

You feel vaguely offended by that but don’t bother voicing it, just glare at his back as he gets up. You walk silently through the forest, letting Arthur show you which tracks to follow and which to avoid. You’re not comforted by how many cougar prints you find. You stare up into the branches always expecting something to already be looking down at you.

Miraculously, no wild cat chooses you for dinner as you track the buck down. You find him near a small stream, antlers dipping into the water as he takes a drink. He’s got to be one of the most gorgeous creatures you’ve ever seen.

You’ve lived your whole life in St. Denis. The most you’ve seen are overworked carriage horses and mangy dogs. No life slips through the cracks of that place. There’s just smoke and misery. This is nature, real beauty. It’s breathtaking, the way the leaves ripple in the wind and the starlight reflects in the water.

You can’t imagine seeing this and wanting to tear it down to put up an oily machine that contributes nothing to the earth but death. It just makes you hate your father more. It also makes you more resolved to not be forced back into that life. You can’t do it. You can’t have this one taste of freedom and then let it go without a fight.

Arthur pulls the bow out and nocks an arrow. You glance between him and the buck and rapidly shake your head. “No,” you hiss, “I don’t wanna kill it.”

He rolls his eyes and moves you in front of him. You don’t have much choice as he places your hands on the string and guides you into the right position. “Relax,” he murmurs in your ear as you fight against his grip. “You ain’t gonna kill it.”

It doesn’t bring you much comfort, but if you’re going to make it on your own, sometimes you’ll have to do something you don’t like. “Now,” his hand drifts down your bicep and you suck in a sharp breath. “Don’t hold it too long, you’ll get tired.”

It’s dawning on you just how close you both are. You’re kneeling on the ground with him behind you, essentially cradling your body to him. You’ve never been this familiar with a man before, it’s making your brain short-circuit. You can hardly pay attention to what he’s telling you.

He lifts your elbow slightly and points you towards the left. “You need to keep your arm steady even after you let go or your aim will be off. Take in a deep breath and release on the exhale.” You give him an apprehensive look, still not wanting to hurt the buck. He just nods and there’s something in his gaze that lets you relax slightly.

You release the string and the arrow flies over the buck’s head, burying itself into the tree behind it. Its head shoots up and it turns towards you both before dashing off. You let out an astonished laugh, glancing down the bow and then back at Arthur.

“My god, I’ve never shot anything before.”

“Congratulations, you’ve killed your first tree,” he remarks dryly, but you see the glint of humor in his eye.

He gets to his feet and offers you a hand up. You smile up at him, undeterred by his attitude. “Thank you for this,” you tell him earnestly. He gives you an odd look but nods anyway. He doesn’t understand just how important this is to you. Knowing how to do something like this is the difference between life and death when you’re on your own. Of course, he doesn’t realize you’ll be making an escape attempt soon.

He retrieves the arrow from the tree and you run your hand over the curve of the bow. You wonder just how much he’d miss this if you took it from him.

Arthur’s tearing down the camp and you’re standing by Diablo, feeding him some apples. You stroke absentmindedly over the horse's muzzle, watching Arthur intently. He’s too busy pulling the tent apart to be paying attention to you.

You got better sleep last night than you did at Crane’s. He was right, hunting had tired you out. You were eager enough to sleep that you didn’t even feel the rough ground underneath you. He seems to be a little more lax about his watch over you.

Something about last night must have eased him into a sense of comfort that you’re not going to run. That’s his own fault, though. You glance over the curve of the hill, noticing a carriage that will be passing by soon enough.

You look back at Arthur and ease slightly away from Diablo. Arthur is still collecting the blankets and rolling them up. He turns towards the dying fire and tosses the rest of the coffee out. You take another step back and he keeps his back to you.

Slowly, you release Diablo’s reigns, giving him one last apple before you turn on your heel and run down the hill. Your foot slips out from under you and you let out a loud yelp as you go flying headfirst down the grass.

You land on your back with enough impact to make the breath rush out of you. But your descent is still going and you’re flipping over headfirst into the road. You slide forward, the dirt scraping up your chin as you cough and try and catch your breath.

“Look out!” You roll out of the way just before the carriage rolls over you. Someone shouts your name from the top of the hill and you see Arthur glaring down at you. He starts towards you and you scramble to your feet.

“Stop!” You scream, waving your arms wildly and chasing after the carriage. The man gives you a bewildered look as you throw yourself at him. “Please, sir, I’ve been kidnapped, you must help me get back to my husband.”

The man looks behind you, sees a very angry Arthur bellowing out your name, and moves to the side. “Hurry up,” he urges, giving you a hand on the bench beside him. You let out a relieved breath, taking his hand and throwing yourself the rest of the way up.

He whips the horses, hurrying them along all the while Arthur is yelling after you. It’s not hard to believe that he would kidnap you. He looks half-crazed as he follows along behind you. You turn over your shoulder, giving him a brief wave and a smile. “Thanks for the help,” you tell the man beside you. You offer your hand and name.

He glances down at it but doesn’t take it, instead looking forward and ignoring you entirely. Something uneasy settles in your stomach but you push it aside. You blame the feeling on the adrenaline still pumping through you.

“Where are you headed?” You ask, glancing into the back of the carriage. You notice some moonshine and a crate full of guns but decide not to question it.

“Said yer husband’s waitin’ for ya?” He demands, completely ignoring your question. You stare at the side of his face but his expression isn’t giving anything away. He comes to an intersection. You see a sign pointing towards a town and figure he’s going to take it, but instead, he pulls onto a smaller trail leading to the woods.

“Um,” you clear your throat uncertainly, glancing back at the sign. “Yes,” your voice cracks and you know you sound like you’re full of shit.

He laughs and the sound sends chills down your spine. You rip your eyes off of him, looking down at the horses and suddenly realizing just what you’d gotten yourself into. “You sure about that, little lady?”

Something cold digs into your side and you gasp quietly, looking down to see a gun pressed against your ribs. “You scream, run, or do anythin’ to piss me off and I’ll put a fourth hole in ya.” When you don’t say anything he digs it harder into you. “Understand?” He growls and you can do nothing but nod your head.

You want to move, want to shove him off the side of the carriage and make a run for it. But you can’t, you’re frozen solid. You’re so petrified with fear you can’t even blink. You think you’re holding your breath, as if taking in air is going to set the gun off.

He grins, a blackened curl of lips over rotted teeth, at your obedience and comes to a stop in the trees. “What are you doing?” You whisper, staring at the secluded area with a newfound sense of horror.

“Shut up,” he snaps, his voice echoing through the quiet of the woods. You hear no birds or animals and you feel so alone it makes you want to cry. He gets off the carriage and turns towards you. “Down,” he demands. Your eyes dart towards the reigns of the horses and he pulls the hammer of the gun back. “Don’t even think about it.”

You lift your hands in the air, slowly slipping down the seat. He doesn’t appreciate you taking your time He grabs the front of your shirt, jerking you further into the trees and tossing you to the ground.

You let out a rough groan at the impact, blood staining your shirt as your elbow slips across a jagged rock. It’s like something is snapped loose in your mind. He comes stomping towards you, kneeling between your spread legs and it finally clicks.

You lunge forward with a shout and he rears back in surprise. You wonder how often someone’s actually fought against him or just let it happen. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to get shot by this scum, but there are a lot of things worse than dying.

You grab the arm holding the gun, jerking it around, and knocking it out of his hand. “You bitch!” He hisses, bringing his open palm down across your cheek. The smack rings through the trees and ricochets through the air. Your head whips to the side so hard you think you might have snapped your neck.

Blood dribbles out from your lips, your teeth having bitten into the fat of your cheeks. You spot the gun nearby, the silver of the barrel glinting from under the leaves. Just as you reach for it, he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles and dragging you back towards him.

You feel like screaming as your hands desperately grasp at the dirt underneath you. But there’s not enough air to scream. You dig your nails into the mud, feel them split against the rocks, and kick at his chest hard enough to make him lose his breath.

His grip on you loosens and you throw yourself at the pile of leaves. Hands groping for something solid. Just as he flips you over you wrap your hand around the handle of the gun. You pull the trigger and the bang is deafening.

Your ears ring and your hands are trembling from the recoil. His jaw goes slack and he tumbles on top of you. You let out a grunt, breath pushed out of you by his weight. You scramble against his chest, something warm making your hands slip as you struggle to roll him off of you.

You glance over, waiting for him to spring back up. But there’s something dark pooling around him and sinking into the dirt below. There’s a hole in his chest and his eyes are already flattening. You fall back against the earth, staring up at the trees above you.

The sounds rush back to you all at once. The birds singing, deers prancing somewhere in the distance. You hear a stream rushing nearby and let out a stunned laugh. There’s a smile on your face but there’s nothing to be happy about.

You think you might be in shock. Mind still trying to catch up to what just happened. You glance down at the gun in your hand and toss it to the side, not wanting it near you anymore. Only a second later do you reach for it again.

You struggle onto your hands and knees, checking over yourself for any injuries that you might be numb to right now. The only blood on you is from the dead man on the ground. You keel over, hands on your knees, and suck in a deep gasping breath.

You stumble back, limping towards the carriage. You dig around in the back of the wagon, tugging out a giant hunting knife and walking towards the horses. You cut them loose, keeping the rope on one of them and tugging yourself onto her back. You tuck the knife in your belt and nudge her side, leading her forward gently.

You don't even have time to process the fact that you’re riding a horse on your own. Your body is moving on autopilot. You can only think about getting ahead, getting away. What just happened will hit you later. You slump against the neck of the horse, adrenaline leaking out of you and exhaustion catching up.

He’s going to find you and he’s going to kill you. Leaving while he had his back turned. Getting on some carriage with a man you’ve never met before. How dumb do you have to be? You can’t trust people out here. Not when there are gangs, raiders, hell, he’s encountered a few cannibals.

For all he knows, you’re already dead and he’ll be delivering a body to the train station. The thought makes him curse and urge Diablo forward. It’s not hard to follow the tracks of the carriage, what concerns him is when they lead into the forest instead of the town.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, “the hell have you done woman?” He leaps off Diablo, figuring it will be easier to track you on foot. He follows the paths of the wheels, finding the wagon abandoned and the horses cut loose.

His brows furrow in confusion as he wanders around the side and spots a lump in the leaves. All he can see is the bottom of a boot and blood splattered across the orange of the fallen leaves.

His stomach plummets and he races towards it. But it’s not you buried under the foliage, it’s the man who offered you a ride. “What the hell?” He kneels, brushing the leaves off his chest and frowning when he sees the blood splattered all along his chest.

He doesn’t need to look long to figure out what killed him. He’s sure the bullet buried in his heart did the job. Arthur curses and stalks away from the man. There are prints where the horses were but there are too many to tell which one you might have taken.

He’ll have to rely on instinct to find you. You’re becoming a real pain in the ass for what was supposed to be a simple job. Still, he can’t help but be a little relieved that it was a stranger and not you lying dead on the ground.

He turns back onto the road, taking the turn into town. Someone on horseback rides past him, they look disgusted by something up ahead and it makes alarms go off in his head. He urges Diablo forward, running the rest of the way into town.

An unsaddled mare lazily eats some grass as the sound of a rushing river meets his ears. Diablo’s hooves sound off against the wood of the bridge. He finally sees what disturbed the other rider so much.

You’re sitting on the railing of the bridge, legs dangling dangerously over the edge as you stare down into the crashing waters below you. Arthur gets off his horse, approaching you slowly. He doesn’t want to startle you and have you go tumbling over the edge.

He calls out your name and you glance briefly over at him. Blood is splattered across your neck and the front of your shirt is soaked with it. He knows it isn’t yours but it still puts him on edge. “What’re you doin’ kid?”

You don’t answer him, “Did you follow me?” He eases up beside you, straddling the railing so he can catch you if you slip. He nods and you let out a rough sigh. “Is he dead?”

He scoffs, “Sure as shit hope so, don’t know how someone would survive that.”

A manic laugh bursts through your lips and you double over your head falling into your hands. Arthur surges forward, steadying you before you dive headfirst into the river. “Alright, let’s go,” he quietly urges you around. You don’t put up a fight, letting him maneuver you how he likes.

He gets you on your feet and leads you back to Diablo. You latch onto the horse's reigns immediately, stroking your hand over his mane. Your silence is concerning. Arthur doesn’t know what your regular behavior is, the most he’s seen of you, you have been quiet. This is different, though. He’s seen this sort of quiet in women before and it never ends pretty.

“You’re alright, come on,” he tries to keep his voice low so he doesn’t set you off. He keeps his hands light as they land around your waist, giving you help onto Diablo’s saddle. Your gaze is distant and you move like someone else is controlling your body.

He collects the mare you’d brought along with you and leads both horses into town. He’ll have to get a saddle for her, she already seems attached to you. And maybe taking a horse with you into the city will let you escape a little.

The town, at least, is on the way to Strawberry so he doesn’t have to worry about being too far off schedule. Though, that’s the least of his concerns right now. His eyes keep darting up to you. Waiting for you to try and bolt again or finally break down. It doesn’t look like anything is going on in your head, you seem completely distanced from the situation.

It’s a good thing for him. He can’t handle a distraught woman. He’s not a kind enough man for it.

He hitches the horses in front of the hotel. You turn in the saddle, staring down at him and waiting for a hand down. You slide easily through his hands, landing in the mud with a dull thud and heading up the stairs of the hotel without prompt.

He huffs and follows after you. He doesn’t know how to explain the blood on your clothes away and hopes he won’t have to. The man running the place, thankfully, doesn’t have many questions. He looks disturbed but keeps his qualms to himself when Arthur slips him a little extra cash.

Arthur guides you up the stairs with a light hand on your back, opening the door of the bath for you. “Alright, here’s your room key. I’ll be out for a while so, just,” he sighs, taking in the blank look on your face and shaking his head. “Try not to cause any more trouble.” You nod and close the door behind him.

There’s no worries that you’re going to make a run for it again. He’s sure whatever happened in those woods was scarring enough to make you want to go back to the city and never see country folk again. He wouldn’t blame you, there are some nasty people out here. Himself included, but he could never imagine hurting a woman like that. It just ain’t right.

He heads to the shop across the street, buying some new clothes for you that actually fight properly. The horses are brought to the stables and he goes ahead and gets a paper for your mare under your name. Diablo will be faster tomorrow if he doesn’t have to carry the weight of two people. You might make it to your handler in time.

Arthur still doesn’t feel right about this whole thing. Leaving you with a man you’ve never met feels even worse knowing what happened to you today. He doesn’t think you being so calm about it all is a good thing. Shouldn’t women react?

Dutch likes to tell him women are a more sensitive breed. He’s seen some tough ones in his life, but this seems like the time to be in hysterics if there ever was one. He heads back to the hotel, planning on just leaving the change of clothes in your room.

He passes by the bath and hears an odd sound seeping through the cracks. Frowning, he presses his ear up against the door. A man passes by him, giving him a disgusted look as he goes into his room. Arthur sighs but he stays where he is.

It’s clearer now, you’re crying and it’s hard to listen to. It's the type that makes it hard to breathe. That sort of crying makes your ribs ache and bruise. It’s wrong to keep listening to such a vulnerable moment. So, he does what he planned, drops the clothes in your room, and then heads to bed himself.

Sleep comes easier than he thought it would. It’s not as restful as he’d been hoping but it draws over him faster than it normally does. He’s always been a light sleeper, though. It comes from years of having to be on guard in case some O’Driscoll is gonna try and slit his throat while he’s asleep.

When he hears the door creak his hand is already on the trigger of his revolver as he shoots up in bed. The glow of the lamps outside illuminates what’s clearly a woman’s form. But he can’t see your face until you take a step further into the room and the moonlight provides some light.

“Arthur?” You whisper his name, peering into his room. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” he grumbles. With a sigh, he shoves the gun back under his pillow and runs a rough hand over his face. “What'd ya want?”

You let out a low breath and rock back on your heels. “I’m sorry,” you mutter. “I just, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking he’s gonna creep out of my closet or bust through the door, I-”

You cut yourself off but he can hear the emotion thickening your voice. He clenches his eyes shut in irritation, arguing with himself over what he’s about to say. “You wanna sleep in here?” He mumbles reluctantly.

You close the door immediately, practically running towards his bed. “You don’t mind?”

You’re not really giving him a choice, but he’s not going to say that to you. “No.” He grabs a pillow and blanket off the bed and rounds the end of the mattress. You frown as you watch him toss everything to the ground.

“Well, what’re you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” He snaps, angrily gesturing towards the floor. “I’m givin’ you the bed.”

You bite your lip and he feels horrible instantly because you look like you’re about to cry. He’s not trying to be rude but you woke him up in the dead of night. What’d you expect him to say?

“I was sort of hoping we could share the bed.”

His eyes widen and he glares at you in disbelief. “You mean-”

“No!” You cut him off with an aggrieved sigh. “You fool, that’s not what I mean at all. I just don’t want to be alone, alright?”

“Look,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m the man you want to bunk with for company, alright. I’m not that kind of guy.” You glare at him and snatch his pillow and blanket off the floor.

“Don’t be so damn stubborn.” You aggressively fluff the pillows, throwing the covers back and gesturing towards them, your brow set in anger.

“Right,” he huffs, “I’m stubborn.” He reluctantly crawls into bed and you follow behind him. It’s not that he minds sharing a bed with a pretty lady. He’s just not the sort of guy you should be coming to for comfort.

He doesn’t think he can provide whatever it is you need at this moment. But you seem to think otherwise as you inch towards him slowly. He lays on his back, arms under his head as he watches you out of the side of his eye. You think you’re being subtle, slowly moving into his side until you’re flush against him.

He doesn’t say anything to object and you don’t bring up the proximity. He doesn’t want to admit it but it is nice having someone else beside him. He’s so used to camping out on his own. He hasn’t had anyone beside him in a long while. He lost interest in women of leisure a long while ago. And ever since Mary, he’s given up on any sort of intimacy.

He hates to admit it, but he finds himself easing towards the warmth you provide. The second you feel him reciprocating you’re inching a tentative hand around his waist, cuddling closer to him. He recognizes it for what it is.

He’s always been looked at as someone who can protect, at least by the gang. He’s their muscle. To most others, he incites nothing but fear. It should be the same for you. But after what happened today, you just see someone who can keep the monsters in the dark away.

He doesn’t mind being used like this. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and waits until he feels you settle to ease into sleep again.

Arthur figures you should both get breakfast in town while you’re here. He reasons you should enjoy a hot meal before you’re on the road again. You don’t point out that you know he’s just trying to ease you into the day.

You appreciate it, honestly, but yesterday wasn’t your first run-in with men like that. It’s become incomprehensibly normal in day-to-day life, even for a city girl like yourself. You’d cried everything out in the bath once you’d scrubbed your skin raw.

You don’t think Arthur will ever understand just how much his presence helped you last night. If you’d been on your own, jumping every time you heard the wood creaking outside, you’d have driven yourself over the edge. He protected you, even if there was nothing to be protected from.

You don’t think he gives himself enough credit. Ignoring the situation you’re both in and what he’s taking you to do, he’s a good man. While the caliber of the men you’ve met is questionable at best, he’s one of the best ones you’ve ever known. At the end of the day, he disagrees with the whole situation, but he’s doing this for his family. That’s admirable in its own way.

But, god, does he have poor conversational skills. “So, yesterday.” You glance up from your toast, brows raised in question. He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and his food like he can’t choose what to focus on. “That man, did he…”

He trails off and you feel your hackles rise. “Don’t worry,” you hiss, a bite to your words, “I’m still pure for my husband. Your pay won’t be docked, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His hand clenches around his fork and his eyes bore into yours, “That’s not what I meant,” he growls. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he snaps, “I was worried ‘bout you, woman.”

You take in a deep breath, actively biting your tongue from saying something spiteful. He wasn’t being rude, that’s just what you’re used to. “I’m sorry,” you concede lowly. “Nothing happened,” you repeat without the attitude.

“Well,” he huffs and goes back to his breakfast, “good,” he settles on dully.

“Good,” you agree quietly, pushing the rest of your food around. You find your appetite dulled and you push the plate away. You lean back in the booth and stare out the window. The horses seem to be getting on well enough. “Did you name her?”

Arthur gives you an odd look and you nod towards the mare hitched next to Diablo. He swallows the food he’d been chewing and takes a swig of his coffee. “No, figured you’d want to do it.”

Your brows furrow and your lips quirk in confusion. “Why?”

“She’s yours, ain’t she?” He grouses.

You shake your head, “Nope,” you tell him, popping the p. “I just took her so I’d have something to get me to town.”

“Yeah, well,” he sounds less sure of himself and he’s looking like he made a mistake. “I thought she’d be nice for you to have with you in the city. A way for you to get around without relyin’ on someone else.”

You can’t help but smile, something in your chest easing away at the kind gesture. “I appreciate it,” he lights up a little at your approval, but you crush it in an instant. “But I can’t keep her, I won’t be allowed to. I’ve tried to have my own horse before, hard to control something that can get away from you,” you tell him blankly. There’s no emotion in your voice because it’s something you’re used to.

He looks slightly horrified at how blunt you are. He can’t comprehend not having that freedom but he fails to recognize that he’s got a leash of his own. You doubt a man like Dutch would ever let his main asset just run off to wherever he wants to.

A few people walk into the saloon, the women giving you odd looks when they see the pants on your legs. You smile cheekily at them, reveling in what you know will be a short-lived experience. You’ve never been on the receiving end of a judgmental look like that.

You’ve always blended in. Been the perfect wallflower for the men in your life. You were never something to gawk at or cause trouble. It’s a relief to stick out for once, to break the mould for the first time in your life.

Arthur clocks the interaction and chuckles. “Missin’ the skirts yet?”

“Not one damn bit,” you tell him, smiling as you take a sip of your coffee. “I’m going to miss being able to run around without having to lug an extra four pounds of fabric behind me.”

“Ya know, you could just wear some pants, you’ve got a choice.”

You grin patronizingly at him, propping your head on your chin and watching him finish the rest of his breakfast. “You don’t know city men very well, do you?”

“Glad for it,” he grumbles, distaste clear in his tone.

A laugh breaks through your chest, the first real one in a while. “I’m going to be marrying one, Arthur. I won’t have a choice in much of anything anymore.” You can tell he wants to object, tell you there’s always a choice.

He’ll never truly understand what’s going to happen to you, though. You’re no longer human once you’re married. You’re cattle and property, meant to be bred and shown off. You accepted your fate a long while ago. And after you’re failed escape attempt, you’ve realized this is what you were always meant to be. There’s no point in fighting fate.

“Don’t apologize or argue,” you tell him, no spite or bitterness in your tone, just the honest truth. “I don’t mind anymore, really. What place is there for me in this world, anyway? I can’t exactly take care of myself.”

“You did a damn good job yesterday,” he snaps back quickly. He doesn’t seem too keen on the way you’re talking about yourself. But you’re not lying. Yesterday was a wake-up call. If you let yourself get screwed over by a hillbilly that quickly then how were you ever going to make it on your own? In your defense, you were raised to be dependent, you never had a chance.

“Sure, but that was a one-off incident. I’m not going to run again, Arthur. There’s no point. And there’s no point in fighting against the way things are, they’re never going to change for me.” You take in a deep breath, the easy mood ruined by your sincerity.

“I’m just gonna wait by the horses.”

You slide out of the booth, leaving Arthur to stare pensively at his plate. You’ve nearly slipped through the door when Arthur calls out, “You should name her.” You pause at the doorway, glancing back at him. He’s settling the bill at the front and you walk back out to the horses.

The mare picks her head up as you walk towards her, ears perked and tail flicking. “Hey, girl,” you run a hand over her muzzle, admiring the sleek silver of her coat. “I guess I should name you.”

You run a hand over her mane and swing yourself onto the saddle. “How ‘bout Bullet, it’s how I got you, anyway.” A dark joke, but it eases the macabre feeling hanging around you.

Arthur walks out of the saloon, tucking his money away into his bag. He lifts himself onto Diablo, glancing over at you with a knowing glint.

“Name her?”

You resent how smug he sounds. “Bullet,” you answer reluctantly.

“Bullet?” He questions, tone incredulous.

You grin at him, “It’s how I got her.” There’s a slightly stunned expression on his face before it slacks away into something more amused.

He shakes his head and nudges Diablo forward, Bullet follows alongside him eagerly. “Clever,” he mutters.

“Not really,” you snort, running a hand over her neck lovingly. “But I think it works for her.”

“Your husband’s gonna have his hands full with you,” you know he means it in jest. The lightness of the conversation turns into something heavier. Realization sinks over both of you and the smiles slowly drop away. “I-”

“How much further to Strawberry, anyway?” You effectively cut off whatever train of thought he was going to follow, distracting you both from the truth.

“Half a day,” he tells you, frowning when you refuse to meet his eye again. Half a day. That’s all you’ve got to enjoy the last bits of freedom you have. You’re gonna take your damn time getting there, that’s for sure.

You slow down from the steady trot Arthur had led the horses into, easing Bullet into a slow walk. You’re slowly getting the hang of riding a horse. It’s easy when she’s so intuitive. By god, though, your ass is sore.

Arthur shoots you a questioning glance at the slow pace and you shrug. “Might as well take the time I’ve got left.”

“You’re actin’ like you’re on death row,” he chuckles.

“Aren’t I?” He falls silent and you don’t know what’s bothering him but you don’t have the energy to inquire.

He’s slowing you down on purpose, he knows it and you know it. Neither of you says a damn thing about it but it’s bugging him. He shouldn’t be this bothered by a job. He knows how to separate himself from what he does. He just can’t this time.

There’s something about you that glows. You’re sitting beside him on the peak of a hill, overlooking the roads below you, and laughing as you make up stories for the people that pass by. It’s a far cry from the beaten-down woman he’d seen at Crane’s house.

Even after what happened yesterday, you somehow manage to seem happier. There’s nothing about it that makes him happy. This feels like the last goodbye of someone who knows they’re going soon. The last bout of happiness before they just give in.

You’re not gaining your spark back, you’re just giving in to what you think is inevitable. But it doesn’t have to be inevitable. You could fight back you just refuse to. He’s sure growing up the way you have, you don’t think it's possible to stand up for yourself.

But you don’t have to give in like this. You don’t have to roll over and let someone else dictate your life. Which is rich, coming from him. He’s practically Dutch’s lap dog now. Even when he disagrees he still follows along behind him.

He shouldn’t even be thinking like this. He can’t criticize you for not standing up for yourself when he’s the one thing standing between you and freedom. “Not hungry?” You nod towards the uneaten meat on his knife.

He shakes his head, plucking it off the blade and passing it to you. You give him an odd look before popping it in your mouth. “Ya know,” you mutter around a full mouth. You take a moment to swallow it down before smiling over at him. “I’ve grown up with private chefs my whole life, but there’s is something infinitely more satisfying about this.”

He takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair. He snorts at your comment, “I find that hard to believe.”

“No,” you shake your head, insistent, “I mean it. Being out here, hunting the game myself, I don’t know, it’s nice.” You shrug and lean back on your hands, gazing across the way at the trees and river.

“You can always get a bow and go hunting.” He speaks to you like it's a cut-and-dry truth that you’re just not accepting. Your face screws up and you give him an annoyed glare.

“No. I can’t,” you tell him again. Where your words were patient before, he can tell you’re growing irritated at how much he’s pushing this.

“Yes, you can,” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep yourself boxed up in some manor in the city. Get out, woman, do something with your life!” His voice echoes through the air and you flinch back from it, lips pulling down into a sneer.

“You know, that’s really easy for you to say, Arthur. You have a goddamn choice. Sure, I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, little miss rich girl crying about being pampered.”

He lets out a rough sigh, “That’s not what I meant-”

You cut him off, getting to your feet and glaring down at him. “You got to grow up with a choice. What to do with your body, your life, your career. You get to have an education if you want it. Every goddamn door is open to you. You don’t get hated for not wanting to have a family. You get to choose. And as much as you insist I can too, you will never understand the position I am in.”

You kick dirt over the fire and head back towards Bullet. “It’s a double-edged sword, Arthur. Sure, my life might be comfortable, but it’s never really gonna be my life.” He stays there on the ground, too stunned to get up.

You glare down at him, impatiently waiting for him to get a move on. This isn’t how he wants things to end. He doesn’t want you to go off thinking he’s just some ignorant fool. But he is, much as he denies it, he’s always been a fool.

He should never have thought he could make a difference in your life. Not when he’s the one backing you into this corner. He could have helped you escape the very first night he saw you. But he was too selfish to let you go, now you’re both paying for it.

He mounts Diablo and you both head back to the roads silently. You’re moving faster now, leaving him behind if he lingers in one area for too long. You’re too pissed off to enjoy the rest of your day and he hates that he ruined it for you. You, at the very least, deserved a slower journey towards your future.

You’re in Strawberry before he’s ready, he’s sure you aren’t. “Hey, we could-”

“I think that’s him.” You cut him off before he says something stupid like spend another night in town before you go. He’ll miss you, he thinks. Odd, he’s known you such a short time but it’s been so different having someone beside him as he rides. It was nice, what he wished he and Mary could have had.

Arthur follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh. Sure enough, some prim and proper ass is standing in front of the ticket station, foot tapping impatiently. He’s got a large bag beside him, gaze wandering around expectantly. He doesn’t doubt the man who looks like he’s got a five-foot stick up his ass is Mr. Crane’s associate. He’s got the same slimy glint.

You slide off Bullet and Arthur follows suit, taking the reigns of both horses and leading them towards the platform. The man’s eyes narrow in on you before lighting up. He calls out your name and it’s like a mask being dropped over your face.

The spark is gone once more, a subdued and demure smile resting on your face as you wave at him. “I apologize for my dress,” you tell him as you walk up the steps. “Pants were more conducive to such a long ride.”

He takes your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles that makes Arthur roll his eyes. “No apologies necessary, I brought you a change of clothes. I figured you would be less than put together after such a journey. I’m only sorry I couldn’t accompany you.”

You scoff and nod along, “Okay,” you mutter, not believing a word of his bullshit. You take the bag from him and move towards the saloon to find a room to change in. They both watch you leave, though the other man with a much more devious glint in his eye.

Arthur’s hands tighten on the reigns of the horses, anything to keep him from reaching for his revolver. He’s already getting a bad feeling about this. There’s nothing trustworthy about the man in front of him.

“Mr. Finch,” he holds out his hand and Arthur gives it a distrusting look before reluctantly shaking. Finch attempts to squeeze the life out of his hand but Arthur can barely feel it. He tightens his own grip and revels in the way Finch’s face blanches.

“Arthur Morgan.”

Mr. Finch looks him up and down in the same way Crane had. He sees a commodity, not a person. “I trust,” he drawls, “nothing unsavory happened.”

Arthur feels rage bubbling in his gut. The only damn thing he cares about is whether or not you’re “pure.” Not if you were okay or injured during the journey. If he told him that he’d punched you out for talking back Finch would just ask if you were bruised.

“She’s fine,” Arthur grits out.

“Oh, good, good. Glad everything went smoothly.” Finch has a way of talking he’s found most self-important men do. He draws everything he says out, and forces you to listen to him speak. Makes you pay attention so he can pretend he has power for a moment.

His gaze darts behind Arthur and he turns just in time to see you slipping out of the saloon. The dress Finch has provided you is ridiculously large. It poofs out at the waist in a way that makes Arthur wonder how you’re going to fit into your seat.

You look beyond uncomfortable. Grimacing as you join them again. You try and plaster a smile on but it’s a struggle. You look to Arthur, a finality on your face that makes him want to throw you over his shoulder and run. He’s doing this for the others, he reminds himself. They’ll be on a boat to Tahiti in a week.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan, for everything.” The smile you leave him with is real, if just barely. Something lurks under your words that Mr. Finch will never understand and Arthur knows it will drive him crazy.

“Let’s go,” Finch grabs your hand, looping it through his arm and tugging you towards the doors of the station.

“Wait!” Arthur calls out, feeling foolish when you both look back at him with perplexed expressions. “You’ll be wanting Bullet, won’t you?”

Mr. Finch answers for you with a condescending tone, “She won’t be needing a horse, thank you.” You give him a knowing smile, turning away and slipping through the doors of the station and onto the train.

Arthur stays rooted where he is, something crawling up in his chest and rooting around restlessly. The whistle blows and the wheels start cranking slowly forward. Arthur just barely catches a glimpse of you through a window as the train chugs past.

“Shit!” He hisses. He tugs himself up onto Diablo’s saddle and urges him after the train. He was born a fool, he’s always going to be a damn fool. But he’d have to be a complete moron to just let you go.

Mr. Finch keeps a painfully tight grip on your elbow, jerking you through the passenger cars and practically throwing you into your seat. You land with a thud, your arm bouncing against the window painfully. You keep a stoic expression, trying not to let him break you so soon.

He takes a seat beside you, straightening out his jacket and tugging on his tie. Something white flashes in his jacket pocket and you lean forward, perplexed when you realize what it is. “What is that?” You question, not quite believing your eyes. Finch glances down at the thick wad of cash in his jacket and grins.

“Oh, this? Mr. Morgan must have forgotten to collect the rest of his payment.” He sends you a condescending smile and you flinch away in disgust. “He was too enamored with my fiancee to pay much attention, I’m afraid.”

“That’s his money,” you snap, the volume of your voice catching the attention of a few other passengers. Finch sends them apologetic smiles, making you seem like a mad woman. “He earned that!” You object, eyeing the money warily.

His hand snakes out, gripping you tightly around the arm and dragging you towards him until your noses are nearly touching. You nearly gag at the smell of his cigar-infused breath. It’s not like when Arthur would smoke one, you didn’t mind that. But this was making you sick to your stomach.

“Let's get a few things clear, I will not be dealing with an obstinate wife. You can either get yourself in order or I’ll do it for you.”

Your lips pull back in disgust and you jerk yourself out of his grip. He’s not as strong as he pretends to be and you’re not going to be scared into submission again. “I’m not your wife yet. My father still has time to pay.”

He laughs at you, spittle flying from your lips and sprinkling across your cheeks. “He has time to pay, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be getting you back, sweetheart.” Your eyes widen with the realization and you want to throw yourself off the side of the train.

You never had any chance to get out of this situation. Mr. Crane was always in control of it all. To even think of having a hope of getting back home was foolish. To believe for a second that you were going to escape this had been utter idiocy.

He sees the crestfallen expression and sinks into his seat with a satisfactory look on his face. He thinks you to be subdued. But now you’re nothing more than a cornered animal with no other choice of escape. You’ve got nothing left for you, nothing to hold onto.

As much as you’d thought you’d bonded with Arthur, you were still nothing more than a job to him. You were nothing more than a commodity to be traded between men. You would never have a say over your life.

You have nothing, you doubt you ever actually had anything left for you. You glance over at the man beside you and feel a cool dread blanket itself over you. Nothing left to lose.

There’s a solid weight tucked into the bodice of your dress. Its cool metal has been warmed by your skin. Its handle curves around your ribs and it only has one bullet left. You reach down the front of your dress, fingers curling around the revolver you’d stolen from a dead man.

Finch glowers at your inappropriate behavior “What are-” You pull the gun out, turning it on him. He jumps back in shock and throws his hands in the air on instinct. “Please-” you revel in his pathetic pleading only for a moment. Pulling the trigger a second time is surprisingly easy. The screams that ring out through the train car are less enjoyable. “Shit!” He cusses, hands coming up to try and staunch the flow of blood pouring from his stomach.

You slip your hand into his blazer, stealing the money before he can object. You run out of the passenger car, leaping to the flat car with all the cargo. It will take a few minutes for them to catch onto what happened and figure out where you went.

You don’t know what you’re going to do now. You’re stuck on a moving train, there’s nowhere for you to hide. You hadn’t thought when you’d shot him, you just wanted that smug look on his face to disappear.

“Where is she?” You hear the guards shouting out your name, flipping over crates to find you. They’re still at the front of the train, but you don’t have long until they start moving back here.

God, what have you done?

You just know, if you made it to that train station, you were never going to make it out. His men would be waiting there to transport you. You’d be watched every second of your life, you can’t do it again. You can’t be locked in a gilded cage, that’s not a life worth living.

There’s no escape for you. Nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide. You glance over the left side of the train. There’s a slight dip into a deep ravine. The crashing water looks almost peaceful from up here.

You don’t know if it would be a quick death but you know it would be merciful compared to what’s waiting for you at your last stop. You keep your eyes on the water, see yourself taking control of your life for the first time, and take a step up on the rail.

Someone shouts your name from the right side of the train and you gasp, arms circling wildly as you almost go toppling over the edge. They shout your name again, panic laced in the tone. This doesn’t sound like Finch or any of the other guards. You whip around and find Arthur riding his horse beside the train.

“What the hell are you doing, woman?”

Your brows furrow in confusion and your eyes dart between him and the ravine. “Jumping! What the hell are you doing?”

His gaze narrows and he shouts to be heard over the rumble of the train tracks. “Stopping you from being a goddamn fool. Get over here!” You hear the guards getting closer as they storm down the rest of the train.

You don’t have long to make a decision, you can already see his horse struggling to keep up with the speed of the train. There’s a bridge coming up in a moment, he won’t be able to go any further and they won’t be able to come after you.

It’s a split-second decision, one that has you pushing off the railing of the car and rushing towards him. You don’t have time to doubt yourself or plan this out further, you take a running leap off the train, towards his outstretched arms.

He barely catches you in time, jerking on the reigns of the horse and bringing him to a sudden stop before all three of you go tumbling into the water. Shots fire off on the train, but they’re gone before they can do any real damage.

Your chest heaves as you dangle from his arms, fingers digging into his shirt desperately. Your heart is pounding so hard against your chest that you almost can’t hear what he’s saying, but you get the gist of it.

“The hell were you thinking? Trying to jump off the damn train! You’re a fool, woman.” He tugs you onto the saddle the rest of the way. As much as he tries to sound angry you can feel his relief in the way he squeezes you close to him.

“Thank you,” you whisper, head sinking into his neck and breathing in the familiar scent.

He sighs, struggling between yelling at you more and just enjoying the fact that he got to you before you did something neither of you could recover from. “You’re welcome, just,” he pauses, holding you a little closer, “don’t be so damn stupid again.”

You laugh and it’s a little wet as tears start to pool in your eyes. “I’m not planning on it.” You sit up, easing away from him and glancing over your shoulder. You watch as the train grows smaller until you can only see a plume of smoke and nothing more. “What the hell are we going to do?”

He sighs and turns the horse around. You maneuver yourself around, facing forward and pushing back against him. “I don’t know. Dutch ain’t gonna be happy about you comin’ back with me.”

You bite your lip, a hundred different possibilities swirling through your head. You’ve never been able to make a choice before, faced with it, you’re overwhelmed with options. You can’t pick one so you blurt out the first coherent thought you have.

“What if we don’t go back?”

Arthur stills behind you, “What?” His tone is low and filled with something you know means he’s ready to say no.

“Just for a little while,” you rush the words out quickly, trying to fight for a chance to get him to listen. “We can send this to the camp,” you tug out the wad of cash you’d stolen from Finch and Arthur barks out a laugh. You feel his chest tremble behind you and it makes you grin.

“Did you steal his money?”

“Your money, technically,” you correct, grinning over your shoulder at him. “Besides, he doesn’t need it anymore.” He gives you a concerned look but you just wave him off. “We can send the camp some money and go off on our own for a while.”

“I don’t know, kid.”

“Don’t call me that,” you interrupt, glaring at him. “It’ll only be for a little while, Arthur. Come on, I’m free for the first time in my life, enjoy it with me.”

He looks uncertain and you know it’s an odd notion to him, putting himself first instead of the camp or Dutch. You’re sure he’s never done it before. Breaking away from them instead of going about like the loyal soldier he is.

“Just a little while?”

You nod, turning just enough to tuck the money in his pocket. “Just a little while,” you swear.

“John Marston!” You frown, turning away from the oven and glancing out the window. Arthur’s grinning by the gates of the horse pen, leaping over the wood, and walking out to greet someone. You abandon the stew, heading towards the door of your home.

Outside are two horses, one with a woman and her son, and an abandoned one. The owner is currently bringing Arthur into a brief embrace, John, you presume. Arthur’s told you about him a bit. They weren’t always close but it was getting better before Arthur went away.

Sometimes you feel bad, having dragged him away from everything he was familiar with. You meant it when you said you only wanted to be gone for a little while. You knew if you went back immediately there would be hell to pay with Dutch and you’d both be put to work.

You’d be going from one owner to another. All you’d wanted was a few weeks on the road on your own. But a few weeks turned into six months and then a year, and it was Arthur telling you he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t stand what the gang was turning into. What Dutch was turning into. All you’d given him was an excuse to finally get out before it all blew up.

You walk down the steps of the home Arthur built, wiping your hands off on your apron. You give a brief wave to the woman you assume is Abigail. She waves back, slipping off the horse and helping Jack down.

Arthur pulls away from John, turning towards you and motioning you forward. John gives you an apprehensive look. “Do I know you?”

Arthur gives him your name, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in closer. “That job Dutch got from Crane.” John’s face lights up with recognition and he smirks.

“I see,” he shakes his head and gives Arthur a knowing look. “It’s always a woman with you, isn’t it?” You snort at how aggrieved Arthur looks. “Well,” John turns towards you and smiles, “nice to finally meet the woman that got him under control.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you smile lightly at him, pulling away from Arthur. “Are you going to be joining us for dinner?”

“No, he’s not,” Arthur answers at the same time John says, “I would love to.”

Arthur and John share a look you can’t understand. You glance past John and wave Abigail forward, “Come in, please. I’d enjoy the company.”

“Forgive my obstinate husband, he tends to linger where he ain’t wanted.” She brushes past him and you lead her inside your home. Leaving Arthur and John to bicker outside. Jack stays outside, smiling up at Arthur. You know he’s missed the boy, you’re sure he’s okay entertaining them for one night.

Abigail helps you set the table while Arthur and John catch up over a bottle of whiskey. Arthur tried to pull out a cigar but you’d shut that down quick. He’d had a cough a little while ago and the doctor advised cutting down on tobacco if he wanted it to go away. You know it’s hard but you’re cracking down on how much he smokes.

“We got the money you sent,” John’s telling Arthur as they come over to join you all at the table. Jack eagerly hops into the seat beside Arthur before you can snag it and you grin. “Dutch blew it all and wouldn’t tell us on what. He kept saying we still needed another score.”

John shakes his head and the distant look in his eyes makes your stomach churn. “You’re a lucky bastard you got out when you did, Arthur, truly.”

“Hosea?” Arthur questions and you grimace at the look on John’s face. You can see Arthur deflate as John shakes his head.

“There was a bank robbery, Molly told the Pinkertons we were going to be there, he didn’t make it.”

Arthur’s hand clenches around the fork and you wish you could say something that would make him realize it’s not his fault. “I should have been there,” he mutters.

“Wouldn’t have done anything, man. Hosea had given up in the end. We all had. It was so damn divided, the family was gone.”

“Still.” Arthur insists, glaring down at his plate like it had offended him.

“No,” to your surprise it’s Abigail that snaps. “Dutch was gone and that bastard Micah just kept pushing him over the edge. The only thing you would have done is get yourself killed. You’re damn lucky Arthur Morgan.”

You’re sure he’ll still blame himself later. Reason a hundred times over that had he been there something would have been different. Even if it was him on the other end of the gun he’d be happier knowing someone else hadn’t died when it could have been him. You couldn’t stand that these self-sacrificing ideals Dutch had drilled into him were still present.

But you know Abigail and John help ease the guilt slightly. It’s on Arthur to let it go entirely, though you doubt that will happen anytime soon. John picks up on the change in mood, he’s reluctant to let the night sour so soon.

He turns towards you with a look that makes you feel like you need to prepare for trouble. “So you did all that to escape getting married. And then you marry this moron?” He motions towards Arthur and you can’t help but laugh.

“John!” Abigail snaps but he only smiles at her. You can see the way she fights the twitch of her lips and it makes you smile in turn.

You correct him, “We’re not technically married-”

“Might as well be,” Arthur argues, glaring at John. You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours and gently squeezing. You can’t help but laugh at him.

“Yeah, we might as well be,” you agree. “But it was never about not wanting to be a wife. I just wanted to have a damn choice. That’s what I got out here. I can hunt or cook. Sew or go out and make some money. And it’s a lot nicer being a wife out in the country than it is in the city, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Here’s hoping,” Abigail mutters. She glances towards Arthur, “That’s why we’re out here. We got word from a few people that you might be lurking around here. John’s thinking of getting a house, really settling down.”

Arthur sighs, leaning back in his chair and glaring at John. “That’s why you’re here? You want a handout,” he accuses.

“No!” John snaps. “Dammit, Arthur, why you always gotta assume the worst of me?”

“Because it’s usually true,” Arthur mutters. “If that’s not what you want then what is it?”

John purses his lips and lets out a spluttering breath. “A loan,” he lands on, struggling to find the right word.

Arthur barks out a laugh, slapping his hand on the table and poking a knowing finger into John’s chest. “I knew it!”

John swats his hand away and glares. “Look, Morgan, I only need a little. Just to buy some animals, get started on the house.”

“What’d ya want Marston, my whole damn house?”

Abigail lands a gentle hand on your arm and nods to the porch. “They’ll be at it for a while.” You nod and leave the table, following her to the swing out back. She settles down on it with a sigh, gazing out at the trees that line your home.

“You’ve got a nice life out here.”

You smile fondly, “I like to think so. We’re thinking about getting a few cows, maybe starting a proper ranch.”

Her face lights up at the idea and she laughs. “That’s what John wants. It’s unbelievable how similar they are, they’re too thick-headed to see it.”

You can still vaguely hear them bickering inside the house. You peer inside and see Jack sitting at the table, watching them both with an entranced expression. You can’t help but grin at the look on Arthur’s face. He’s laying into John but he looks happier than you’ve seen him in a while.

You know he’s missing everybody, has been for a long time. Maybe if Abigail and John are close by he’ll have that sense of familiarity again. “The others,” you start, turning back to Abigail. “Charles and Sadie, what happened to everyone else?”

“A few of them are living good lives, some of them aren’t. Most of them are drifting, not ready to give up the outlaw life just yet.”

“It’s hard to watch the world change while you’re still stuck in the same spot.” You brush some hair out of your eyes and smile at Abigail. “Me and Arthur are gonna help you and John. But I’d like it if you were both close by. It would be nice to have someone familiar near us, we’re pretty lonely up here.”

She gives you a brief smile back, “I think that would be nice.”

John’s voice picks up from inside and you jump, “Oh that’s a load of bull-”

Abigail’s smile drops and she leans over your shoulder to shout, “Watch it!” at John. You laugh when you see the perturbed look on his face. She motions towards his son and Arthur gives John a smug look.

“You gonna help him?” You ask Arthur as you settle into bed later. He opens his arms, pulling you into his embrace once you’re settled under the covers.

“John?” You nod, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course I’m gonna help him. But there’s nothing wrong with jerking him around a little bit first.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, tucking yourself under his chin. You almost think he’s asleep but then he’s speaking up again. “We should really do it.”

You pull back, brows furrowed in confusion. “Do what?”

There’s a certain look in his eyes that causes something to swirl in your stomach. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, just an excited one, “Get married.”

You give him a bewildered look, shaking your head in disbelief. Nearly five years you’ve both been living out here and he’s never once mentioned getting married. You never thought you two actually needed it. You always knew what you were to each other, how much you meant to one another.

You were each other’s salvation. There’s no telling what graves you would be laying in were it not for Dutch bringing you both together. You hadn’t thought he wanted to be married, he always told you he’d given those dreams up. “You really mean that?”

He shrugs like it’s the easiest decision in the world. “Might as well, right?”

You shake your head, but there’s no fighting the way your lips curl up. “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.”

He nods, dipping his head down to press a gentle kiss on your temple. He treats you so gently, it makes you want to cry. But then he goes and says something ridiculous like, “Yeah, a fool for you,” and he makes you laugh.

You tug him down, lips nearly touching his. “Yes,” you whisper, “I’ll marry you.” You were always scared of living a life like this. Being tied to one man for the rest of your time on earth. But he’s not some city man looking to make you into a pet. He lets you live, breathe, and be free. He’s a partner not a warden and that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

#Arthur Morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan imagine #Arthur Morgan #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x you #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #Red dead redemption 2 x reader

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hairmetal666 · 3 months ago

Text

Eddie's still a couple miles from home when the van dies. The engine gives a few pitiful putters before groaning and rolling to a definitive stop. He drops his head to the steering wheel, letting out a groan of his own.

He was at the Hideout, it's like 1am, and he can't sleep out in the van, not after last time, when Powell found him.

He's walking home. The shortest route is to cut through the woods, which he hates, but the moon is out and there's still some leftover late-August mugginess in the air, so it's fine. It's fine. Not like there's anything to be scared of in the forests of Hawkins, Indiana.

He's close to home when he trips on an exposed root, scrapes his hand against the sticks and rocks on the forest floor.

"Fuck, shit," he mutters. In the weak light of the moon, he sees the gleaming red seeping from the cut on his palm. It stings. He swipes it on his jeans, keeps going.

The nature sounds go quiet all at once, like someone turned them off, and goosebumps raise on the back of his neck.

Further into the woods, off to his left, something lets out a high-pitched chitter, nothing like he's ever heard before. His heart rate skyrockets, feet moving faster now. There's a flashlight in the van he wishes he thought to bring with him; why hadn't he grabbed it?

He hears the snap and crackle of branches and dead leaves under heavy feet, the crashing through the woods growing louder as the thing moves closer. In the dark of the trees he sees a massive, hulking shape, certainly not human, running straight at him.

Eddie stumbles back--

A dark shape leaps from the woods to his right, a strangled scream slips from his throat but--

It's a...dog?

That doesn't make sense, it's too big, too--

It positions itself in front of Eddie, thick growl rumbling straight through his bones.

This close, he can see that it's a wolf, but that's wrong too. There aren't wolves in Indiana, and it's still too big, bigger than any wolf he's ever seen on Wild Kingdom.

It snarls, creeps towards the other creature still lurking between the trees.

He's terrified to move, to get the attention of either of these things, but then the wolf turns, illuminated in the moon glow. Its coat is thick, chestnut and light brown. Its eyes are bright hazel with flecks of gold, clear and intelligent. His stomach swoops, but not with fear.

It whips its attention away, but it's pressing against him, pushing him back towards civilization.

A fleshy, wet humanoid leg emerges from the tree line and the wolf makes a terrible noise as it lunges. He takes off running.

His body wasn't made for sprinting, but he keeps going until he reaches the trailer, until he throws himself through the front door. He stays there, leaning against it, until he stops shaking. He needs a joint, like ten of them, needs to forget this night ever happened, because what the fuck.

Later, when he's so high he can't move, he can't stop thinking about the wolf's eyes, that there was something weirdly familiar about them.

The next morning, he hardly remembers any of it.

When he bothers to go to school the next week, Steve Harrington says hi to him, even though they've never spoken before.

He doesn't go back into the woods.

---

Steve keeps saying hi to him, like it's normal for them. Then again, Steve now spends most of his time with this junior from band, Robin Buckley. Anyway, who the hell knows what's normal anymore.

There's this one night in early November, he's smoking on the porch, giddy from finishing a song, smiling up at the full moon.

And he's so happy, elated, electrified by creativity, that he forgets about the woods, finds himself staring right into them.

A pair of golden eyes stare back.

He's not afraid.

That same swooping sensation from before grips his stomach, doesn't let up.

The wolf steps forward, not out of the trees, just closer. Without thought, he mimics the move.

There's a soft rustle of brush and the eyes blink out. Eddie keeps staring, transfixed. His heart's speeding but not with fear.

---

By January, he's actual, real life friends with Steve Harrington. They're hanging out like that's a regular thing they do. He supposes, by now, it is.

He also meets the gaggle of eighth graders that follow Harrington around like ducklings. When they find out he runs a dnd club, they become obsessed with him too.

He doesn't see the wolf again.

---

Eventually, he forgets all about why he's supposed to avoid the woods.

He plans a deal at Skull Rock, thoughtless, and once he's there he's not scared at all. The sun is high in the sky, the air warm, birds swoop and sing and insects chirp.

Eddie clamors up the rock, pulls his notebook and a pen out of his back pocket.

He only means to stay for a little bit, maybe an hour or two, but it's so nice out, and you can't really blame a guy if his eyes get a little heavy. If maybe he doesn't quite try to fight the urge to sleep.

When he wakes up, it's full dark.

The moon is out, stars bright, but the birds are gone and so is the heat of the day. He shivers, and it's got very little to do with the cold. If he runs, he can make it back to the van in five minutes, probably less.

A creeping chitter crackles through the air and the night bugs go quiet.

Eddie curls his knees into his chest. He remembers now, why he needed to stay out of the forest.

There's a shadow that separates itself from the cover of the underbrush. It moves in silence, not even a stick or a leaf cracking where it steps. It stops in front of the rock, lips pulled back to reveal long, deadly teeth. It's growling softly.

The wolf.

"I'm sorry," Eddie says. Doesn't know why he's talking to it. "I lost track of time, I--I'm sorry."

The wolf tosses its head, annoyed, and again he's struck by the odd familiarity of the gesture. It turns its attention from him, pacing along the clearing, Its body carefully placed between Eddie and whatever is lurking in the deeper forest.

Hours pass that way, the wolf's focus never faltering even when nothing appears. The sky brightens, and the danger doesn't seem so immediate. The wolf lays down at the base of the rock formation, and Eddie finally lets himself relax too. He falls asleep between one blink and the next.

A bright beam of sunlight hits him just across the eyes, dragging him back to consciousness. There's a hazy second where he doesn't remember anything about where he is or what happened, but it's kind of hard to ignore what sleeping on a big rock does to your body.

He also realizes--he's not alone. There's someone on the rock with him. Someone sturdy and radiating heat, their body nestled tight against his.

Eddie springs up, heart racing, to find--

Steve Harrington. Naked Steve Harrington. Curled up with him on Skull Rock. What the fuck

He thinks he's going to choke on his tongue.

Steve is gorgeous. So fucking hot. All his sun-kissed skin on display, the constellations of freckles and moles, and--god, he's just a little bit hard. And Eddie gets it, okay, he knows it just happens sometimes, but Steve's a little hard, and perfectly pink at the tip, and Eddie--

He pulls the leather jacket from around his own shoulders, places it over Steve's waist, but even though he's careful--gentle--Steve stirs, nose wrinkling.

Eddie draws away, nervous, as Steve blinks to wakefulness, staring right at him.

"Wha--" he wipes the sleep from eyes his and Eddie watches as understanding dawns on Steve's handsome face. "Oh. Fuck."

And Eddie, he's putting it together, he thinks. He thinks--the familiar golden hazel eyes and the annoyed shake of the head and--it's not possible. It's not. But how is Steve here right now? Why is he naked? What reason besides--

"It's you?" He breathes, doesn't even really mean to say it aloud.

Steve gives one sharp nod, looks away.

"You're a werewolf?" Eddie's voice breaks.

"Shu--it's not--I'm--" Steve's shoulders sag. "Yeah, I guess I'm a werewolf."

"Holy shit, Steve. Holy. Shit. Are there more? Jesus Christ."

"I'm the only one that I know of."

"But-- Weren't you bitten? Or--don't tell me--were you born like this?"

"Um. I was bitten by a dog that seemed completely normal. Obviously--" he gestures to himself. "Something was going on there. We think--"

"Sorry, we? There's a we?"

"Oh, well, Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan know. So do Dustin and the rest of the kids. Joyce Byers. Hopper--"

"The POLICE CHIEF knows you're a WEREWOLF," Eddie yells. It startles some birds in a nearby tree, making both he and Steve flinch.

Steve's ears go red. "Hop, he's not--not bad. We--he's helped us out a couple times. Um, there's also a doctor? Who knows? He works for the government and he's trying to figure out why I'm, you know."

"What the fuck, Steve. Like. What the fuck? A government doctor knows you're a werewolf?"

"It's um. You've heard the stories about something being wrong with Hawkins?" Eddie nods. "They're not just stories."

It's a lot to take in. That Hawkins really is cursed, that Steve really is a werewolf, that--

"So, that was actually a--a monster? In the woods? And you--you were, what, looking out for me?"

"Well, I wouldn't need to if you stopped going into the goddamn forest!" There's that annoyed head shake.

"I didn't mean to!'

"What about yesterday??"

"I didn't mean to fall asleep!"

"For fuck's sake, Eddie!"

"I'm sorry!" He throws his hands up. "You could've told me there was a monster."

Steve glares. "Yeah, cause that's an easy conversation. 'Hey, Ed, just so you know, monsters are real. I'm kinda one of them. And some of them in the woods around Hawkins want to eat you'."

"It would've been helpful! And that night, at the trailer, you were--?"

"Making sure you were okay."

"But. Why?"

"Don't you feel it?"

And Eddie doesn't even have to ask what it is. "Yeah, I--yeah."

Their eyes lock and his stomach goes all warm and swoopy. Eddie forces a laugh, forces himself to look away. "So, being a werewolf made you gay?"

Steve coughs out a choked sound. "No, I--no. I was--before."

Honestly, this information is more shocking than Steve being a werewolf. "But--King Steve. All those girls?"

"Robin thinks I was--um--what's it called? Like using that to avoid that I'm also attracted to, you know, dudes. "

"And--it's--Sorry, but this is insane. It's me? That you like?"

Steve laughs. "Why is it easer to believe that I'm a werewolf?"

"I don't--I guess it's cause I've seen you as a werewolf."

"To be fair, you've also seen me, who is gay."

"That's--that's--" Eddie splutters. "Fair."

"Do you remember performing in that talent show?" Steve asks.

"In junior high? Yeah."

"I thought you were really--you did a good job."

"Oh. You--huh." Eddie hides his face in his hands, tries to smother the laugh, but it's impossible.

"Don't--" Steve shoves at him, "Don't laugh! I--you were cute! Goofy! I thought you had nice hands!"

"That's all it takes?" He smirks, can't help but be pleased that Steve's had a crush on him all this time, that it's always been mutual.

"You were nice," Steve says. He's serious now. "You were always kind."

He doesn't know what to say to that, how to hide his growing blush. "So, your werewolf senses know that you like me," he teases.

Steve's neck is read now too. "Um. Yeah? I--yeah. Robin says it's fera--feram--that I'm drawn to your scent"

"Oh, pheromones. Oh." And it's all sort of hitting him now, that this is real, that Steve--he and Steve--oh. "I, uh, like you too, if that wasn't obvious."

"I know." Steve taps the tip of his nose. "I can smell it."

"That's--oh god--that's. So embarrassing. All this time??"

"Only this year"

"That doesn't make it better! Oh my god."

"You've got it so bad," Steve sing-songs, pulls Eddie closer.

"I can't believe the werewolf of Hawkins has a supernatural crush on me."

"Werewolf of--no, absolutely not. You are not calling me that." Steve swats at him.

"Oooh, yes, I am." He pushes Steve back.

"Do you know what will happen if Dustin hears that?"

"Unfortunately for you, that's not a deterrent."

"You're going to be so much trouble--" Steve moves to grab him, Eddie's jacket slipping down his torso. "Oh shit, I'm naked."

"You are very much naked." Eddie can't help his wide grin.

"Don't--don't be gross about it."

"Oh, so you think you'd be normal about waking up to the guy you have a massive crush on naked next to you?"

"I--I--" Steve goes crimson. "Shut-up!"

Eddie giggles, leans into him, and Steve twines their fingers together.

"Okay, but let's get out of here? There's only so long I can tolerate being naked sitting on a rock."

They climb down, Eddie valiantly not oogling Steve the entire time.

"So, do you only turn at the full moon? Does it hurt? How did everyone find out? You have to tell me about the other monsters. Are there vampires? Is anyone else I know a monster? Oh my god, is Robin a witch?"

Steve sighs, can't quite hide the grin pulling at his lips. "I'm not answering all that."

"Steve!"

"I've signed a bunch of NDAs."

"A bunch of--what the hell? Steve! You can't just--"

Steve grabs his hands, squeezes. "I'll tell you. All of it. Promise. Just, not right now?"

Eddie bites his lip in thought, tries not to notice Steve staring at his mouth. "Ugh, fine. But I won't forget you owe me explanations. Plural!"

"Yeah, yeah." Steve rolls his eyes, tugs Eddie forward.

They walk a few steps in silence before Eddie belts out, "Aroooooo, werewolves of Hawkins!" before taking off through the trees.

"Eddie, seriously?" Steve calls after him, only to be met by the echo of his laughter. "Are you really trying to outrun a werewolf right now? I mean, honestly."

"Catch me if you can, sweetheart."

Steve's laugh is a little bit like a bark as he starts to chase.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #but long tho #fluff #mutual pining #werewolf steve harrington #protective steve harrington #oblivious eddie munson #banter #coming out #flirting #getting together #scenting #eddie keeps wandering into the forest and encountering demogorgons #steve becomes a werewolf cause he's bitten by a dog infected by the upside down #werewolf of hawkins

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blindmagdalena · 8 months ago

Text

Night Terrors

1.6k homelander x reader. established relationship. pure comfort fic. remaster of this old prompt. very mild spoilers for s4 if you squint. mostly just wanted to self-soothe with some comfort/cuddle fic. gif credit.

It's been decades since Homelander last stepped foot in The Bad Room, but when he wakes from a nightmare of it in your shared bed, it's as if he never left.

Most of the nights you spend with Homelander are peaceful.

Tonight is not most nights.

The scream that wakes you from a dead sleep is guttural, barely human. Homelander is sitting upright, frenzied and wild-eyed, the ocean blue of them obscured by crimson glow. You're not even sure that he sees you through it when he looks at you. He's panting like he just ran a marathon, and the comforter is ripped cleanly in half, the two sides strewn on either side of him. "John," you call softly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he jerks away from your hand like you've burned him. "Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, wrapping his arms around himself. Sometimes he is small during these fits, curled in on himself, begging you to make it stop. Not tonight. Tonight he is another self, spitting rage and violence through remembered agony. A cornered animal. "I'll fucking kill you!" "John," you say again, pleading. You know he isn't talking to you. He's speaking to the ghosts of his past. "You're in our bed. You're with me. I would never hurt you. I love you, John." His name is a double-edged sword. It cuts clean through to something at the core of him in a way that “Homelander” doesn’t. Each use of it acts like a shock to his irregulated system.

You keep your hands outstretched, but you don't touch him. You show him that you aren't holding anything. Not a pen, not a notepad, not a needle. You show that you don't mean him any harm.

God knows he's suffered enough. With the sound of your voice, the red glow of his eyes gradually dims, flickers, and then finally it goes out entirely. He's still panting, hands moving slowly down his arms, his torso, checking himself for injury. Though his body bears no scars of the pain he’s endured, his mind knows exactly where each one of them would be. Bit by bit, you watch him come back to himself. He looks around the room, taking in the evidence of your truth. Framed photos, décor, the life you’ve built together. It isn't a concrete dungeon. It isn’t a lab. It isn’t an incinerator. It's home. "Fuck," he says quietly, hiccupping the word into his palm. He says it again, louder, screwing his glassy eyes shut. The third time he says it, it's nearly a sob. It’s agony to wait, but you don’t touch him before he’s ready. You fist the bedsheets, you don’t stop talking. I’m here. I’m right here. I love you. You’re safe. You’re not sure if it’s minutes or seconds before he reaches for you. All you know is you act immediately. You move swiftly up on your knees, climbing over the ruined blankets to take him into your arms, pulling his head to rest against your chest, bringing his ear close to the beat of your heart. You hush him while you work to unstick the words from your throat, unable to help the tears that well in your eyes.

The fear and misery in him is so palpable, you nearly feel as if it’s your own. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you to sit sideways in his lap as he weeps against you. It's taken a long time to reach this point. He used to swallow it back like bile, adamant for the longest time that you not see this side of him, this aspect of himself that he thinks ugly, imperfect, broken. You fought for this. As you hold him through these bone-deep sobs, it shatters you that it's taken him this long for him to find someone who would. "You're safe," you whisper, battling to keep the tears from your voice. "You're home. You're with me. You're safe. I love you so, so much." He rocks back and forth, choking on his sobs. “I could feel it,” he tells you, the words barely escaping the clench of his teeth. “It hurt. Every second of it, and they just–they all just watched.”

You close your eyes, tears rolling down your cheeks and disappearing into the softness of his hair. You kiss the crown of his head again and again, combing your fingers through his hair where it’s damp with sweat and your own tears. “You’re safe now,” you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. It isn’t enough, but these words and touches are all you have to offer him against the torment of his childhood.

His grip on you tightens. It wouldn’t take much for him to snap you in half.

That scare you? He’d asked you once. How easily I could break you?”

No, you admitted. It makes me appreciate how hard you try not to. It takes time for his breathing to even out. His hold softens, but he doesn't relinquish you. For as terrible as the nightmares are, it's the shame he experiences in the aftermath that often requires the most care.

You rub firm circles on his back with one hand while cradling the back of his head with the other, trailing butterfly kisses along his temple, his forehead, down to his cheek. Any part of him you can reach, you kiss, murmuring quiet assurances in between, as if to imbue him with each word. Eventually, the rocking stops. He's breathing more steadily now, arms encircled firmly around your waist. He gives a shaking sigh. "Sorry," he whispers, voice strained. That's a word in his vocabulary that rarely comes up, but when it does, it is always drenched in shame. He hates himself for this. "Don't," you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair. You sniff back your tears, letting out a breath. "I asked for this. I begged you for this," you emphasize, earnest. You cup his face, angling him to look up at you. "Let me do this for you. Please. You have nothing to be ashamed of." He stares at you with large, watery blue eyes. The whites are red, strained by the force of his grief, his durability tested only by his own power. In his gaze you see damage done to him that may never heal, but your words settle over invisible scars like a soothing balm. It’s that very look of vulnerability that has driven you to this depth of love. You know his violence, his viciousness, but so too do you know the fragile man it protects.

Most of all, the scared boy beneath it all.

His grip on you flexes, his jaw clenched. The nature of your insight into him is both a blessing and a curse to him. He cannot hide from you. You know his shame, and despite how deeply he needs your compassion, your understanding, it’s something he has to bleed for every time. He’s perpetually torn between his desperation to be your perfect hero, and his soul-deep yearning to be safely vulnerable.

If you have to, you'll spend the rest of your life convincing him that he can have both.

Finally, his shoulders sag. "I love you," he says, quietly defeated by your warmth. "I'll never hurt you. Ever." You recognize the plea in his words. He's terrified that someday it will be too much. You’ll see what everyone else sees, and your love will be tainted–destroyed–by your inevitable fear of him. You hope one day that he’ll understand why that will never happen. Someday the depths of your love will soak in as deep as the misery of his past, and he’ll be able to forgive himself for the human way his god’s heart bleeds. "I know. I know that.” You kiss the top of his head, still rubbing his back, taking your hand away only to swipe the tears from your face. “I love you, too. Every part of you."

Even the parts you hate. Gingerly, he lifts you just enough to lay you back down on the bed. He wastes no time cuddling back in against you, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. The bedding is ruined, but he runs warm enough that you hardly notice the absence of cover while he’s holding you. Your legs tangle with his, bodies slotting together easily. He nuzzles as if he can worm his way closer than skin to skin. If you could, you’d open your ribcage to welcome him inside. He could eat your heart if it kept his beating another day.

"Will you... talk me to sleep?" He asks, threads of shame lingering in the request. The tension has drained away, leaving him vulnerable and exhausted. His blinks are slow, the curve of his lips mournful. "Of course," you whisper, smoothing your hand up and down his back. This isn’t the first time you’ve talked him back to sleep, and you doubt it’ll be the last. Sometimes you tell him the plot of a book as best you can recall, other times it's random anecdotes from your life. Sometimes it's complete nonsense. To him, it doesn't matter what you say. All that matters is that when he does finally drift back into sleep, it's your voice that safeguards him there.

Gladly, he rests his head back down on your chest, closing his eyes with a rumbling sigh while your nails drag along his scalp. You cradle him there, savoring the warmth of him as it seeps into the marrow of your bones, the weight of him grounding you.

You tell him stories until sleep finds him. Even then, you continue to speak until your voice frays and you can no longer keep your eyes open. You speak and speak and speak hoping that somehow, in some small way, you can help make up for the years he spent with only his own voice for comfort.

#homelander x reader #homelander headcanons #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #my writing #x reader #homelander #fluff #angst

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bitchimasnake-sss · 1 month ago

Note

would u ever do another part to the teaching some lessons series 🥹🥹

my lord, it's been so long since i wrote for yuuji but i love him sm to decline this opportunity. so, here you go. some filth for ya <3

🌸a lesson in jealousy!

synopsis: yuuji itadori knew he was lucky, knew that he was dating the most loyal girl ever, knew that his brother and you were nothing more than best-friends — knew all of that and yet, couldn't help but clench his jaw and fuck you into that ruined couch — jealous. pairing: afab!reader x itadori yuuji [aged up.] wc: 5.2k cw: MDNI. MDNI. MDNI. nsfw includes: jealousy, penetration, edging and denial, rough smex, pussydrunk!yuuji, slight bimbofication, yuuji's super-strength and stamina, yuuji is insecure, and sukuna is a brat as always. have fun. m.list

yuuji itadori was not a jealous man.

he was a bit dense, a bit too optimistic for his own good, maybe a teensy bit territorial — sure. but jealous? nah.

that was before sukuna made him reconsider his beliefs.

｡･:*˚:✧｡

strike 0.

"yuu, does this dress look good on me?" your voice shook with impatience, eyes sifting over your boyfriend's hunched form as he sat on your couch.

"hm?" the jock looked up from his phone, gaze all but devouring you as you stood before him.

you were beautiful, always were.

no matter when yuuji itadori looked at you, he was blown away like it was his first, like he was a kid on the playground who had just been offered ice-cream on a sweltering, hot day.

he nodded enthusiastically, a broad smile across his lips, "good is an understatement, babe. you look fuckin' amazing."

and he meant it. he always meant it.

"are you sure?" a soft pout fell across your lips, and you turned around as if to display yourself once more, giving him one more chance to take back his claim.

and despite not complaining about your little show, he muttered, "dead sure, babe."

"really? you're sure sure?" you tried again, getting the jock to swallow down his own words.

"yes—" yuuji tried to plead his case, tried to tell you that you were the love of his life even in a trash bag and aluminium foil accessories, but you cut him off.

"—cause 'kuna said it made me look fat."

'kuna.'

"huh?" and though the quarterback knew better than that, his eyebrow twitched at the mention of his brother's name. chucking the uncomfortable itch that crawled at the back of his throat down his stomach, yuuji laughed, "he's stupid, you know that."

"i knoww..." you drawled the word, your soft palms finding purchase against your waist as your unsure gaze tangled against his. you drew closer, till your sweet perfume permeated his figure, "but what if kuna's right..?"

pang!

there it was, that fucking little, fluttering feeling that traveled from yuuji's brains to his biceps, then to his ribs and finally settled somewhere in his lungs. was it annoyance? maybe irritation? or jeal— no. not that.

"i mean—" you huffed, smoothing the dress over your stomach once more as you peered down at him, "be honest with me, yuu. its my first christmas with your family, i wanna make a good impression."

the scar under his eyes twitched wickedly, flexing with the muscles of his cheeks as he put on a stained smile, "you've known them for ages."

"not as your girlfriend. they know me as kuna's best friend and he doesn't exactly have the best... eh, reputation..? yes. reputation." you refuted yet again, and yuuji would have laughed at your persistence to prove him wrong had it not been for that uncomfortable itch in his lungs.

'kuna's best friend.'

a slight tick built up in his jaw, his bones weighing down with your careless words, and breaths a stuttered falsetto.

nonetheless, yuuji extended his muscled arms, pulling you in to softly perch you on his steady lap.

nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, the man hoped that the embers of anger frolicking about in his irises weren't evident in his voice, "who cares about sukuna? he's a mean fucking asshole."

shit. he could pick up on the slight edge to his tone, he just hoped you couldn't. what would you think of him if you knew the way he was feeling..?

after all, it's not like yuuji was jealous of his own brother or something. obviously not.

"i know." you raked your manicured fingers down his pinkish locks, and yuuji pasted chaste kisses to your exposed skin.

no longer was he the 6'2, hulking quarterback who would whoop someone's ass with one swift punch, but rather the same boy who had grown up with a massive crush on you. the same boy who had stayed up nights upon nights dreaming about the day you'd be his. the same boy who spent years in shadow as sukuna's ditzy younger brother before you liked him back.

but who cares about the past? you were his now, weren't you? and that was enough.

that was enough, right..?

he was knocked out of his sweet bliss when your voice kissed his ears, "i know it's dumb... but i think i'll just return it."

you didn't say the rest of the sentence, but yuuji found himself completing it in his head: 'but i'll just return it... cause sukuna said it didn't look nice.'

fuck sukuna.

｡･:*˚:✧｡

strike 1.

yuuji itadori hated the holidays with his family.

well, no, that was a lie. he hated the holidays this year.

every other year building up to now, yuuji was the first to help choso bring the tree and decorate it, first to help his dad cook and clean, and first to yell at sukuna for being a massive dick even through the holiday spirit.

well... given it was the season of giving, sukuna sure did his part by giving yuuji something — a fucking headache, or heartburn, or pure, unadulterated murderous rage.

point being, yuuji loved the holidays. he just hated how comfortably sukuna sat on the couch while you were sitting on the ground, both of you flipping through the ancient photo albums that choso-nii had insisted to unearth from the attic this morning.

it didn't matter that he was sitting next to you, it didn't matter when he could practically hear sukuna breathing on his fucking back, muttering jokes only you laughed at.

why was that man so close to you, anyways?

"oh my fucking god," you giggled — unaware of the very devil sitting behind you.

flipping through the pages of the scrapbook choso-nii had made when you all were still far too young, your index ran across the smooth texture of the photos, eyes trying to remember the incidents as if they had happened yesterday.

you pointed to the next photo with a sudden chirp, "and oh— yuu," you smiled, "that's you."

and it sure was yuuji itadori, aged two.

clad in an onesie, the small, pink-haired toddler was sitting next to you in the picture. you were playing with blocks, and when the picture was taken — yuuji had effectively knocked the tower of blocks over. you were crying next to him, blubbering with teary eyes and reddened nose while yuuji just gawked at you like a fool.

"that's me..." yuuji found heat run to the apples of his cheek, "yeah. sorry about that—"

"—knocking my blocks over?" you laughed, and yuuji almost considered building a time machine to go back in time and not knocking those blocks over.

you patted his thigh softly, "don't worry about it yuu, i forgive you."

"still don't understand what dad's fascination was with taking photos at awkward times." choso quipped from his spot next to jin in the kitchen. the pale, tattooed man was whisking batter for the cookies as jin was simmering something in a pan. jin itadori laughed at his eldest son's question, "well, it makes for good memories."

"sure does, dad." the three brothers almost replied in unison.

"and this—" you pointed to a photo of you and sukuna covered in mud, smiling at the camera with broken teeth and scrunched noses.

you looked over your shoulder, meeting the delinquent's eyes, "we got yelled so bad for this one, kuna."

"i remember that too." yuuji's dad piped up from the kitchen, stirring the pot with a rambunctious laugh, "i mean, i was there."

"still think it was an over-exaggeration." sukuna huffed, cracking his knuckles as he peered at the photos from over your shoulder, "we just ate some mud, what's the big deal? i mean— i turned out fine."

"hardly." yuuji muttered.

"what was that, brat?" sukuna cocked at eyebrow from where he sat on the couch, "talking 'bout yourself?"

yuuji found himself pressing his lips in a straight line, an unbroken resolve in the cresses of his face, "there's a reason nobody likes you, y'know?"

"your girlfriend does."

"hey—" you turned around to smack sukuna on his knee, even though a laugh had escaped past your lips, "shut up, kuna."

yuuji felt his nails biting into his palms with the force he fisted his hand with.

sukuna raised an eyebrow at his younger brother's reaction, stifling in a hearty, annoying laugh. "what? jealous, brat?"

jealous? obviously not.

it's just some unknown red, hot feeling that ran it's way across yuuji's body and charred it whole — it wasn't jealousy.

yuuji itadori didn't get jealous.

｡･:*˚:✧｡

strike 02.

"this is a terrible idea." you huffed, eyes strained against your green-haired-upto-no-good roommate. you repeated, "te-rri-ble."

"shut up," maki scoffed, a roll of her eyes following soon after, "it sounds fun."

what sounds fun, you may ask?

you see at a small friends-only gathering at your shared apartment, your flatmate — maki zenin had suggested with all her mighty braincell prowess, "hey, why don't we see who knows you more? your boyfriend, or your bestfriend?"

everyone had agreed — from maki's crush kugisaki to the black-haired ball of emo-ness, fushiguro. everyone had accepted except for you.

"absolutely not." you repeated yet again, and maki zenin scowled, "what a fuckin' killjoy— it's totally gonna be fun."

knowing maki, you knew she was doing this purely for her entertainment and nobody else's. this game would be fun for her.

you were sure there was something in the zenin's blood that made others suffering utterly amusing to them.

"i mean i'm down for it." yuuji shrugged, an unwavering faith in his voice, "i know i'm not losing."

"yeah?" sukuna rested the tip of his tongue against his sharp canines, almost laughing at yuuji's audacity to think that highly of himself. "ya think you'd win? i've known her 20 years. you even know how to count to 20, dumbass?"

see, despite being older in age, sukuna was definitely not the smartest tool in the shed — and yuuji knew that. so, as an act of self-preservation, yuuji let that comment go without further arguments.

instead, your boyfriend had just smiled at you reassuringly, "we should play, babe. i'm sure it'll be fun."

"yeah, loosen up." sukuna commented soon after, sipping the cheap booze, "it's not like me and yuuji will start a fight over this crap."

"fine." you had given up by the end, leaving the boys with their massive egos and terrible decision-making tendencies. you crossed your arms, vowing an unbreakable oath, "but i swear to god if you two get in a fight after this, i'm not gonna break it up."

that was five minutes ago, and now—

"—are you fuckin' stupid?" sukuna's eyes narrowed at his brother, "she obviously likes the mountains more."

"nah." yuuji retorted, dead sure in his assumptions, "beaches."

"mountains—"

"—yuuji's right." you dismissed the argument with a simple flick of your fingers, and yuuji grinned at the outcome: 3-4.

"next question." maki clapped her hands to draw attention to herself, "oh, this one should be fairly easy." she paused for dramatic effect, putting on a showbiz voice, "how many guys has she kissed?"

"three." yuuji simply answered, and sukuna waved him off with a cashmere, all-knowing grin, "nuh uh, five."

yuuji's eyebrows bunched, his eyes resting on you with a question: five?

"it's three." yuuji stated definitively and you shook your head, "kuna's right. the score is now 4-4."

you nodded as to acknowledge sukuna's nonchalant victory, and you swore your boyfriend's jaw slacked open at your words.

wobbling words and ticking jaw, yuuji itadori looked at you as if you had betrayed him, "w-wait, but i only know three."

"i've only seriously made out with three guys." you answered honestly, "rest two were when i was drunk, i don't even remember them."

"wait... why didn't you tell me that, though?" yuuji tried asking but already had the answer on the tip of your tongue.

"i was drunk, babe." you gave a half-impressed nod to sukuna, "I'm surprised sukuna remembers them too, given how shit-faced drunk he got each time."

"but—" your boyfriend tried yet again but the conversation had moved along.

now, sukuna was piping up about something that had happened when you and him were shit-faced drunk, and you and maki were laughing at his recounts.

heck, even fushiguro had cracked a smile. what the fuck?!

"holy shit." you face-palmed, laughing hysterically at whatever drunken adventure you two had embarked on without yuuji. you tried catching your breath, clutching your chest with your manicured hands, "a-and there was this buff dude— hah, ohmygod—"

sukuna added onto your story, nodding— and yuuji felt his blood boil.

yuuji itadori knew nothing had ever happened between you and sukuna. your drunken nights were just tomfoolery, your jokes were just jokes but... what if?

what if sukuna was one of the men you had kissed when drunk? what if he was more than that? what if yuuji was just a mistake and sukuna was the man for you?

what if..?

yuuji's ear's buzzed, blood roared through his veins and his bones rattled in a cursed rhythm as his erratic gaze shifted from one person to the next.

everyone was laughing.

yuuji itadori felt their — your laughter pierce through his skin and lodge square in his heart. for a minute, it felt as if the entire world was in on a massive joke and he was the only one left out.

at last, yuuji's gaze landed on sukuna. the hulking delinquent had a self-satisfying smile on his face as he yapped on and on and on—

a pulsating pain built in yuuji's palm as he felt himself squeezing down on something. his biceps bulged, a vein almost popping in his neck from the force he was exerting.

what if yuuji itadori was the butt of the joke he was being left out of?

"—yuuji?" you put a soft hand on his bicep, pulling him out of his entranced state. concern wrapped around your words like ivy, your laughter completely wiped off, "are you okay..?"

"y-huh?" the jock blinked once, twice, then once more before he could even process what you just said.

the roar in his ears subsided, the warmth in his face dissipated, and it was as the anger slipped off of his tired muscles did yuuji itadori realize that he had broke the arm of your couch with his mindless grasp.

"yuuji—" kugisaki heaved, panicked. and megumi stood up soon after, his words jittery, "itadori..?"

everyone was staring.

"shit—" his eyes travelled to the wooden splinters that had crumbled under the expanse of his muscles. frenzied eyes running from his palms to your scared face, he almost lost his voice, "s-sorry. 'm so sorry... i dunno— how."

you knelt down, nimble hands coming to take his larger palm in yours gently, "yuu—" panic overwrote every syllable of yours but your eyes stayed trained against his, "are you okay?! should we—"

"—no." yuuji pulled his hand back to his chest, shaking his head, "i'm fine... i'm okay. no."

everyone was fucking staring.

standing up, the jock almost felt too light-headed to even process what pain he was in. all he knew was that he needed to get away, and get away soon.

"i—" his mouth grew drier, words dying at the tip of his tongue as everyone's eyes bore onto his frame.

turning around, scrambling for the exit, the quarterback barely managed out an excuse, "i'll pay for that later."

before yuuji slammed the door behind himself, he heard sukuna's voice boom behind him, "yuuji, slow down."

but even the slightest sound of his brother's voice — no matter concern or mockery were enough to set his cells ablaze with a nerve-racking thunder.

yuuji itadori was probably jealous, and jealousy was unbecoming of a man.

｡･:*˚:✧｡

strike 03.

months had passed by, the arm of the couch changed and the incident had been long forgotten.

yuuji itadori had even successfully got you to belief that for a second that night, his 'super-strength' had activated. heck, he had even claimed to be the main character of a shounen manga in some parallel universe, and reasoned that perhaps he was fighting someone somewhere that night.

stupid man — that's what you had called him and yet the way you had doted on him for the next couple of days had turned any of his guilt on wrecking the furniture turn to an unsung victory.

what's a piece of furniture compared to his girlfriend, anyways?

you had sat yourself down on his lap, facing him as your trapped his cheeks between your palms as you had sighed, "i'm sorry i didn't tell you about those two extra kisses. i was just, um kinda scared if you'd judge me for drunk-kissing random guys."

"you drunk-kissed me too."

you winced, half-nodding at his words, "fair point."

but instead of judgement or scrutiny, yuuji had given you a broad smile, reassuring you with a soft kiss to your palm, "why would i ever judge you over that, babe? i'm just happy you told me now."

and that had been that. the incident had passed. it had been months. the couch had been repaired. you two had talked it out. that bitter feeling inside of yuuji had died. it had died.

so, why was it coming back with vengeance tonight?

he mumbled your name into the thick air, trying to call out to you over the beats and hollers, trying to talk sense into you.

you were at some house-party that a friend of a friend of sukuna's was hosting. the delinquent had dragged you two with him, and despite not knowing the dude, you had drank his booze and were now swaying to the beats on his darkened dance floor.

neon lights flashed over you in the sea of unknown bodies as yuuji wrapped his beefy arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

the pink-haired jock dropped his face in the crook of your neck, his mouth nipping softly against your pulse-points, "you should drink some water."

"mhmm, don' care." you groaned, turning around to wrap your arms around his neck as he looked down at you. waves of lust rocked your body and yuuji felt like you'd devoured him whole on that very dance-floor had it not been for the charges of public indecency. your words slurred deliciously, "i don' wan' water— wan' you."

yuuji laughed at your words, bringing his head down again to gently talk you through it, "but you do need water, babe. wait here and i'll get you some, okay?"

and despite your pout, yuuji patted your arm and let go of you with a soft kiss to your cheek.

the neon flashed in his irises, and his hazy vision couldn't quite keep up with your dancing figure as he eventually disappeared within the throbbing crowd. looking back once, twice, he had lost track of you completely by the time he reached the kitchen.

"water?" yuuji found himself confusedly asking another person for where the water was. "yeah, one bottle's enough. thanks, man."

yuuji navigated the stirring crowds with chants of 'sorry's and 'excuse me's lined up, with his eyes searching for your figure.

he wasn't worried about leaving you alone drunk. at worst, you'd be dancing. at best, you'd be standing still.

oh... except, he forgot to consider sukuna in his worst case scenario.

there he was — that fucking delinquent — leaning down to whisper something in your ear as you barked out a drunken laugh with a rough swat to sukuna's tattooed arm.

the plastic in yuuji's palm felt awfully easy to crush, but yuuji itadori decided to keep his cool.

heavy footsteps rung against the floor as he stepped towards you, scanning your figure. there was a glimmering glass in your hands, a matching one in sukuna's.

was sukuna getting you more drunk? why, that fucking asshole—

shit. calm down, yuuji.

"—hey." yuuji grit his teeth, giving sukuna a half-baked smile, "i don't think she should be drinking more."

"ah," the older itadori rolled his eyes, waving his younger brother off as if he was a waft of air, "calm down, it's just one more glass."

but yuuji pulled the glass from your nimble grasp, even when you pouted and reached out for it again. he swiftly replaced it with the bottle he had brought, "no, have this."

the jock never once let his gaze drop from his brother as he grunted, "i think it's enough. she has had more than enough."

"calm down, brat." sukuna repeated, giving his own glass in your hand, "she's a tough girl, she can handle herself."

yuuji itadori was sure a vein had popped somewhere in his neck as he found stepping towards his brother, grin feral, "i think you should stay out of my girlfriend's business."

"your girl—girlfriend..? hah—" sukuna laughed, and yuuji almost considered homicide to not be half-bad, "what's so fuckin' funny?"

"nothing." sukuna shook his head, still laughing about whatever delirious shit he was on about. the tatted man sucked in a breath, "it's just... if you two break up, i'll still be her best friend, and you'd..." he hummed, "you'd be nothing to her."

whatever happened after that is a blur to yuuji itadori.

all he knew is that he hadn't hit sukuna — or someone else, for that matter. he had simply clutched your wrist in his, dragging you out of that godforsaken party even as you called out his name every now and then. he had driven his car through the learned pathways in the dead of the night and now, he was jamming your key through your apartment door to let you both in.

creaaak!

the heavy door opened and yuuji pushed it to let himself in, still holding your hand in his wrist.

"yuu—" you mumbled, still dazed from all the alcohol as you trailed behind him and into your living room.

ignoring you, the jock disappeared into your kitchen after putting your purse down on the coffee table.

as you sat on the couch, trying to undo the heels off of your aching feet, he showed up with a glass of water.

you looked up at him, the whites of your eyes tinted the slightest red, "what..?"

"drink some water." yuuji commanded coldly, and your brows furrowed at his demeanor, "are you... mad at me?"

"no. don't worry." sighing, the jock bent down and undid the clasp easily. his eyes didn't meet yours as he stood back up and gave you another instruction, "just go to sleep after this, okay? you need some rest."

"but yuuji..." you pouted, drawing your palm to his wrist to stop him, "wh-where are you going..?"

maybe if you had been in a better state of mind, you would have noticed your boyfriend's clenched jaw and fisted hands, you would have heard the restraint in his words as he heaved out, "back home."

"but why?"

why?

yuuji itadori still did not meet your eyes, "I'm just not in the mood to hang out."

"but—"

"listen," the jock finally met your gaze, a silent warning imprinted onto his irises, "if i stay here, i'll end up doing something i regret."

"like..?" you still looked up at him oh-so-clueless, and yuuji couldn't help but crack open a strained smile, repeating, "like?"

like this.

"fu-fuck fuu k—" your breath hitched, eyes glossing over as it became harder and harder to breathe. your voice was muffled against the couch, the fabric eating away at whatever semblance of sanity you possessed.

yuuji splayed his palm on the back of your head, pushing it down and down into the fabric with reckless abandon as he fucked into your sopping cunt.

"tell me—" the jock grunted, using another hand to smack the delicious curve of your ass, "what is it hah about that bastard — 'kuna''", he heaved, mocking you, " that I don't fuckin' have, huh?"

"yuuji—" you tried but your mouth felt so awfully dry, your moans lodged in your throat helplessly as your boyfriend pressed your face further into the couch. trying again, you panted, "ple-please yuu—"

smack!

"hngh— fuck mmph—" your body jolted in retort as yuuji planted another smack to your ass, immediately soothing the skin with his broad hands.

your eyes burned, cheek rubbing against the couch fabric so helplessly as you tried clawing at whatever you could find.

manicured fingers dug into the the couch, and yuuji chased your actions mercilessly with deep plunges inside your quivering cunt. he growled out, "answer my fucking question."

but you were rendered useless.

your vision was growing hazy, air supply cut off from the way your face was pressed up and into the sofa. despite the sizzling hot sting against your ass, and the stretch of your thighs, a gnawing feeling churned in the pit of your stomach.

"ca-can't breathe—" your rasped, your manicured nails still digging into the soft surface as you tried to shake your boyfriend off of yourself with helpless trembles, "g-get off—"

"can't breathe?" yuuji repeated, using one broad hand to catch both of your wrists and pin them behind your back. vision misty, and light-headed — suddenly, you were pulled up into something hard.

despite his harsh actions, despite the relentless rolls of his cock into your gummy walls, yuuji husked behind you, "better?"

and you nodded, too cockdrunk to stop the man from using you like his personal fleshlight.

your boyfriend's heat radiated out of his chest and seeped into your aching bones as his cock still rammed into your heat. you finally breathed, inhaling deep breaths before the smacks of his pelvis against yours made you shake yet again.

your writhed your wrists, fighting against his phantom-like grip on you as your muscles spasmed and contracted, "y-yuu 'mgonna shit— 'm— cummin cummin'—"

"huh?" the jock gasped as your snug cunt pulsated around his rigid member. each little spasm of your walls against his ridged veins made the jock plow into you harder, "hah, cumming?"

you nodded, shivering and straining against his iron grip, "so close 'm so— close."

and then he stopped.

yuuji itadori pulled out of your snug cunt in one swift snap of his hips, leaving your syrupy folds clenching around thick air — so easily abandoned.

you turned your head back, jaw sagging open in a helpless whimper as tears brimmed your eyes, "wh-why'd you sto-p..?"

but the younger itadori was in the mood for no games tonight. flipping you onto your back, the man threw you onto the couch as if you weighed nothing to him.

"yuu—" your breath trembled as you tried supporting your jelly-like body on your elbows, staring up at the man who held held no remorse in his eyes for the way he was destroying you.

his hair was matted, locks clinging onto his forehead as drops of dew clung onto his skin. his skin was dusted pink, as his heavy cockhead smeared drops of his pre against his thigh.

"you know..." yuuji husked, tugging his mushroom tip lazily as he stared down at your shaky physique, "you still haven't answered my question."

"wh-what question?"

and yuuji cocked an eyebrow despite knowing better than to blame you for how mush-brained state.

the man guided his leaky tip to your hooded clit, massaging the thundering nub in slow circles, "what is it about kuna that's so much better than me, huh?"

"i d-dunno... what're y-you saying..?" you bit your wobbling lips, blinking your eyes so slow as he kept nudging his tip against your sensitive bud, "he's... he's just my best-frie..nd oh—"

"awh, he's your best-f-friend?" yuuji repeated, now tracing his tip in skilled eight shapes, "that's it..?"

and despite having half a mind, you nodded desperately, "y-yeah, yuu."

"tch," the man traced his tip downwards, collecting your honeydew on his hardened cock before plunging within your heat in one swift motion.

you gasped, toes curling as the younger itadori found himself ramming a bruising pace into your sopping entrance, "fu-fuck s-slower—"

but yuuji itadori was in no mood for mercy. bringing up a sharp hand to your face, he pulled your cheeks into a forced pout, "if he's just your best-f-friend, hah why is that fucker always just— hovering around?"

"i—" you tried to speak but your words were a wet gargle, constricting within your throat at his harsh actions, "mm—"

"can't speak?" and somehow your frenzied nod just made itadori clutch your skin in his grasp tighter — till he was sure he was indenting your face with his fingerprints.

"yuuji—" you groaned, words still so hard to come-by as he kept fucking you dumber and dumber. but at this point, yuuji didn't even bother knowing your answer, instead pussydrunkenly rambling on, "a-and the fuck is he so cocky about? you're my girlfriend, right? arent'cha?"

you nodded, and he pressed a sickly sweet kiss to your forced pout, "attagirl."

but he continued rambling, his words forgone and stupid, "and fuck does he think? that just— just cause he knows you longer, he—" yuuji nodded at you, "right? i've known you the sa-same amount of time auh— shiiit."

and despite not understanding whatever shit yuuji was spewing from his parched mouth, you nodded in agreement.

"alright," the man kissed your jaw in a wicked hurry, "you don't—" a sudden, deep shove within your velvety hole made the jock stutter out, "y-you love me right... you don't love him."

and he let go of your aching jaw, kissing up the cheeks as if to soothe your skin, "say you love me. say it."

"i—" your eyes rolled back as his persistent shoves hit right in the bullseye — marking your womb with his copious pre. despite your scratchy throat, and bruising thighs, you moaned out, "i- only love you, yu-uji. ohmygod—"

"—good." yuuji groaned, feeling his length twitch in anticipation as the muscles of his thighs tightened, "cause i'll kill him— I'll kill him if he tries to take you from me."

and with that warning, the jock released thick ropes of cum into your saccharine pussy. the liquid filled you to the brim, a drop or two beading out of your cunt and sliding down his length helplessly.

"sh—shit." yuuji collapsed on top of you, breathing in your scent and licking at your sweat-soaked skin like a man crazed, "i—i'll kill him if he... if he takes you away."

"o-okay."

"'m serious."

"hm." you raked your trembling hands over his sweaty locks, "'sokay, i'm yours."

"good."

creaak!

"oh mY GOD—" your roommate practically yelled, "WHY ARE YOU BUTT-NAKED IN MY LIVING ROOM, ITADORI?!"

managing some resemblance of coherence, yuuji snapped his head back to look at the green-haired athlete standing shell-shocked at the door, "S-SENPAI?!"

"PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!" and with that the zenin family member pulled the door shut.

"i—" yuuji snapped his head back at you — you, who had just been sobered up from maki's yelling, "we should probably... p-put some clothes on."

the jock nodded, "probably."

well, you could always continue the conversation in your own room. after all, yuuji itadori did have inhumane stamina.

a/n: i did not suffer through days of creative block just to give up on this bitch. here, have something i guess..? idek if this was any good omg but i hope it doesn't suck too much :// this idea was suggested by @peekawoocc literally ages back, so, due credits to her! tagging: @peekawoocc @9rvm @iminlovewqr0w @jellibean2018 @kingofthe-egirls [took me so long ahaha :/] m.list

#jjk #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #yuuji itadori smut #yuuji smut #itadori smut #yuuji x reader smut #itadori yuuji smut #yuji smut #itadori yuji smut #jjk x reader smut

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tsunaso · 29 days ago

Text

"I'D LET THE WORLD BURN"

pairing. Obito Uchiha x Top!Missing-nin!male reader

synopsis. in where obito is saved but by the wrong hands. — 3.5k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, rough sex, amab reader, aged up obito (the kannabi bridge incident happens when he is 18), dead dove, gore, physical and emotional abuse, manipulation, toxic dependency, dubcon undertones, exploitation of trauma, dark themes.

The acrid scent of blood and burnt wood hung heavy in the air as M/n knelt by the crumpled body. The boy was a mess—his dark hair matted with dirt and blood, his skin bruised and pale.

One leg was crushed beneath the rubble, the jagged bone peaking out of the skin of whatever remained. The fleshy tethers barely holding together as the wound sluggishly oozed blood.

It was clear to M/n that he wouldn’t be able to save the leg.

The boy on the other hand barely clinging to life yet—he was still conscious. He was mouthing words that M/n couldn’t make out but they sounded like names–Rin, Kakashi, Sensei.

M/n wondered who these people were to the boy as he stabilized him and whisked him away.

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His body was betraying him—his ears rang, breathing felt like knives, and his body oddly enough, felt numb. Is this what it felt like to die?

No—not yet.

He promised them that he would catch up, that he would surpass Kakashi, so he can’t give up. But his body is betraying him—giving up.

His vision is becoming cloudy, when suddenly he feels relief. He sees the figure of a person and he can’t help but think that Rin and Kakashi had come back for him— they even brought sensei!

With that thought he completely falls into unconsciousness.

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When he awoke, it wasn’t the cold of death or the warmth of his team by his bedside that greeted him. Instead, it was the subtle chill, that flowed from a nearby open window.

A flickering fire cast shadows on the walls of the small cabin, its light catching on the smooth walls. He tried to sit up, but pain shot up through his chest and down to his leg, forcing him back down with a sharp gasp.

“Don’t move,” a voice said, calm but firm.

Obito’s gaze snapped to the source. A man knelt by his side, his face partially hidden by the shadows. His presence was commanding, the kind that demanded attention without needing to ask for it.

The man’s hands moved with practiced ease as he adjusted the bandages around Obito’s chest, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” the man continued, his tone almost conversational. “A few more minutes, and you’d have bled out in the mud. Hell of a way to go.”

“Who… who are you?” Obito rasped, his throat dry and voice barely audible.

The man paused, tilting a cup of cool water to Obito’s lips— he opened his mouth before he could even think of checking for poison, the water soothed his achingly dry throat.

His dark eyes met Obito’s as he put down the cup on a nearby dresser. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that made Obito’s stomach twist.

“Just someone passing through,” he said after a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Call me M/n.”

“M/n…” Obito repeated, his voice cracking.

“Rest now,” M/n said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder when Obito tried to push himself up again. “You’re in no shape to do anything reckless. I’ve already stitched up that leg of yours, but if you move wrong, you’ll tear it open again.”

Obito’s gaze flicked to his leg, and his breath hitched at the sight of the crude splint and thick bandages wrapped around the stump where his lower leg used to be, it was gone from the mid-thigh. Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning as he remembered the boulder, the pain, the crushing weight that had pinned him—

“Hey.” M/n’s voice cut through the spiral, his hand gripping Obito’s shoulder more firmly. “Breathe. You’re alive. That’s all that matters right now.”

The words, though simple, anchored him. He inhaled shakily, forcing his mind to quiet, and nodded.

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Over the next few weeks, M/n tended to Obito’s injuries with a patience that bordered on tenderness.

He hunted, cooked, and even shared what little he had without complaint, though his sharp, calculating eyes always seemed to watch Obito too closely.

“You’re strong,” M/n said one evening, his voice breaking the quiet. He was crouched by a fire outside of the cabin, sharpening a blade as the light danced across his features. “Most people wouldn’t have survived what happened to you. But you did.”

Obito glanced at him, his expression guarded. He was still wary of this stranger, but he couldn’t deny that M/n had saved him. He owed him his life.

“I had to,” Obito muttered, his gaze falling to the fire. “Rin and Kakashi… they need me.”

M/n’s hand stilled, his blade catching the light as he looked at Obito. “Do they?”

Obito frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “Of course they do. They’re my teammates.”

M/n hummed thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the blade in his hands. “And where are they now?”

The question hit harder than Obito wanted to admit. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he looked away. “They probably think I’m dead.”

“Maybe,” M/n said softly, his voice almost pitying. “Or maybe they left you behind.”

Obito’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing in his dark eyes. “They wouldn’t—”

M/n raised a hand, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m not saying it’s true. I’m just saying you shouldn’t expect too much from people.”

His words lingered, settling over Obito like a shadow.

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The day Obito could walk again, he ran. His leg ached with every step, the crude prosthetic M/n had fashioned was digging into his skin—which to M/n’s credit said he would make a better one, one that would connect to his chakra and fit better. But he didn’t care for that right now—he had to see Rin, had to let Kakashi know he was alive.

But when he found them, the sight that greeted him shattered what little was left of him.

Rin’s body crumpled beneath Kakashi’s Chidori, blood staining the ground as her lifeless eyes stared into nothingness. Kakashi fell to his knees beside her, his expression twisted with grief, but all Obito could see was the blood on his hands.

Something inside him snapped. He wanted to scream, to cry, to kill, but his body refused to move. The world blurred around him, and by the time he stumbled back to the cabin, his breath was ragged and his vision was swimming.

M/n was waiting for him.

“Obito,” he said, rising to his feet as the younger shinobi collapsed into his arms. “What happened?”

“They… she…” Obito’s voice broke as he buried his face in M/n’s chest, his fists clinging to the man’s shirt like a lifeline.

M/n’s arms wrapped around him, his grip firm but not unkind. “Shh,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over Obito’s hair. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”

Obito’s shoulders shook as he wept, the grief and anger pouring out of him in waves. And through it all, M/n held him, his gaze dark and unreadable.

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The days after Obito returned to M/n were a blur. He didn’t speak of what he saw—didn’t have the words to describe how Kakashi’s Chidori had ripped through Rin’s chest, how her blood had painted the earth. When M/n asked, his response was always the same: silence.

But M/n didn’t press him. He gave Obito space, kept his voice soft, his touch gentle, and waited.

It was on the seventh night, after another fitful sleep, that Obito finally broke.

The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across the cabin walls. Obito sat hunched over, his face buried in his hands, his entire frame trembling with barely contained emotion.

“She’s dead,” he whispered finally, the words clawing their way out of his throat. “Rin’s dead. He… Kakashi… he killed her.”

M/n’s gaze sharpened, but his expression remained calm. He set down the blade he’d been sharpening and crossed the room to kneel in front of Obito.

“I see,” M/n said quietly, placing a firm hand on Obito’s shoulder. “So now you know.”

Obito’s bloodshot eyes lifted to meet M/n’s, confusion flickering across his face. “Know what?”

“That people betray you,” M/n said simply, his tone laced with pity. “The ones you love the most—they always do. Rin, Kakashi, your sensei—they all abandoned you when you needed them most. And now look at you.”

“That’s not true,” Obito muttered weakly, though the weight of M/n’s words pressed against him like a vice. “Rin didn’t… she didn’t abandon me.”

“Didn’t she?” M/n’s hand slid to the back of Obito’s neck, squeezing just enough to draw his attention fully. “You saw what she did, Obito. She chose to die. And Kakashi let her.”

“She didn’t want—”

“Then why didn’t she fight? Why didn’t she try to stay alive for you?” M/n’s voice hardened, though he kept his expression calm. “Because she didn’t believe in you, Obito. They didn’t believe in you. But I do.”

The words hung heavy in the air, sinking into the cracks of Obito’s broken resolve.

“I pulled you out of that wreckage. I saved you when no one else cared. Not Rin, not Kakashi, not anyone.” M/n leaned closer, his grip tightening slightly. “You only have me now. And I will never leave you. But you have to let go of them. Let go of the people who hurt you.”

Obito’s shoulders shook, his breath hitching as the first tears fell. And when M/n pulled him into his arms, cradling him like a fragile thing, he didn’t resist.

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It started as training.

At first, M/n’s methods seemed harsh but reasonable—he drilled Obito relentlessly, making him push past exhaustion, teaching him how to move with his new prosthetic.

The pain in his missing leg was unbearable some days, but M/n was always there, his voice unwavering: "Your pain is a gift. Learn from it."

Obito tried. He really did. But the grief still gnawed at him, slowing his movements, making him hesitate. He could still see Rin’s face, still hear Kakashi’s voice calling her name.

M/n saw it. He always saw it.

One evening, after Obito collapsed mid-exercise, chest heaving and body trembling, M/n’s patience snapped.

"You’re weak," M/n’s voice was cold as steel. "That’s why you couldn’t save her. That’s why they left you."

Obito flinched, his fingers clenching in the dirt beneath him. “I’m trying,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

"Not hard enough."

The kick came fast—M/n’s boot slammed into Obito’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The air fled from his lungs in a choked gasp, pain searing through his body like fire. He curled in on himself instinctively, clutching his side.

His mind screamed at him to fight back, to retaliate—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

M/n crouched down beside him, fingers gripping Obito’s chin, forcing his face upward. His dark eyes were unreadable, but there was something expectant in them. Waiting.

“Look at me,” M/n ordered.

Obito’s vision was blurred, pain radiating through his skull, but he obeyed.

The moment their gazes locked, a sharp snap rang through his head—a shift, a pull, like something deep inside him had finally woken up.

M/n’s expression changed slightly, his fingers tightening just a little. "Oh?"

Confused, Obito blinked, the world suddenly too sharp, too vivid, too clear. The flickering fire behind M/n cast shifting shadows across his face, the individual strands of his hair distinct in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

His breath hitched.

"The Sharingan," M/n murmured, a slow smirk curling his lips. "Three tomoe."

Obito didn’t understand at first. He blinked again, the clarity still there, still unnatural—and then realization hit him like a blade to the chest.

His Sharingan had fully matured.

The pain, the anger, the agony of loss—it had pushed him to this moment.

M/n had pushed him to this moment.

Obito shuddered, his lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out. He felt sick, like something inside him had shifted permanently.

M/n’s thumb brushed over his split lip, smearing the blood there as if admiring it. "Now, do you see?"

Obito swallowed hard, his new vision locking onto M/n’s eyes.

"Pain makes you stronger," M/n murmured, almost reverently. He released Obito’s chin but didn’t move away. "You should be thanking me."

And Obito did.

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M/n hadn’t spoken in a while.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The only sound was the dull drip, drip of blood hitting the wooden floor. Obito’s blood.

He knelt, panting, sweat and crimson streaking his face. His body ached, the dull throb in his ribs reminding him of the blows he had taken. His Sharingan still spun wildly, his breath sharp and uneven.

He had failed. Again.

M/n leaned back against the wooden table, arms crossed. He was watching—always watching—but his expression gave away nothing.

Obito’s stomach twisted. He had learned to recognize that look.

"Disappointing," M/n finally murmured, shaking his head.

Shame burned through Obito’s chest like acid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the floor, curling into fists.

Not enough.

He was never enough.

“I…” Obito swallowed thickly. “I’ll do better.”

M/n exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Will you?”

“Yes.” His voice was desperate now, raw with something frantic. He lifted his head, looking up at M/n with pleading, bloodshot eyes. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

M/n tilted his head slightly, as if considering it. Then, after a long moment, he moved.

He crouched in front of Obito, reaching out. His fingers caught Obito’s chin, tilting his face up fully. The touch was softer than it should have been, considering the pain he had just inflicted.

"You still hesitate," M/n said quietly, his thumb grazing the sharp edge of Obito’s jaw.

Obito shivered beneath the touch, not out of fear—but something else.

M/n’s voice dropped lower, his words slow, deliberate. “You hold back because you’re still clinging to them.”

Obito's breath hitched.

Them.

Kakashi. Rin. Sensei. The ghosts of his past still clawed at him, whispering in the back of his mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to drown them out.

“I don’t—” he started, but M/n’s grip on his jaw tightened just enough to stop him.

“Lying doesn’t suit you, Obito.”

Obito opened his mouth—to argue, to deny—but the words died before they could form.

Because M/n was right.

There was still a part of him that ached when he thought of Rin’s smile. A part of him that still saw Kakashi standing over her body in his nightmares.

And M/n had no patience for hesitation.

A sharp sting lashed across his cheek—fast, precise, controlled. Obito’s head snapped to the side from the impact, a choked gasp escaping him.

M/n hadn’t hit him hard. Just enough to prove a point.

“You need to let them go,” M/n murmured, his hand cupping the cheek he had just struck. His touch was warm, careful, fingers brushing soothingly over the red mark.

Obito’s breath stuttered.

The contrast—the sharp bite of pain followed by this—it left him reeling. His mind struggled to reconcile the two, to make sense of it.

But M/n made it easy.

M/n was always there, guiding him, grounding him.

"Do you trust me?" M/n asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Obito nodded, without hesitation. "Yes."

M/n’s fingers trailed down, pressing against the frantic pulse at Obito’s throat. He smiled, satisfied.

"Then prove it."

Obito blinked. "How?"

M/n leaned in, his lips almost brushing against Obito’s ear. "You know how."

And he did.

Burn it all.

Konoha. The village that took everything from him. The village that let Rin die. The village that would never accept him now.

Obito trembled. The hesitation was there—a flicker, a ghost of something old and useless.

Then M/n’s fingers curled around the back of his neck, holding him steady. The touch was possessive, grounding.

"You belong to me, Obito. And I take care of what’s mine."

Something in him snapped.

Rin was dead. Kakashi had left him. Konoha had abandoned him.

M/n was the only one who had stayed.

He exhaled shakily, feeling the last pieces of his past fall away.

"You’re right." His voice was different now—colder. Certain.

M/n grinned. "Good boy."

Obito let out a shuddering breath. And for the first time in his life—he felt free.

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Obito was on his hands and knees, his face pressed against the sheets, breath ragged, body trembling. His arms ached from holding himself up, but he didn’t dare collapse—not when M/n’s grip was so tight on his hips, bruising, possessive.

M/n was taking him apart.

Splitting him open. Stretching him too wide.

Each thrust was deep, unforgiving, his thick cock slamming into Obito’s abused hole, making his vision blur. The wet sounds of skin against skin filled the dimly lit cabin, mixed with Obito’s shaky moans and M/n’s amused chuckles and groans.

"Fuck, Obito," M/n groaned, dragging his nails down Obito’s back, leaving red lines behind. "You’re taking me so well."

Obito whimpered, his fingers clutching desperately at the sheets. His entire body was burning, a mix of lingering pain from training, exhaustion, and the unbearable pleasure coiling tight in his gut.

He shouldn’t love this.

He shouldn’t crave it.

But M/n had made him need it.

"M-M/n—" Obito gasped, his voice cracking as M/n suddenly thrust deeper, grinding against his sweet spot. His back arched sharply, his body betraying him, his walls squeezing around M/n’s thick length.

"What?" M/n taunted, fisting a hand in Obito’s sweat-damp hair, yanking his head back. He tilted Obito’s face just enough to see the tears clinging to his lashes. His smirk widened. "You crying for me?"

Obito bit his lip, choking down a whimper. He was so full, so overstimulated, so wrecked. His thighs shook from strain, but he didn’t want M/n to stop.

He needed it.

"Please—"

M/n’s grip tightened in his hair, forcing his head back further. His breath was hot against Obito’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

"Please, what?"

Obito’s pride had long since shattered.

He didn’t care if he sounded desperate.

He didn’t care if he had to beg.

"Please fuck me harder—"

M/n groaned, slamming his hips forward in a bruising thrust. Obito let out a broken cry, his back arching beautifully beneath him.

"That’s more like it," M/n growled, setting a ruthless pace. Each thrust knocked the air out of Obito’s lungs, reducing him to whimpers and choked moans.

M/n was ruining him.

Breaking him in every way possible.

Obito’s dick dripped precum onto the sheets, untouched, twitching with every deep, brutal stroke into his puffy hole. He was so close, his entire body trembling, but M/n hadn’t given him permission yet.

"You wanna cum, don’t you?" M/n murmured, dragging his tongue along the shell of Obito’s ear.

Obito nodded frantically, his sore walls fluttering around M/n’s cock, sucking him in deeper.

"Then beg."

Obito didn’t hesitate.

"Please—fuck, please let me cum—"

M/n chuckled, his thrusts slowing, teasing. "So obedient now. What happened to all that defiance?"

Obito’s face flushed darker.

He was too far gone to fight back.

He was too addicted to M/n’s touch, to his praise, to the sharp edge of his cruelty.

"M/n—" he whimpered. "Please—need it, please—"

M/n hummed, pleased. His grip on Obito’s hips tightened as he slammed forward, hitting his prostate in brutal strokes.

"Cum for me."

Obito’s entire body seized up, his eyes rolling back as he came without a single touch. His cock throbbed, spilling hot streaks of cum onto the sheets, his walls clenching around M/n in desperate spasms.

M/n groaned, slamming into him a few more times before burying himself deep, spilling inside.

Obito shuddered violently, his body spent, legs weak and trembling.

But M/n didn’t let him collapse.

Instead, he pulled Obito up against his chest, his lips brushing against Obito’s sweat-damp temple.

"See how good you are for me?" he murmured, his fingers stroking Obito’s throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin.

Obito whined softly, leaning into the touch, into the praise.

M/n smirked.

"Good boy."

And Obito let himself sink deeper into M/n’s arms—deeper into the devotion he could no longer escape.

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Later that night, Obito knelt before M/n once more. His head resting against M/n’s lap.

The fire flickered between them, casting long shadows. M/n watched him with something unreadable in his gaze.

"What would you do for me, Obito?"

Obito didn’t even pause.

"Anything."

M/n smiled, reaching out to tilt his chin up. Their eyes met—Obito’s unwavering, the three tomoe in his Sharingan burning like embers.

"Then say it."

Obito closed his eyes and whispered:

"I’d let the world burn."

M/n’s smirk deepened. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing against Obito’s ear.

"Good boy."

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