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vittoriaisfuckingpathetic · 2 months ago

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save me from the nothing i've become ch 4

rated M | read it on ao3 | 7k words | prev chapter | next chapter

John faces unsettling questions about his choices and his future with Abigail and Jack.

DECEMBER 1899

As the days slowly passed, John had started to feel something like normalcy in Brimstone—fragile, fleeting, but there all the same. His room in the saloon wasn’t much, but it was his. A roof over his head, even if it was a shabby one, was a luxury he hadn’t enjoyed in years. Add to that his steady, if unglamorous, job running errands for the sheriff, and for the first time in... well, forever, he felt the tiniest bit at peace (or at least, as at peace as a lifelong fugitive could feel).

Not that it meant much. A sheriff’s errand boy wasn’t exactly what John envisioned when he thought about his future. In fact, if Hosea had still been alive, he would’ve probably had a laugh at the irony. John could almost hear his voice in his head—“John, you and I both know you’re not the law-enforcin’ type,” followed by that rueful smile of his.

The thought of Hosea hit John like a wave, as it always did. It came out of nowhere, sharp and unexpected, and for a moment, he could feel the old man’s presence. John clenched his jaw. He’d never get used to it—the grief always arrived in the quiet moments. It was a cruel reminder of what he’d lost.

Walking through town, he’d often see a pair of old men playing chess. It made him think of Hosea and Dutch—how their voices carried their history, their arguments, their plans. Witnessing it had John missing them both, even if Dutch might as well have been dead to him, now. He almost wished that were the case, sometimes. It would’ve been easier to forget.

But there was something that weighed heavier on him these days. Something worse than losing the gang. It was the reminder of what he had—what he could have had—if he had run away all those years ago. Abigail and Jack. They were the quiet ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much he told himself it didn’t matter. Things between them were delicate, like glass on the edge of breaking.

John had been joining them for dinner almost every night, but it was always awkward. Jack’s innocent questions made it worse. Abigail’s polite distance stung like a thousand cuts. It didn’t take an idiot to notice that she was growing weary of the way John skittered around having a mature, straightforward conversation with her.

If he was honest with himself, he couldn’t blame her one bit. They weren’t close—not like a family should be. And yet, when he saw Jack smile or heard him laugh, something inside John twisted with longing. It was the life he could have had, the life he still might ruin.

After their cumbersome family dinners, he didn’t linger, instead bidding the pair a goodnight and leaving, sometimes to do bounty work.

Then, the cycle would continue the next day. It was a fragile system, one cultivated by the avoidance of communication, but for now, it worked.

He couldn’t keep running from the truth forever, though. He was getting too close to Jack—too attached. Jack was so… innocent. He’d been shielded from the harshness John had faced growing up, instead given a tender, softer upbringing.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t be the kind of father who wandered in and out of his son’s life like a ghost. But how could he face Jack, how could he promise anything when John had nothing to give?

The warmth of the dim room wrapped around John like a thick, familiar blanket, the kind that spoke of comfort and something far more intimate. His senses were hazy, half-drowned in the soft light of the fire that flickered in the corner. The air was thick with the scent of warmth and something deeper, more primal. It wasn’t the comfort of the surroundings that held his attention—it was her.

He could feel her presence before she even spoke, a weight that settled over him like a memory he’d tried to bury. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for this moment, his body responding before his mind could catch up.

“John,” Abigail’s voice was low, soft, but it carried the same command it always had. It made his stomach tighten, his pulse quicken. There was no confusion, no hesitation here—just a deep, undeniable pull toward her.

His gaze lifted to find her, sitting atop him—naked, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with something between desire and the remnants of sleep. He didn’t look up at first, his gaze fixed on the space between them. But he didn’t need to see her to know what she was doing—he could feel it in his chest, in the tension that was building.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips, warm and teasing, and it sent a shiver down his spine. “You’re awful red. It ain’t like this is the first time you’ve seen me nude.”

John swallowed, the heat in the room suddenly suffocating, or maybe it was just her. She was close, so close, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The way her skin caught the firelight, the way she seemed to glow, was enough to make his chest tighten, his breath hitch. The room felt small, the world outside this little bubble ceasing to exist entirely.

“Been a while,” he muttered, his words slipping out on their own. It didn’t matter that it had been so long—this felt real. She felt real. Every inch of her, every movement, was impossibly vivid. He didn’t want to fight it. He didn’t need to.

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing just near his ear, sending another wave of warmth through his body. “You’re funny,” she said, the words laced with something more—something teasing, something that left him wanting more.

John’s lips curved into a grin, the familiar banter slipping effortlessly into place, but this time it didn’t feel like just words. “Apparently bein’ ‘round beautiful women makes me funny.”

She smirked, a look in her eyes that shifted—intense, calculating. She leaned forward, her breath hot against his skin, her voice dropping to a low purr. “Flattery and sweet talkin’ ain’t gonna get you nowhere. It takes more than that to impress me.”

The air between them shifted, thick with something unspoken, a challenge hanging in the space. Without warning, she swung her leg over his lap and settled herself atop him, her body pressing down against his. It wasn’t slow—it was immediate, direct. And in that instant, John didn’t have to think. He didn’t want to think. He simply reacted, his hands sliding up her body instinctively as she shifted, her eyes locked on his.

“So,” she whispered, her voice now a challenge, “Impress me.”

The room seemed to pulse with her words, with the undeniable tension between them. He could feel the weight of her on him, could feel the heat of her skin as it pressed against his, the air thick with desire and something else—something that felt like fate, like inevitability. There was no more hesitation, no more thought, only the feeling of her, of this moment.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice rough, low, as he slid off the cot and sank to his knees, the words coming naturally, like they always did when they were together. His heart hammered in his chest, but it didn’t matter. He was no longer thinking. He was simply reacting—lost in her.

John’s breath caught in his throat, but before he could react, something sharp pierced the illusion of warmth and longing. The distant crack of a gunshot, far off but unmistakable, shattered the stillness of the moment. His spine stiffened, muscles taut as the sharp report echoed through the air, then another… and another. His body was already on edge, and he had no choice but to snap awake, the image of Abigail fading into the distance like smoke.

Normally, he wasn’t fazed by gunshots—hell, they were just a part of the world he lived in. But ever since he’d been on the run, his nerves had been frayed to the point of snapping at the slightest noise.

If Arthur were still alive, John thought bitterly, the man would tease him mercilessly over how jumpy he'd become.

Early into his fugitive life, John had been ambushed by bounty hunters near the border of West Elizabeth and New Austin—his guard down, his mind clouded by exhaustion. Since then, he'd never been able to sleep soundly. Even the smallest sound set him off, a habit he'd reluctantly grown used to, despite how much it gnawed at him.

He exhaled sharply, willing his mind to settle as the faint glow of the oil lamp flickered and sputtered low. Reaching for the nightstand clock, John squinted through the dim light, eyes bloodshot and heavy with fatigue.

Five-thirty in the morning.

The time on the clock did nothing to soothe him; if anything, it only added to the weight that settled in his chest. Another sleepless night. Another day to face the uncertainty of his choices, his past, and the ever-present fear of what might come next.

John rolled his shoulders, stretching the tight muscles in his back as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he stood, the chill of the room biting at his skin. His body protested every movement, but he forced himself to get up. He could still feel the heat of the dream clinging to him, like the weight of a memory he couldn’t quite shake. But reality was calling, and it wasn’t kind. He shoved his feet into his boots by the bedside, scraping the floor as he trudged to the small washbasin in the corner. The water was cold as he splashed his face, the shock of it a welcome jolt to his senses. He stared at his dimly-lit reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin. Dark circles under his eyes, several days worth of stubble, his face drawn and tired. His image was a ghost of the man he’d been—a constant reminder of everything he’d lost, everything he was running from.

He wiped his face with the rough cloth he kept by the basin, then reached for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. It was bitter, but it was all he had. He could feel the burn of the liquid in his throat as it went down, his body slow to react.

Taking one last look at the quiet room, he grabbed his gun belt from the back of the chair and put it on. The cold air hit him as soon as he stepped out of the room. In time, the sun would rise, and it would become warm yet again. Until then, he was forced to deal with the biting morning chill.

He was exhausted, but there wasn’t time to linger. There never was.

He stepped outside into the cool morning air, his mind was already shifting to the task at hand: Montgomery Freedman. The bounty was simple enough—track him down, bring him in. Alive or dead, the payout was the same.

But as John began to walk down the quiet street, the weight of it all seemed to press down on him harder than usual. He had done this countless times before, yet today, it felt different. His thoughts lingered on his fractured life in Brimstone—Abigail, Jack... the fragile peace he had almost found. For a moment, it felt like it could all fall apart in the next breath.

The streets were still quiet at this hour, the townsfolk not yet awake to fill the roads with their usual noise. There was only a peaceful hum in the air, a serenity that made the town feel like it was still tucked under a blanket of sleep. John appreciated the quiet; it was a rare kind of peace. He ambled down the street, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat, his boots scuffing against the soft dirt road.

He'd always been good at moving like a shadow when he wanted to—slipping through spaces unnoticed, blending in with the surroundings. But today, his movements were slower, less deliberate, as if the weight of his thoughts was dragging at his heels.

A familiar rustling pulled him from his reverie. "Hey there, girl," he greeted hoarsely as he approached Missy, his voice rough from the lingering haze of sleep. She was hitched nearby, content in her own quiet world, her head down and her tail flicking lazily.

He reached out a hand to stroke her muzzle, the warmth of her breath mixing with the cool air as she huffed softly, nudging his palm with her nose. The affection was familiar, a comfort in the midst of his uncertainty.

She snorted this time, nostrils flaring as she nosed at his palm, her patience for affection running thin. She was more interested in the promise of treats than in any of the pleasantries he could offer, but he didn’t mind. John couldn’t help but chuckle softly, the sound rough, but real.

“Guess I’m not enough, huh?” he murmured, smiling faintly as he fumbled for a peppermint in his pocket. He unwrapped the two he had, offering them to her.

His connection with Missy, so uncomplicated, was a brief but necessary escape from the mess of his thoughts. He smiled faintly as he scratched behind her ears. "You're a good girl," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. It wasn’t much, but the quiet companionship was a small comfort in a life that seemed determined to offer nothing but complications.

As Missy enjoyed her treats, John took one last, lingering look at the sleepy town before mounting up. The calmness of the morning wasn’t enough to drown out the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something was waiting for him out there in the hills.

John rode through the desert, the sun already high and unforgiving in the sky. The heat pressed down like a weight, the dry air stinging his throat with every breath. His hat pulled low over his eyes, but even that didn’t shield him from the intensity of the midday sun.

Missy’s hooves kicked up dust with each step, a steady rhythm that echoed in the silence of the desert. There was nothing out here but the occasional caw of a crow, the wind howling through the sparse brush. The land stretched out endlessly before him—unforgiving, barren. It was a place that made men feel small, and John had spent enough time out here to know that it didn’t give mercy to anyone.

But Freedman had chosen it. Weeks here, alone, hiding, but still leaving enough of a trail for a man like John to follow.

The sun beat down relentlessly, making it harder to focus, but John didn’t let up. He’d been tracking fugitives like this for years, but something about this one felt different. The more he thought about Freedman, the more he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this man than just another criminal on the run. But it wasn’t his place to wonder why. His job was simple: find him, bring him in.

John urged Missy forward, the mare trotting slowly, carefully, as though she, too, could feel the weight of the desert pressing down. The landscape was mostly flat, with small, jagged hills rising like ancient bones from the earth. Freedman’s tracks seemed to lead toward one of those hills—a natural place to make camp, where you could see anyone coming from miles away.

The wind picked up, swirling dust around John’s boots. He dismounted and scanned the area, his boots sinking slightly into the loose sand as he moved. His hand hovered near his holster, the weight of his gun a constant reminder of what was at stake.

The wind blew harder, carrying the faint scent of smoke. A campfire, still warm, burned somewhere ahead. John’s heart rate quickened. He was getting close now. Freedman had to be nearby.

John moved quietly, the creak of his boots muffled by the wind. He crested a small rise and paused, squinting into the distance. Below him, tucked between two rocky outcrops, was a small camp—a fire pit, a few discarded tins, and a weathered blanket spread out on the ground. It was simple, secluded—exactly the kind of place someone would go if they were trying to hide from the law.

Freedman wasn’t here now, but he’d left enough signs to show he hadn’t been gone long. The camp looked abandoned, but there was no doubt in John’s mind: he was close.

John was still for a moment, listening. There was something off about this—about Freedman’s decision to camp here, about how easy the trail had been to follow.

He didn’t have time to second-guess. Missy was already moving again, and John urged her forward, his body tense as he made his way to the camp. As he drew closer, the air grew thicker with the dry scent of the desert, as if the land itself was holding its breath.

Finally, when he was close enough to see the last remnants of Freedman’s fire, John stopped again. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the surroundings, the harsh terrain offering little cover for anyone trying to stay hidden.

John dismounted, boots scraping against the hard, cracked earth as he made his way toward the pit. The signs were unmistakable. A few remnants of charred wood, some scattered belongings—Freedman had been here for a while. It wasn’t just a quick stop, but a place to rest and lay low.

He scanned the area again, his eyes narrowing as he searched for any movement.

John crouched down next to the fire pit, inspecting the ground for any more signs of the fugitive’s movements. The sight of the fire pit, the remnants of a life that had been lived out here in the harshest conditions, stirred something in him. Freedman wasn’t just a criminal to catch. He was a man, just like John—doing whatever it took to survive.

The thought lingered as John stood up, brushing the sand from his pants. He shook his head as if to clear it. Time was the essence if he was to get the jump on Freedman, and the faint wagon tracks leading away from the area was the best place to look.

The fire pit before him smoldered, its faint traces of smoke disappearing into the dry, hot air. He'd been here long enough to know that the man was most likely moving, trying to get further into the wild, to find a new place to hide.

He mounted Missy and clicked his tongue, nudging her forward with a steady hand. The mare’s hooves kicked up a light trail of dust as they began to climb toward the ridge.

The land here was barren, rocky, dry. A few scattered cacti and tufts of brown brush were all that marked the landscape. The wind was picking up, stirring the hot desert air, but it didn’t cool the sweat that beaded on John’s brow.

As he crested the ridge, he paused again, his gaze sweeping the land ahead. The valley below was vast, dotted with scattered scrub, and in the distance, John could see the glint of what looked like a wagon—likely Freedman’s.

It wasn’t moving.

John slowed when he neared the rocky outcrop that overlooked the valley below. There, at the bottom, just beyond the shadow of the ridge, he saw movement— a figure walking toward the wagon.

He dismounted, careful not to make a sound. Missy stood stock-still beside him, as if sensing the gravity of the moment. John surveyed the scene from his vantage point, considering his next move. He needed to approach this carefully, give Freedman the least chance of escaping or turning the tables.

John moved swiftly, carefully, down the rocky path that led toward the valley. His boots crunched softly on the sand as he descended toward the figure below. His hand was steady on his gun, but he didn’t draw it yet. He needed to get closer.

The wagon came into clearer view as he reached the base of the ridge. Freedman was too focused on it to notice him.

John took a deep breath, pulling his hat down further to shield his eyes. The final move was his to make.

Without another thought, he stepped forward.

“Montgomery Freedman, you’re under arrest.” The words felt colder than they should have. John’s voice was steady, his posture firm, but something in his gut twisted as he watched the man before him.

Freedman didn’t flinch when John approached. He didn’t fight, didn’t argue, didn’t even beg. He just turned slowly, looked at him—eyes hard, weary, resigned. There was no fire in his gaze, just a dull acceptance, as if he’d known this moment would come one day. But it wasn’t just him that John saw.

Freedman’s wife clung to their two children, holding them close. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable—eyes wide, desperate, and accusing. They weren’t looking at John like he was a lawman. They were looking at him like he was the devil incarnate. And maybe, in that moment, he felt like he was.

John could feel it—the weight of their lives, barely scraping by. He had lived it, had breathed it, had fought through it for years. He knew the desperation in their eyes; it was the same desperation that had driven him to make decisions he’d never speak of, decisions that still haunted him.

John’s eyes flicked over to the woman and children again. The boy, no older than Jack, had his hand clutching his mother’s skirt, looking up at John with wide, fearful eyes. The girl, barely old enough to walk, clung to her mother, unaware of the danger at hand. A family just like his own—or what his family could have been, had things turned out differently. That thought struck him like a hammer to the chest. The realization twisted something inside him.

Guilt. Sympathy. There was a part of him that wasn’t as cold as he liked to pretend. That part, the one he kept buried deep, was looking at the woman and children and feeling the weight of their fear, their need.

“...I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, ‘sides tryin’ to provide for my family,” Freedman said, his voice a low rasp, the plea hidden in the defiance.

John’s hand twitched at his holster. The cold metal of his gun felt heavier in that moment, a constant reminder of the stakes at play. He was the law here, wasn’t he? This was what he was meant to do.

But was it?

For a brief second, he saw Jack’s face—his innocent eyes, full of hope and trust. He saw the way Abigail had looked at him when he’d walked back into their lives, the unspoken plea in her gaze to be something more, something better.

The guilt—God, it gnawed at him. His entire life had been about survival, about making it to the next day. But at what cost? What kind of man would he be, looking at this family and dragging them through the dirt?

John’s thoughts raced, flickering back to his own choices, his own mistakes. The ones that still haunted him. His family—his own family—was a fractured thing, held together by pieces of lies and guilt. He had a chance here, a chance to make a decision that wasn’t just about the law, but about mercy. Could he be that man?

Freedman’s eyes held his, waiting. The silence stretched between them like a rope pulled taut.

He could end it now. He could take the bounty, take the satisfaction of justice, and move on.

But he didn’t want it. Not today. Not this family.

John’s breath was shaky as he finally spoke, his voice low, strained. “…Go.”

The family hesitated, frozen in place, eyes wide, unsure whether to believe him. It was a moment of fragile possibility, like they knew it was their one shot, and they were afraid to take it.

His mouth felt dry. There was no turning back. He added, his tone hardening, a sharp edge of finality to it. “’Fore I change my mind.”

That was all it took. Freedman didn’t waste another second. He hustled his wife and kids onto the wagon with shaking hands, the wheels creaking and kicking up dust as they sped off. John watched them go, unable to shake the image of them disappearing into the horizon. He stood there for a long time after, the silence pressing in on him, suffocating him with the weight of his decision.

But the guilt was still there, lingering in his chest like a dark cloud, refusing to leave.

Freedman and his family were out of his reach now, but something about the way they had left—the look in the wife’s eyes, the fear in the children’s faces—haunted him.

He turned away from the path the wagon had taken, heading back to Missy. She was waiting, her ears flicking back as he approached, but she didn’t move. John mounted up with a heavy sigh, guiding the mare forward. His movements were mechanical, but his thoughts were a whirlwind.

His hand found the brim of his hat, and he pulled it down lower, the shadows hiding his tired eyes. He couldn’t shake the image of Freedman’s family. The boy, wide-eyed and full of fear, had looked at him like he was a monster.

Missy’s steady gait was the only sound for a long while, and John let it soothe him, just for a moment. He needed to think—needed to process everything that had just happened. There was still so much uncertainty ahead, and the thought of returning to Brimstone made his chest tighten.

John chose to make camp in the desert, not keen on the idea of traveling through the night. He needed some space from his usual routine anyway. After a dissatisfying dinner of a rabbit he’d hunted down, he’d elected to go to sleep just as the sun was setting. It was much earlier than he normally slept, but he needed a break from his thoughts more than anything.

Sleep, unfortunately, did not come easy for John that night.

The morning sun was already high by the time John arrived in Brimstone, the heat pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t escape. The memories of the previous night—the look in Freedman’s wife’s eyes, the way the children had clung to her—were still fresh in his mind, a gnawing feeling that wouldn’t loosen its grip. He hadn’t felt right since he’d made the choice to let them go, and something told him that discomfort wasn’t going to fade anytime soon.

He pulled Missy to a stop in front of the sheriff’s office, the familiar creak of the saddle shifting with the movement. He glanced up at the dusty wooden sign, the morning light casting long shadows along the street. With a deep breath, John dismounted, his boots hitting the dry ground with a soft thud.

His hand was still clutching the crumpled bounty poster, the edges frayed from the day before, and the ink already starting to fade.

John pushed open the door, the old wood creaking in protest. Inside, Sheriff Acothley sat behind his desk, flipping through the pages of a newspaper, looking completely uninterested in anything happening outside his small, dusty office.

John stood there for a moment, watching the sheriff. His patience was wearing thin, but he managed to bite his tongue, unwilling to be the first to speak.

Finally, Acothley’s eyes flicked up, his expression unreadable as he set the newspaper down. “What is it, John?”

John’s voice was steady, but the words came out blunt. “That bounty poster I took yesterday…”

“You mean Freedman?” Acothley replied, not even bothering to look up. He reached for his cup of coffee, taking a long sip.

“Yeah. Why’s he wanted?” John’s question cut through the air, sharper than he intended.

Acothley didn’t seem fazed by the question. He sighed, setting the cup down before turning to his paperwork, not giving John the satisfaction of eye contact. “Did you not read the poster, John?”

“I did.” John’s tone was firm, but frustration crept into his voice. “But it didn’t add up. It said he was wanted, but there wasn’t any crime listed. Just that he’s a fugitive.”

Sheriff Acothley finally leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as the whole conversation was all an inconvenience. He raised an eyebrow at John. “Did you read the part about the bounty, too? If there’s a bounty, there’s a reason. That’s all that matters.”

John’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t come here for vague answers. “Ain’t you the one who put the bounty on his head?”

Acothley shrugged, uninterested. “No. That was the last sheriff. I’ve only been here about a month.”

John’s brow furrowed. He hadn't known that. The sheriff’s indifference to the situation was starting to grate on him. “So, what makes Freedman a criminal, then? Why’s he got such a huge price on his head if no crime is listed?”

The sheriff stared at him for a long moment, his gaze cold and calculating. Then, he leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk, his voice lowering. “This is an awful lot of questions to be asking, John. You’re usually a man of few words.”

John didn’t flinch at the sheriff’s tone. His gaze didn’t waver. “I just… it don’t seem to add up.”

Acothley’s lips curled into a small, dismissive smile. “And?”

John stood taller, the frustration he’d been holding back beginning to seep through. “You don’t think that’s a little… I don’t know, fishy? There’s a huge price on his head, he’s wanted dead, but there’s no crime listed. There’s gotta be a reason.”

The sheriff’s smile faded. He leaned back in his chair, the creaking wood under his weight the only sound between them. “I suggest you go on and find him, then. Maybe he’ll tell you himself.” Acothley clasped his hands on the desk, his expression hardening. “You’ve got your job to do, John. Just go do it.”

For a moment, John stood there, absorbing the dismissal. The air felt heavy in the small office. He knew there wasn’t much more to gain here, but the questions still burned.

But as quickly as the frustration had flared, it faded, and John turned on his heel, walking toward the door without another word. His boots clicked against the floor, the creak of the door louder than anything he had to say.

As he stepped out into the heat of the day, the door shut softly behind him, and the weight of the unanswered questions settled in his chest.

There was a sudden chill in the air, unusual for the desert. The sky had clouded over, a blanket of gray smothering the sun. The silence was almost eerie—no distant chatter, no footsteps, just the wind whispering through the empty streets. Even the usual caws of crows seemed to have vanished.

John pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders, his boots kicking up little puffs of dust as he walked. Maybe a walk would clear his head, but each step felt heavier than the last. Thoughts of Freedman, the bounty, the family—everything spun in his mind like a wheel he couldn’t stop.

Something didn’t add up. It gnawed at him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than he’d been told, but what was he supposed to do about it?

Suddenly, he bumped into someone, jolting him from his thoughts. The man had appeared out of nowhere—or maybe John had just been too lost in his own head.

“Sorry, partner,” John muttered, stepping to the side.

“That’s alright, John.”

John’s steps faltered. His eyes narrowed. “...Do I know you from somewhere?”

The man was finely dressed—too finely for a place like Brimstone. A black top hat, a long black coat, polished shoes. A thick mustache curled over his lip, and a golden pocket watch dangled from his hand. He looked out of place, like he’d stepped out of another world.

The stranger met John’s gaze with an unimpressed stare. “You may have forgotten. Many people seem to make that mistake.”

There was something unsettling about the way he said it, a weight behind the words that sent a shiver down John’s spine. He couldn’t place the man, but there was an eerie familiarity in his eyes.

John didn’t respond, trying to piece together where he’d seen this face before. The stranger’s laugh was a dry, hollow thing, like wind through dead trees. He slipped the pocket watch back into his coat.

“I’ll give you a hint,” the man said, his voice smooth, almost too calm. “You could consider me an… accountant, of sorts.”

John’s brow furrowed. “’Fraid I don’t deal with accountants, partner. Now, I don’t know how you know my name, but—”

The man raised a hand, cutting him off. “I’m afraid you don’t get to decide who deals with you, John Marston.” His eyes glinted with something unreadable. “You’ve surprised me. And that’s not something I can often say.” He tapped a finger against his chin, thoughtful. “Reuniting with Abigail and Jack... Now that was an interesting twist. Fascinating, truly.”

The mention of their names was like a punch to the gut. John’s breath caught, his hand moving instinctively to his holster. He drew his gun, leveling it at the stranger, his voice low and dangerous. “How the hell do you know their names?”

The man didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed amused. “I make it my business to know,” he said simply, his voice carrying a chilling finality.

“You gonna arrest me? That what this is?” John took a step forward, pushing back the fear with the confidence of a man who’d spent a lifetime surviving. “Just go ahead and try, already. Leave ‘em out of this.”

The stranger chuckled, a dry, mocking sound that made John’s blood run cold. “I’m not the law, John Marston. If I were, you would have been dealt with long ago.” He glanced at John with a faint trace of amusement. “I must admit, you’ve surprised me. It’s been… so long since I’ve encountered someone with your kind of persistence.”

John’s grip tightened on his gun, the tension in the air palpable. “You think I’m just gonna sit here and listen to your cryptic shit? You’ve got one last chance to tell me who you are, or—”

Before John could finish, the stranger raised a hand, almost as if he were signaling for calm. “I don’t need to explain myself. But I will say this—you're on a very unexpected path, Mister Marston. None of this was supposed to happen. There are many parties interested in you.”

John’s mind raced. Interested parties? Who the hell else was watching him that closely?

“If you don’t stop with the riddles,” John said, stepping closer, his voice a low growl, “I’ll put a bullet in your fuckin’ skull right now. That what you want?”

The stranger smirked, his tone unbothered. “By all means, go ahead.”

John’s heart pounded as he aimed his gun at the man’s head, the sound of his breath filling his ears. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked—nothing.

John cursed under his breath, trying again, this time with more urgency. Click. Nothing. Again, and still nothing.

“Damn you!” John snarled, his frustration mounting.

The stranger’s laugh was dry, almost pitying. “Many have tried, Mister Marston. Many have.” With that, he turned on his heel and began walking away, his steps slow, deliberate.

John looked down at his gun, trying to make sense of the malfunction. What the hell? He quickly checked the chamber, but it looked fine—nothing out of place.

When he looked back up, the man was gone. Vanished.

John’s breath hitched in his chest. His heart skipped a beat as he scanned the street, his eyes darting from one end to the other. There was no sign of him—nothing but the same empty road he had been walking just moments ago. The clouds had dissipated, and the sun now beat down from the sky in full force, as if nothing had happened at all.

John took a few steps forward, his pulse racing. Was he losing his mind? The man had disappeared, as if swallowed by the earth.

He stood there for a moment, scanning the empty street. A cold chill ran down his spine. It was as if the encounter had never happened.

He looked down at his gun again, his hand still trembling slightly. What the hell was that?

Around him, the town began to stir again. People crossed the street, wagons rolled by, and the distant murmur of voices returned. It was as if the world had paused for that moment and was now resuming, oblivious to what had just happened.

And the only thing on John’s mind was Abigail.

John made it to Abigail’s in record time, his mind racing. He knocked urgently, the sound echoing in the still air. An older woman opened the door, her eyes narrowing in irritation. Whatever she said fell on deaf ears; John pushed past her, his boots heavy on the creaking floorboards.

“Hey!” she called after him, but he was already halfway down the hall, following the familiar path to Abigail and Jack’s room.

He knocked frantically, the wood rattling under his fist. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat fueling the images flashing in his mind—the strange man’s haunting words, the icy warning about Abigail and Jack.

The door opened, and there she was. “John?” Abigail’s brow furrowed. “I wasn’t expectin’ you so early—”

“Are you okay? Is Jack okay?” His voice was strained, his hands instinctively grasping her shoulders. He scanned the room, his eyes darting to the corners, to the window. Nothing seemed out of place, but his gut twisted anyway.

Abigail’s eyes widened in surprise. “What? Jack and I’re fine. He’s playin’ with the neighbor girl in the next room.” She gently pried his hands off her shoulders, concern etching lines across her face. “John, what’s gotten into you?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze still flicking to the door, the windows. He half-expected to see the man lurking in the shadows, watching them. But the room was empty. Just him and Abigail. The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint laughter of children next door.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “I... had a run-in outside.” The words felt hollow, inadequate.

Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of run-in?”

He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. “Someone knew me. I think I’m bein’ watched.” He knew how it sounded—paranoid, unhinged. Maybe he was losing it. It would be fitting, after everything.

Abigail’s expression hardened into a frown. “Maybe it’s all that bounty huntin’ you’ve been doin’.” Her voice was low, almost accusatory.

John stiffened. So she knew. He’d been careful, or so he thought. But Brimstone was a small town, and word traveled fast. “I ain’t a bounty hunter,” he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue. He didn’t see himself that way. Bounties were just jobs—means to an end. Nothing more.

Abigail’s laugh was humorless, her hands on her hips. “Oh, really? ‘Cause if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sure as hell look and act like one.”

He bristled. “Does it matter?” His voice was sharp. “I just pick up bounties here and there.”

She balked. “Does it matter? You’re on the run from the law, John! What’d you think’s gonna happen, workin’ so close with them?” Her arms crossed, her eyes flashing with anger.

He crossed his own arms, his jaw tight. “I can’t just have no job. That’d be even more suspicious.” Deep down, he knew she had a point, but the frustration clawed at him. He didn’t like being scrutinized, even when he deserved it. “It ain’t like I’m a deputy. I just bring in fools that need bringin’ in.”

Abigail’s sigh was loud and exasperated. “You... John, that’s a lazy defense, and you know it. You could sell pelts, for all I care. Anything other than riskin’ your neck every day.” She softened, her voice quieter but no less firm. “Ain’t you tired of livin’ like that?”

He let out an irritated groan. “Jesus Christ, Abigail. Why do you care? We ain’t livin’ together. Far as I’m concerned, I’m just the deadbeat father.” The words tasted bitter, but they were easier to say than admitting the truth.

Abigail threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “You can be so dense sometimes.” Her voice broke slightly. “I care about Jack, John. What am I supposed to tell him if somethin’ happens? ‘Sorry, honey, your father got himself killed because he couldn’t stop bein’ reckless’?” She paused, her eyes glistening. “I care about you, you idiot.”

Her words hit harder than any punch. He faltered, the fight draining out of him. “I... all I’ve ever done is rob and kill. I don’t know how to make a normal livin’. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

The confession hung heavy in the air. It felt pathetic, but it was the truth.

Abigail’s expression softened. She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “Now’s the perfect time to start tryin’.” Her voice was quiet, almost pleading. “I want this... whatever this is... to work. You and me... that’s complicated. But Jack—he’s my priority.” She looked away, her voice almost a whisper.

John swallowed hard, his throat dry. “What does that mean? About us?”

She didn’t answer right away, the silence stretching between them. Finally, she spoke. “We’ve got a lot to work out. Maybe we will. But right now, I need to know Jack will be safe. That he’ll be happy. That’s what matters most.”

John ran a hand through his tangled hair, his fingers catching in the knots. “You know I can’t guarantee that, Abigail. If the wrong people find me...”

“I know, John.” She finally met his gaze, her eyes soft and sad. “That’s what scares me.”

#red dead redemption fanfic #rdr fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr #johnigail #john marston x abigail roberts #john marston #abigail roberts #john marston fanfic #jack marston #rdr fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfiction #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #vittoria.doc #smftnib

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noxexistant · 7 months ago

Text

March 14, 1899

for @i-didnt-do-1t

Work’s been an absolute bastard, and Oscar’s in a miserable mood with his head throbbing and his jaw locked and his godforsaken shoulder acting up, so of course tonight’s the night he comes home to a mess of candles laid out on their cramped little kitchen table.

The lights are off, but their ratty sun-stained curtain is pushed back to see the lights of the city outside, soft orange glows stretching off into the distance. They can’t see the moon from this side of the apartment, but Oscar had seen it rising as he’d walked home, a little whitish smear like a hole punctured in dark fabric.

The candles are flickering.

“Christ,” Oscar mutters. “Morris.”

“Don’ get mad.”

Morris is at the kitchen counter, and he should have his back to Oscar but he’s sort of half-turned himself, like he’s afraid of what Oscar might do but can’t stop what he’s in the middle of. Oscar only figures out exactly what that is when another match is struck to life and lights up Morris’ profile in yellow. The light doubles as he carefully holds the match to the unmarred wick of a small new candle, and he then shakes the match out and discards it atop the counter with the rest. There’s a little pile of them, crooked and blackened.

This candle’s a prayer candle. The fancy type, smooth pale wax in a glass cup. Morris must’ve paid for it, he don’t steal from the church. And Oscar’s stomach twists thinking about what it might’ve cost - a week of meals, maybe. Sacrificed for this.

“‘S’her birthday,” Morris says, real quiet. Oscar could scream.

“It ain’t nothin’, Mo. She’s dead. It’s Tuesday.”

“‘S’March 14th, her birthday—“

“She’s dead.”

Morris’ hands curl tightly around the candle, both of them cradled around it in some white-knuckled imitation of prayer. Oscar hopes he’ll throw it, but after a few long seconds his grip only loosens and he carries it carefully to the table.

“This the last one?” Oscar mocks, staring at his little brother’s narrow back, at how the bones at his shoulders jut through the drape of his threadbare shirt as he leans over the table to place the candle down. “Or is the next one gonna bring her back?”

“You’re an asshole,” Morris says quietly.

He sets the candle in the centre of all the others, a mass of flickering light that gives Oscar a headache to look at. It’s all reflecting off every wall in the darkness, something like being underwater, like drowning in flame.

Morris sits himself down in one of the chairs, facing it all.

“You ‘member that time Ma threw a candle at you,” Oscar asks him sharply, talking loud despite the delicate atmosphere. “Burnt all your arm an’ chest with the flame an’ hot wax, an’ you was screamin’ for hours while I was holdin’ a cloth on it. Scarred, didn’ it?”

It did. Oscar knows it did. Morris’ skin is thin and pink one side of his collarbones, a few smears of silverish skin down one arm where the wax had splashed.

“She didn’ mean to hit me,” Morris whispers. Which is a defence that usually works - most of the times Ma did something like that, threw something, she was aiming for Oscar. But Oscar hadn’t even been in the room that time.

He still vividly remembers hearing Mo scream from down the hall. Remembers dropping the pot he was scrubbing and running to his little brother as fast as he could, already terrified of what had been done to him and more terrified of what would be if Oscar didn’t get there fast enough.

He tries to pick out the scars now. Morris’ forearms are bare, sleeves rolled up, but it’s dark in the room and Morris has so many damn scars that it’s hard to pick one from the rest. All Oscar can really look at is the thicker white lines, the ridges of them shadowed by the firelight. They’re just like Ma’s were.

“Christ,” he breathes. “I need a drink.”

He steps around the altar their little dining room table has been transformed to and goes for the counter Morris had been working at, intent on helping himself to Wiesel’s whiskey in the cupboard. As he goes, he looks past the pile of burnt matches and the mess for the first time, and all of a sudden notices the chipped dinner plate with a squat cake sat atop it, forgotten in the chaos.

Morris isn’t the best baker by any means, nothing like the stuff in the windows of the fancy bakeries they’ll walk past, but he does what he can - and he’s a damn sight better than Oscar would be. The cake is short and a little lopsided, bare, but it’s golden on top. Shining a little with sugar. God, Oscar’s hungry.

“Help yourself,” Morris says, quiet. “‘S’that one Ma liked. Ain’t got the berries in ‘cause I couldn’t afford ‘em. An’ ain’t got the raisins in ‘cause you don’t like ‘em.”

Oscar. Can’t quite help but smile, real soft. Feels safe to with no eyes on him, not even Morris’.

“You ain’t had any?” he asks.

“Ain’t hungry.”

Oscar goes for the cutlery drawer. Takes a stout knife from the mess of mismatched silverware, then takes two little plates from the cupboard above. The cake’s slightly stale, must’ve been out a while without Mo touching it, but it’s still real soft inside, cuts nice. Just plain cake without the berries and raisins it usually has - how Ma used to make it.

Oscar sets one of the plates down in front of Morris, between him and the candles, and Morris is effectively startled out of the listless stare he’d been caught in, gaze instead on the little slice of cake.

“Told you I ain’t hungry,” he says. Oscar shoves a fork at him and sits down beside him with his own - larger - slice of cake, and a glass of a couple fingers of whiskey.

“Eat it,” he says. “‘S’Ma’s birthday. An’ she was always worried ‘bout you not eatin’ enough.”

Morris still doesn’t. Oscar doesn’t. Food is in such short supply that it feels a little stupid to be eating cake - it’s stupid that Morris made it, there’s a million better things they could do with milk and flour and eggs. But. Christ, if Ma’s gotta be dead, maybe she can at least have her birthday. Especially if it means Morris picks up his fork without too much fighting for once.

“Happy birthday, Mammy,” he sort of whispers, and takes his first tentative bite, other hand fidgeting with the cross hanging from his necklace.

Oscar takes a swig of his whiskey. Picks up his own fork.

“Yeah. Happy birthday, Máire.”

#newsies #oscar delancey #morris delancey #uksies #my writing

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lacrymatoryao3 · 1 year ago

Text

Redemption Was Just The Beginning

Chapter 1: September, 1899

To the world, Arthur Morgan is dead. As he tries to face the idea, in a lush valley in Ambarino he comes face to face with a woman from his past, and they must reckon with an era long gone. Especially when she has secrets of her own.

(Rated explicit simply because eventually there's smut in this.)

1,675 Words (AO3 Link)

There was a profound silence. It was shrouded in an unfamiliar peace. Arthur Morgan closed his eyes, embracing it. His weary, injured body was finally at rest. Something he hadn’t felt for so long as the coming sunrise warmed his face in the crisp air of the coming autumn. Stillness… Tranquility… Among the flickers of memories and reality that came to him.

Yet, his consciousness still remained inside his unmoving body. It confused him. Was this death? After so much of it he had witnessed, often committing, it seemed much more… final. How long would it last? Until the darkness consumed him and he faced his final judgment - if there was one? He felt the cycle of dawn and twilight many times lying there. He stopped counting after the first few times. He could do nothing waiting for whatever came next with his back on the rough rocky ground.

In the distance a man’s voice called him name. It was familiar, comforting, but it also filled him with deep regret. Of all the people on the earth to find him… it had to be Charles. He had often wondered what the amazing connection they had, what bond by either blood or spirit that made him so capable of tracking him down no matter where he may have been. Oh, what he would have been willing to give to be able to reply, but like what may as well be his corpse, he could not will a sound to emanate from his throat.

The ground shook. He felt Charles’s large hand cover one of his own, letting out a staccato sigh. Then he lifted him, carrying him onto the back of his horse. They rode for some time. There was a foul smell in the air over their journey. Death. Rot. Arthur was unsure if it was from him, or something beside him that occasionally butted into him when the horse’s trot increased.

They stopped for some time. Charles took the thing next to Arthur off the horse. He wasn’t sure what exactly his friend did with it. If only he could open his God damn eyes! He just didn’t understand what was happening.

The crickets started chirping when Charles returned. Then they rode through the night. He heard the occasional sniffle, occasional sob, but mostly stoic silence. A feeling started to threaten to consume Arthur again, something in life he would attribute to exhaustion. He tried to fight it, but in the end it eventually won.

Maybe, it was finally coming…

Until, at least, his awareness was jolted back to his predicament when he was placed on the ground. He heard the sound of digging and rocky soil being dropped over him. It didn’t take long for him to become completely covered in the damp blackness. It made his heart race. He did whatever he could to move, to yell, to do anything. Even without any of those things, the stress of trying drained him. He felt faint again.

Just as he thought he was finally fucking dead, he felt something crawling on his hand. Some sort of bug, probably. Ready to chew on his flesh. The tickle annoyed him, his fingers twitching to get it off him. It didn’t register at first, until he willed his hand to shift from his chest. He could move! After days, maybe even a week, his nerves began to fire.

Adrenaline coursed through his damp and battered body. He began frantically digging through the soil that blanketed him. It wasn’t a very deep grave, the sun blinding him the moment he could sit up and crawl out. He tried to get up, collapsing onto his knees. He knelt over huffing, his chest was so heavy like his ribs were kicked in by a horse. Then he remembered. That was more painful than trying to catch his wheezing breath.

“God dammit.” Arthur muttered out loud.

He forced himself to his feet, grabbing something next to him to support himself. A splinter of wood poked into the palm of his hand. He grunted, pulling it out and watching the blood ooze out from the wound. He looked over to what further injured him, the little breath he had stopping in his throat. It was a wooden cross, fashioned to look like a simple Celtic kind. What floored and dismayed him was seeing his own name on it.

‘Arthur Morgan’ was carved on the horizontal bar on the cross, in Charles’s sharp block handwriting.

On the halo he had put ‘blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness’.

Arthur couldn’t help but make a weak smirk and chuckle. Righteousness? What kind of righteousness had he been seeking? After all the horrible things he committed in his life. It didn’t feel like a fitting epitaph. Still, it felt kind of nice to know someone would remember him with some positiveness.

He looked at his hand again, the blood clotting and turning dark.

“Well, Morgan,” he said, “you survived again, you lucky bastard. For now, anyways,”

He scanned his surroundings, giving him an idea where he was. He made his way down the mountain. In his current state it was an ordeal, leaving him sputtering and gasping the entire way. He had to stop at the strange grass covered cottage that sat abandoned at the foot of the cliff he was supposed to be buried on. He managed to stumble to Bacchus Station, sitting down winded on the platform. The rasp in his breath was getting louder, until it became the uncontrollable coughing he was cursed to endure, pain shooting through his body every time. He bent over until his head was between his knees, his forehead resting on his fists. He let out whatever bloody gunk came fall to the ground at his feet. Leopold Strauss… That son of a bitch. Too much of a coward to do his own dirty work. Arthur bitterly regretted he didn’t do more than just throwing him out of the camp.

He sat up gasping, trying to hard to re-regulate. He needed to figure out how to get away from the area. Perhaps to New Austin, that doctor in Saint Denis said he needed somewhere dry and warm. Another option was the north. He read in one of those fancy magazines that places with high altitude and low humidity benefited people with different kinds of breathing issues, tuberculosis included. He stared at what he could see of Donner Falls, mulling over where to get a horse, where to get supplies for the trip. In any other situation he would try his damnedest to reach the Wapiti reservation. They would have helped him if they hadn’t moved on to Canada yet. Charles wouldn’t hesitate. Charles… God, what he wouldn’t give to see that man’s shocked face to see him still going. He offered to stay to help him, only for the man to tell him he had more people to help. He was right. Above all else, he set John free to return to Abigail and little Jack.

There were also those who got away who shouldn’t have. He begged Bill and Javier to think, only for them to remain blinded by their loyalty to Dutch. Fucking Dutch! The man he viewed as a father, as a friend, who Arthur himself had been loyal to the bone for, abandoning him and ignoring his reason for that greasy weasel Micah who brought this all on.

Arthur’s eyes began to sting. The tears warmed his cheeks. He never felt as helpless as he did sitting at a remote freight station. For the first time since he was young he had something that scared him more than anything else he faced: no one. His heart ached. He shouldn’t be alive. To those who knew him, loved, liked, or hated him, he was dead. Everything before him was new. He was no longer an outlaw, a wanted man to be hunted down with impunity. He couldn’t go back.

“Hey, Mister! You okay?” someone yelled at Arthur. He dried his eyes and composed himself, looking over and finding a man standing next to a horse drawn wagon.

“Not really.” Arthur replied, watching the man cautiously walk toward him. He was a Chinese man, a rare sight outside of Saint Denis. He wasn’t dressed like they usually were there either. He had on a plain, but well made suit. His hair was cut short, neatly combed and pomaded under his bowler hat.

“Is something I can do to help?” the man asked, his accent heavy but honest in his concern.

Arthur shrugged, “Where ya goin’? What the hell are ya doin’ out here?”

The man pointed at the broken train bridge Arthur helped blow up, “See if they start fix on that yet. Much easier dropping and picking up here, than Valentine or Strawberry. Much closer to Cain Valley. Less travel.”

“Cain Valley, eh? Never heard of it. How far is it?”

“Two day drive. If you want go I can take.” the man motioned to the wagon, “Lady I work for maybe assist you. Very nice woman. I have food and drink I can share.”

Better than nothing… Arthur thought, standing up and following the man. He crawled into the back where a bedroll was laid out among the goods. He sat down and tried to get comfortable.

The man got into the driver’s head, pulling out a rifle and resting it on his shoulder. He looked back at Arthur, “What your name, anyway? I am Liang Sing-chi.”

He thought about all the aliases he gave over the years to give him, he sure had a damn lot of them. He didn’t have the energy to go through them.

“Just call me Arthur.” he eventually told Liang.

Liang nodded, taking the reins of the horses in his free hand and whipping them sharply. The wagon lurched forward and turned, rolling down the road at a quick pace. The two men didn’t say a word once they were on their way.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 posting #rdr #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 community #red dead 2 #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan rdr2

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togetherasone · 1 year ago

Text

COWBOYS FROM HELL . SECONDO

Pairing: Outlaw!Secondo x Fem!Reader (crossover between Ghost and Red Dead Redemption and Copia is part of the bloodline because I can).

Summary: Tales of the Emeritus Brothers have traveled every corner of the Wild West since dawn of time. You had heard about them for the first time when you were a child. Your grandfather would sit outside and paint a world of chaos and destruction to you. For most of your life, that was what they were. Tales. Until their rage fell upon you and the tales turned to reality. Or the one where our beloved Papas are the leaders of a gang in the 1899 Wild West.

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: Graphic depctions of violence, minor character death, implied/referenced talk about rape, objectification, mentions of blood, mentions of a large abdominal wound, dubious morality.

Parts: One (Cowboys from Hell) | Two (Wounds, stews and silver masks)

Notes: Will I ever continue this? Will this turn into an enemies to lovers thing? Will our boys have a redemption arc? Will they all die at the end? I have no idea. What I know is that I had so much fun writing about evil brothers being the bringers of chaos in the 1899 Wild West. This writing was 100% inspired by this amazing art. I swear I stared at it for, like, two hours. Also, although I mentioned places, weapons and outfits from the game (because I just had to… Sorry, my mind likes a lot to specify things), they definitely shouldn't stop you from reading this if you haven't played the game! Keep in mind that English isn't my first language. Sorry in advance for any mistakes. Enjoy!

If you prefer to read on AO3, here it is!

If you want to take a look at my other writings, here they are!

If you want to discover the Red Dead Redemption World, here is an interactive map (it's mainly for Red Dead Online, but choose the "Hide All" option and you should be able to properly study the map — this chapter is set in Ambarino, more specifically, in Grizzlies West) and here is the page where it all begins (feel free to explore the infinite pages they have about the game, including a page about weapons and other about clothes).

The logs crackled and popped in the fireplace. Umidity had permanently settled itself inside the hut, a timeless, silent, mysterious resident, which lurked in the shadows and corroded bones. The fire flickered under its influence, fighting to stay alight. You were just another visitor. Suceeded countless other visitors. Pioneers, scouts, lawmen, outlaws, gangs and gunslingers, gamblers, naturalists, bounty hunters, traders, collectors. People who had ventured north only to meet Winter. And, along with it, death. Cold had clawed at skin and bone. Only ghost stories remained, and, whenever the wind blew, they resonated inside the hut, a million voices crying for help.

And there you were.

The hut was small. Its walls were made of wood. When the wind blew harder, it whistled through the cracks between the logs. There was one bed, one table, one chair, one shelf. The bed was placed on the same wall as the fireplace. The table and the shelf were placed on the opposite wall. The former, under a window covered with a ragged blue curtain. A small kitchen had been built in the farthest corner of the hut. The counter bore a sink. It was rounded and shallow. So shallow that it was impossible to fit both hands under the tap when washing them. A cauldron had been abaondoned beside the counter. Food had rotted inside the counter and stained the wood. Other than the stains, the counter was empty.

Marion coughed. Weakly and lowly. You averted your eyes to her emaciated body, a small lump underneath a ragged blanket. She shivered, pulling the blanket closer in a useless attempt to warm herself. Her fingers tightly wrapped around the blanket. They were slender and firm, capable of shooting a rifle with incredible precision, but, in the matter of a week, they became bony and weak, uncapable of holding a spoon with minimum steadiness.

"I-In the bleak m-midwinter... In the... In the bleak midwinter... In t-the bleak midwinter..."

A dagger sliced your heart. Her voice was low and quavering; her breath, shallow and accelerated. Your fingers tightened around the cup between your hands. It was old, rusty and faded. Spirals of steam rose from it and perfumated the air with the scent of coffee. "Frosty wind made moan," you continued.

"F-Frosty wind m-made..."

She coughed again. Silence fell in the hut, except for the logs crackling and popping in the fireplace.

"Earth stood hard as iron," you insisted.

"Earth..." Marion begun, but her low voice faded into a ragged breath.

"Stood hard as iron."

Tears blurred your vision as you supressed a sob. Desperation filled your bloodstream. You had tried to avoid the truth. But, now, it was impossible to ignore it. Marion was dying. And there was nothing you could do to save her, except watch life drip from her eyes at each passing day. The deep wound on her right thigh had turned into a black mass of rotten tissue that had started to spread in all directions no matter what you did. You had three and a half bottles of Medicine, five doses of Chewing Tobacco and four bottles of potent tonics. But they were all over, and, apparently, useless despite their promising results on the first days. You had even tried Moonshine and Cocaine Gum, but they were equally useless.

It had been a day since you had arrived at that forgotten-by-God hut in that forgotten-by-God land. Not that you had a choice. The Emeritus Boys had massacrated your gang. They were popularly known as the Cowboys from Hell. Legend said they sold their souls to the Devil and ravaged the Wild West in His name, bearing skull face-paints and riding horses in flames that destroyed everything on their way. They were followed by countless masked people. It was believed they had been, once, victims of the Emeritus Brothers, and were possessed by the Devil. Their masks had the shape of the Devil, with horns and two holes for the eyes that, rumor had it, were useless, because only their sockets had remained.

When you were little, your grandfather used to tell stories of their heartless undertakings, and you hung on every single word that fell from his lips. Usually, he sat on a rocking chair at the front porch, peacefully smoking a cigarette, and you would seat in front of him, insistently begging for stories. You had promised you would protect him, and the rest of the family, if they ever set foot in your ranch as you aimed an unloaded carbine at the horizon.

The stories faded. So did the promise. Your grandfather passed away, and the Emeritus Brothers never set foot in your ranch. But tuberculosis did, and your unloaded carbine was useless to protect your family. First, it was your brother. Then, months later, your mother. Your father sold the ranch, believing a curse had befallen it, and you moved from sunny Henningan's Stead to cloudy Big Valley. A new life. That, nonetheless, never worked for your father. He ended up dying years later, drunk and lost inside his mind. You had to figure out a life for yourself.

Ended up becoming a bounty hunter, and, then, joining a gang.

A week prior, when the Emeritus Brothers appeared in the dead of the night, the stories, although faded, had turned to reality; and the promise, although faded, story. Again, you had failed to protect what you now called family. And miserably. There were no horses in flames, but four men in skull face-paints and men in masks with horns and two holes for the eyes destroyed Rowe manor.

Chester "Bad" Rowe, the gang leader, had played with fire, and, thus, suffered the consequences. So did the gang.

Suddenly, the door opened. Russell, Tim and Fannie entered the hut. And, along with them, cold, uninvited. The wind blew behind them, pushing snow inside, and the fire violently danced on the fireplace.

You abruptly stood from the chair, which loudly screeched against the floor. "The fire, damn it!"

Russell huffed and rushed to close the door. Tim glared at you as he yanked the leather gloves from his hands. A rabbit rested over his shoulder. And that was that.

"One rabbit? Really?"

"Feel free to hunt yourself," Tim irritatedly mumbled.

You glared at him, "Tomorrow."

Sustaining your glare, Tim abandoned the rabbit on the wooden table. It collapsed with a thud against it, making the rest of the coffee wave inside your cup, and you averted your gaze to the dead animal. It was a scrawny rabbit, with grey fur and long ears.

"Clean it," he spat.

You pushed him against the nearest wall, forearm pressing against his chest and hand fisting a bunch of fabric of the jacket he wore. "Don't fucking tell me what to do."

You pulled your dagger from your belt, pressing the cold blade against his throat. A single tear had streamed down your face and the path created by it shone under the fire. It stood out amongst the dirt and soot on your face.

"Hey..." Russell touched your shoulder. Fannie stood behind him in a stony silence. You exchanged a glance with her. "C'mon, stop it."

"The new leader of the gang, or, well, what rested of it," Tim ironically grinned at you, ignoring Russell and Fannie beside him.

"I needn't be a leader to cut your damn throat, bastard" you mumbled trough gritted teeth. The blade cut his skin and blood trickled out of the superficial cut, staining his clothes.

"Earth s-stood hard as iron," Marion softly mumbled from the bed. "Earth... In the bleak..."

Russell was filled with consternation for his wife. There she rested, with no prospects of getting better, and you fought because of a rabbit.

"Dear God, let the rabbit with me!" he spat at you and Tim, burrying the axe in his hand in the table and opening a crack in its wooden surface. "Stop this nonsense!"

You released Tim, and he spat on the ground. "Was it you that told the Emeritus Brothers where to find Chet? Brought those skulls and demons to do the dirty job for you so you could steal his position?"

"Tell me, what has that done for me? Starving in the middle of nowhere. No food, no medicine, nothing!" you answered. "You should work for the Pinkertons with those clever assumptions, Tim. You'd go far," you joked, an amused smile playing on your lips.

In the blink of an eye, you had been pinned to the ground. You winced when the back of your head hit the hard surface. The air was knocked out of your lungs by the weight of Tim on you. The chair fell beside you with a loud thud, and your dagger clanked away from your hand. Russell protested against the fight again. Fannie stood beside him in a stony silence.

"Whore," Tim shouted above you. It seemed his face was going to explode. Red and swollen. Veins pulsated on his forehead, and beads of saliva rested on his chin. "I could spill your guts right here on this filthy floor."

"Do it," you challenged him. Your heart rumbled inside your chest. Adrenaline and fear filled your bloodstream. "Do it."

He fumed at you, but did nothing.

"In the bleak midwinter... In the..."

You pushed him from the top of you and sat up, your hand reaching for your dagger. "Coward."

Tim pushed himself up with a struggle, but once he stood up, he spat on you. His saliva landed on your clothed thigh, and you frowned at it. You had had much worse before.

Once you slotted the dagger in your belt and stood up, Russell had pulled the rabbit skin from its muscles, and Fannie had pulled vegetables from her satchel, one carrot and one potato.

"I'll get water for the stew," you announced to no one in particular, your fingers snatching the cauldron from its corner. You definitely could fill the utensil with water from the tap if water actually came out of it, but only droplets of water mixed with rust did.

"Be careful," Fannie matter-of-factly stated.

You yanked the door open and stepped outside. You never left the hut alone, but given the tension brewing inside it, time alone would be a gift. You felt sorry for Marion.

It was dark and windy. Cold gnawed on your bones as you attached the cauldron to and hung a lamp on your saddle, in front of the chest of the animal, and mounted your horse. It neighed, maybe in protest against the journey, but obeyed you nonetheless and walked to the riverbank. The Glacier flowed east, to the Spider Gorge, approximately three miles north of the hut. You walked between the dense forest. The light emanating from the lamp fluttered before you, the paws of your horse sank in the snow, a path forming behind it.

The wind blew silently, digging its way through leaves, branches and trunks. A crack of sky was visible between the thin leaves; it was the navy-blue of the ocean, and everything was quiet except for an owl peeping lowly in the distance. You pricked up your ears to carefully listen to any small sound. It was well-known wolves wandered around the mountains, but none interrupted the journey to the riverbank.

You submerged the cauldron and shivered at the contact of your skin with the water, an icy handshake embrancing your fingers, then your hands. The metallic utensil quickly filled with water. You carried it to your horse when a wolf howled in the distance. You instantly stopped moving, body freezing in place, as still as the trees that surrounded you. Your horse whined in fear, and you glared at it. Your breath condensated in the air as soon as you exhaled.

You cursed the water for hampering your attempt to listen to the forest. The howl was followed by barks and growls. There was more than one wolf. Seconds passed before you decided to move. It would be better if you had a gun in your hand. You attached the cauldron back to your saddle.

"Quiet," you shushed your horse. Not that it would actually keep it quiet, but fear clawed at your bones. Facing a lonely wolf was entirely different from facing a wolf pack all by yourself.

A gunshot echoed in the distance, followed by more barks.

You were accompanied. And by the loudness of it, they were close.

Your horse protested, its front paws kicking the air. You hoped the water would muffle the sounds coming from the animal. Knew it was a matter of time before the wolves heard it or, well, sniffed it. You pulled your Springfield Rifle from your saddle. Another gunshot echoed in the distance. The wolves barked and growled. You stepped around a large tree, studying your surroudings.

You walked towards the sounds, slow and silent. You took advantage of the low trunks and the darkness to hide yourself from sight. The Glacier flowed behind you as you headed southeast.

"Stay," you mumbled to your horse. It exhaled in response and agitated its head, the reins clicking around its neck.

Every cell of your body begged you to be sensible and run from trouble, but you would return with a wolf in the back of your horse. Would rub salt in the wound. Tim "Dickhead" Swanson deserved it. And, well, moreover, you were starving. The rabbit would do for a thin stew. And Marion, obviously, would get the largest portion. And you, Russell, Fannie and Tim would share its remainings just to calm your nervous stomachs, but not to fill them. The prospect of a decent meal enticed your senses.

You reached a clearing. On the opposite edge, two wolves circled a lump in the snow. A low growl rumbled from their throat. They were big wolves, with grey fur and long tails. Your stomach churned with hunger. One wolf lay dead on your right, and a trail of blood traveled to where the other wolves stood. You should be fast. Other wolves might sniff the blood and you would be dead if a whole wolf pack surrounded you. You aimed at the neck of one of the wolves and pulled the trigger. It yowled and staggered before falling over the lump in the snow. When the other wolf turned to you, you noticed a foot behind it. The animal angrily advanced towards you, and you blindly shot it, your feet tumbling backwards. It seemed your heart would explode inside your chest. The wolf whined and fell on the snow. The forest fell silent.

You pushed your body up from the snow as you whistled for your horse. Once you crossed the clearing, you noticed that the foot you had seen belonged to Tim. What was the bastard doing there? What had happened after you left to fill the cauldron?

Tim rested under the first wolf you had shot, and was alive. It was possible to hear a shallow breath escaping from his lips. The fear poisoning your bloodstream was instantly replaced by rage.

The wolf that had fallen over his body hid the wound the animals had caused, but it must be large since blood abundantly stained the snow around him.

You pulled your Schofield Revolver from your belt and pointed at him. Your finger rested on the trigger. Tim had no force to open his eyes, to speak, to breathe. To react at the gun pointed at him. Judging by the gravity of the wound, Tim would certainly die no matter what you did. And you already had to take care of Marion. And you had no medicine. Nothing.

If you shot him, it would be an act of mercy.

So you did.

The bullet carved its way through his chest, and you would never admit that peace filled your heart at the sight of his dead body. You loudly exhaled. Tears blurred your vision as you suppressed a laugh. You would have to lie to Fannie. Would have to hide the fact that you had shot her husband. Would say the wolves did it. Which, actually, wasn't a lie. You had just finished their job. Right?

You slotted the revolver in your belt and hang the rifle across your chest. Then, you kneeled in front of the first wolf you shot. It was a perfect shot, and the meat of the animal would be intact. Once you pulled the wolf from over the body, blood gurgled from the wound. As you suspected, it was large. His skin had been tore apart and his guts had been exposed, intestines destroyed.

"The tables have turned, fucker. I spilled your guts," you spat at the corpse in front you.

You had definitey gone mad.

You panted as you lifted the wolf to place it on the back of your horse. Your fingers knotted ropes around it when you heard steps behind the trees. They belonged to no animal, too loud for a predator that wished to hide from its prey.

You immediatelly snatched the rifle from your back. You waited. Were in disadvantage, exposed in the clearing. Your horse sensed your nervousness and neighed.

"In the bleak midwinter," you mumbled to yourself, your fingers mindlessly tightening around the gun.

A shadow stepped from the forest. Your eyes widened in shock at the sight in front of you, but you swept the emotion from your face before he could notice it and replaced it with rage. Deep and intense rage.

The man held a personalized Litchfield Repeater, wore a black Walden Coat, black leather gloves, black Buckley hat. And, around his neck, a cross. An upside down cross with a circle around it. And, on his face, a skull paint.

His lips were tinted black and crossed by thin lines imitating the exposed teeth of a skull. His cheeks showed black patches that stretched towards his ears and, from there, towards his neck. His eyes were surrounded by black circles and, to your bewilderment, had different colors. From where you stood, it was impossible to make out the color of his right eye — in fact, it seemed there was no eye there, the black paint and the shadows strangely camuflated it —, but his left eye... Was white. And it eerily shone in the darkness. A shiver shot through your spine.

"This is indeed a forgotten-by-God land."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed.

"But I dare say... Too cold for the Devil."

He remained silent, a mischievous smile contorting his lips.

"What're you doing here?"

"The Devil," he licked his lips as he stepped towards you. "Has unfinished business in this land."

"And where're your brothers to help you? I expected the whole entourage, the Four Horseman of Apocalypse an' shit," you defiantly said. Had just killed two wolves and a man, and the adrenaline of doing so crawled under your skin and, apparently, prevented your mind from thinking straight. Perhaps not only adrenaline. But rage either. And... You had to admit fear had its share of your skin, but you refused to show it. At least, tried not to show it. He certainly noticed the tight grip of your fingers around your gun, or the slight frown on your face, or the nervous gulp of your throat.

His mismatched eyes sparkled at the insolence on your voice.

You had lost everything because of them and were thirsty for vengeance. Had sworn to hunt the Emeritus Brothers down and kill one by one. Had no clue the prey would willingly walk towards you. People said revenge was a dish best served cold, but you would say it was a dish best eaten.

"Well, you must agree with me that it would be a waste for the four of us to come for a lonely deer."

"And you volunteered to be the hunter?"

"In fact, yes... I like hunting. Especially preys such as you,” he menacingly circled you. “That think of themselves as wolves, but, in fact, are just deers. Scared and fragile deers. 'S pitiful, but endearing."

You glared at him, your eyes following his steps and mind searching for alternatives to escape from him alive, but nothing came to it. There was only one way out. Your hands slid over the gun, placing themselves on the appropriate spots for a shot.

"No talking anymore?" he nonchalantly asked from behind your horse, clearly more interested in it than in you. It was your chance to shoot your way out of that. You just had to circle your horse and shoot him. Wherever. Just to wound him and gain a few seconds to, then, aim properly at him, preferably at his head, and shoot him again. You could do it. You had just killed two wolves. "This is a fine animal."

He touched the neck of the horse, a black Turkoman horse. Fantastic health, good stamina and fast speed. The animal impatiently neighed, and responded to the touch with a shake of the head. "Ah," he delighfully exclaimed, "A rebel horse. The best ones, right?"

"Under unknown touch," you irritatedly stated, your body turning towards him. Only the left portion of his head and neck were visible behind the horse. You refused to hurt it. The only alternative was indeed to circle it. The emotions inside your body collided and churned. There were too many, and you were growing tired of them. Of the suspense. Of standing in the edge of the precipice, uncertain about who would fall. "Tame it and its yours."

"How about you?"

Your heart missed a beat. No. No, no, no. No. You nearly puked at the words, at the wicked smile. God forgave you for murder. You would commit another one.

"How about you?" he impatiently repeated.

You loudly whistled, and your horse quickly disappeared inside the forest surrouding you, the wolf swaying on his back. The confusion created by the sudden movement allowed you to attack him before he attacked you. Your hands trembled so much that your finger pulled the trigger before you could aim at any portion of his body, and the shot missed him. He angrily growled at you, his fingers swiftly traveling to the trigger of his gun.

Instead of trying to shoot him again, you took advantage of his occupied arms and hit his neck with the body of your gun to gain space. It would be easier to shoot him if the distance between you was larger. He huffed and stumbled backwards. Was bigger and stronger, so you had to move fast before he recovered balance, but he ended up falling on the snow with a thud as you ran to him.

Once you stepped over his body, he shot you. The bullet hit your left arm, and you desperately shouted as your body burnt in pain. It slowed your movement and stealed your strenght on the limb, but you kicked his hands and fell over him. His gun tumbled on the snow and he noticed it would be useless to reach for it, so he fought you with bare hands.

You pressed the body of your gun against his neck. The fibers of your body fought against him, desperately tried to maintain your position over him, but he fiercely writhed. Gasped and cursed you as you watched his eyes widen under the pressure on his neck. Tears blurred your vision, and blood soaked your clothes. It seemed your left arm would combust with all the strength you mustered from it to maintain the gun in place.

Then, it actually combusted. When he sank one of his fingers inside the hole the bullet had carved on your skin. You screamed as you had never done before. You were certain it echoed around Ambarino. He pushed your body from over him and stretched for his gun.

Then, a hand fisted your hair from behind and pulled your head back. You winced at the new pain. "Well, well, well, fratellino... What a treat."

On your knees, you desperately observed your surroundings. An upside down cross dangled from the neck of the man who held you in place. You needn't look at his face to know he wore a skull paint either. You silently cried. It had all been in vain. The first brother had been playing you all along. Had let you start the fight. Had let you exhaust your strength. So that he could laugh at you in the end.

He pointed his gun at you, his lips pursing in a wicked grin. "Indeed, a rebel horse. Tame it and its yours."

Steps thuded around the edge of the clearing. Two more figures joined the ones who were already there. One of them pulled your horse and another one. The other one pulled three more horses.

"Ah! The whole entourage, the Four Horseman of Apocalypse an' shit," Secondo spat. "Well, let me introduce myself and my brothers to you. I'm Secondo. The man behind you, the oldest brother, is Primo. The man by your horse, Terzo. And the man by the other horses, the youngest brother, Copia."

It was impossible to look at all of them when the man introduced as Primo had such fierce grip on your hair. Your horse entered your field of vision, so did the third brother.

"What a beauty," he tutted, his fingers holding your chin. "No need to cry, mia cara," he gently wiped your tears. You hated the touch of his gloved hand on your skin and closed your eyes. "Me and my brothers will take good care of you, si?"

You wanted to puke.

Then, he turned to Secondo. "Will you share her, fratello?"

"If you tame her, fratellino..." Secondo joked. The men laughed in unisson. It disgusted you to your core the way they talked about you as though you were a piece of meat. You would kill them, one by one. "She 'as fire in her eyes, oh, she does. Killed two wolves and that ol' bastard there before I showed up."

"In the bleak midwinter..." you trembly whispered. More tears rolled down your cheeks.

Another hand grabbed your chin, rougher this time. You opened your eyes. Secondo stood right before you. "You come with us. We still need to find your friends. You didn't fill this cauldron or kill this wolf for them to starve, yeah?"

PLEASE, CONSIDER REBLOGGING THIS AND/OR GIVING ME FEEDBACK, I WOULD APPRECIATE IT A LOT!

#well... this was fun!#i hope it isn't too shitty #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus ii x reader #secondo #secondo x reader #the band ghost #thunder writes

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allthingsroleplay · 7 months ago

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CALYPSO

21+, 3/3/3 Jcink Premium + Original Playable Supernatural Species + Modern & 1920s Closed Setting + Monster horror/Survival

Calypso is a liminal horror RPG set aboard a refurbished 1920s cruise liner. On board the RMS Calypso, the line between past and present blurs. Horrors ensue. This project takes inspiration from the likes of 1899, Silent Hill, Lazaret, Titanic, The Shining, SCP Foundation, & others.

PREMISE: There is something very wrong with this cruise ship ― that much becomes clear as soon as the RMS Calypso lifts her anchor and pushes out to sea. But that's good for business ― a selling point. Dark tourism, baby, it’s all the rage these days. The price of your ticket covers more than just a luxury vacation: it’s the promise of fear and intrigue, proximity to history, and the unexplained. Paying customers onboard the new and absolutely-not-cursed Calypso were promised ample cheap (and some not-so-cheap) thrills to compliment their all-inclusive three course meals on the sun deck, and, boy, did the Calypso deliver. Think: Shadows in your peripherals, unexplained flickering of lights, hallways like cannibalistic mazes. Passengers begin reporting losing hours, minutes, days, becoming inexplicably lost and trapped in long and ever expanding corridors all the while reliving their worst nightmares. They happen upon parts of the ship that should not, and do not, exist. They find themselves unmoored, wandering the architecture of lingering echoes, rubbing elbows with individuals from the ship's past life — anchorless souls trapped in time indefinitely. The threadbare fabric separating our epoch and theirs wears thin. A tear in time yawns, letting slip starving pests once confined to a shadowed world outside of our own. The beasts from beyond spill out; teeth bared and empty bellied.

Link to Site / Link to Discord

#jcink site #premium jcink #advertisement #public site #supernatural rpg

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nightfall-by-jacqui-natla · 2 years ago

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17. SAD MEMORIES

AS I DESCENDED THE STAIRS, ONCE AGAIN, my ears were met with an eerie silence that permeated the living room. The stillness was so palpable that I could almost hear the dust particles settling on the furniture. My heart began to race as I scanned the room, searching for any sign of life. But alas, it was empty.

My mind raced with questions. Where has everyone gone? It couldn't be a hunting trip, for Alana and Rhona had returned earlier with a fresh kill, their faces smeared with blood. So where could they be? The mystery hung heavy in the air, taunting me with its enigmatic presence.

With a flicker of my amber eyes, I scanned the spacious living room, searching for any sign of their presence. And yet, there was none. Perhaps they were indulging in a feast of venison, which would certainly explain their conspicuous absence. As I pondered this possibility, a movement caught my attention from the corner of my vision. It was Rhona, sauntering towards me with a cup in hand.

Just the woman I needed to see.

"Hello, Vi," Rhona greeted me with a sly smile. "How's your immortal soul?"

"I'm doing quite well," I replied, my voice dripping with the honeyed tones of the undead. "And yourself?"

"I am as fine as one can be in this eternal existence," she said, handing me a cup. I took it from her, my eyes flickering to the crimson liquid within. "It's from the deer. A rare delicacy these days, as everyone seems to have a taste for their blood. But I managed to save some for you."

"Thanks," I murmured, bringing the cup to my lips.

The blood was sweet and tender, a sensation that sent shivers down my spine. It was a far cry from my days as a human, when I wore black every day and was mocked for my gothic appearance.

"Your eyes are amber," Rhona observed.

I shrugged, taking another sip. "Is that a good thing?"

"Yes it is," she replied. "It means your diet is working. Give it a couple more months, and you'll see the gold."

I continued to drink, savouring the taste of the blood. It was a far cry from my old life, but I couldn't imagine going back. The thought of being a vampire had once been a joke to my classmates, but now it was my reality. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

My gaze fell upon Rhona, and I couldn't help but wonder, "How on earth did you come across this coven? Your accent doesn't exactly scream British."

Rhona's lips curved into a gentle smile as she replied, "California, darling. Los Angeles, to be precise." Her voice was soft, yet carried a hint of sorrow. "I had to leave my home behind after I was turned into a vampire. I couldn't bear the thought of reliving that nightmare all over again."

"What happened to you?" I inquired of her.

"I was born in 1899," Rhona commenced her tale, "My mother, Sylvia, was a woman of colour who worked as a maid, while my father, John Frederick, was a white man of means. But, their union was not sanctified by the bonds of matrimony, and as you can well imagine, the life of a mixed-race child in those days was fraught with difficulties."

As she spoke, I could feel the weight of her words, and I pitied for the struggles she must have faced.

"I had a great relationship with her mother, " she continued," But my relationship with my father was estranged. I was just an innocent girl who came from a broken family. Suddenly, it changed when my father started verbally and physically abusing me and my mother; I was young. I couldn't tell anyone at the time, because it was common. The other person I felt safe with, other than my mum, was my older half-brother, Daniel. That was until I was abused by him for four years. Physically and sexually."

Rhona's golden eyes glistened as she stared at the ground, her heart heavy with the weight of her painful memories. "He said to me as he was doing this," she spoke, her voice laced with bitterness. "Since there is half-white blood in your black body, you're not my sister."

My breath caught in my throat as I absorbed the cruel words that had been hurled at her. "That's absolutely horrible," I replied, my heart aching for my dear friend. "Not to mention, completely messed up."

Rhona nodded in agreement, her eyes still fixed on the ground. "At twenty-five, things take a turn for the worst," she continued, her voice heavy with sadness. "My ex-boyfriend, David Harker, asked me to talk to him at his family party. He admitted to me that he wanted to break up and see other people."

I felt sorry for her as I listened to her story, my mind racing with questions. "Why? Did he cheat on you?" I asked, hoping for some explanation.

Rhona shook her head, a bitter smile playing at the corners of her lips. "I wished he did," she answered, her voice laced with pain. "He admitted that his parents don't approve of their son dating a 'half-cast' and he was never in love with me."

I pitied even more for her as I watched my friend struggle with the pain of rejection and discrimination. I remembered our conversation with Joseph, and the way he had spoken about the importance of love and acceptance. In that moment, I knew that Rhona deserved nothing less than the love and respect that she so rightfully deserved.

"After that, I returned home, went into the bathroom, and with my mind went to a dark place," Rhona breathed in. "And after keeping everything bottled up for too long, I finally snapped. I went to the kitchen and took a knife. I returned to the bathroom and... I stabbed myself in my chest."

She tried to kill herself. The pain she must have felt, the desperation that led her to this final act of self-destruction, it all felt too familiar. I knew the depths of despair that could drive one to such a drastic measure, and I sympathised.

As I struggled to find the right words to comfort her, a sudden question popped into my head. "Who turned you into a vampire?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

Rhona's response was unexpected. "His name is Carlisle Cullen," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The name sent a shiver down my spine, and I couldn't help but recall my own encounter with Carlisle. The memory of his words to me, spoken in the confines of his car when I was still a newborn, flooded back to me. It was a strange coincidence, and one that left me feeling uneasy.

I glimpsed up at Rhona. "Carlisle helped you?"

"It was a minute later after I stabbed myself," she retorted her statement. "He found me by smelling my blood. He immediately turned me to save my life. I didn't understand why he would save me. A mixed-race woman. I did thank him and it was there I got the ability to alter and see the memories of others.

"So, I used it on my father's family by wiping memories of me one by one, leaving my father last. I also used it on David and sadly my mother."

Rhona's eyes glistened with a hint of sorrow as she took a momentary pause. She seemed to aching with a pain that only she could feel, perhaps reminiscing about her mother. I could sense the depth of her emotional turmoil, even though her memories were nothing but a figment of her imagination. Oh, how I longed for a connection like that with my own mother. When she was alive.

"I asked Carlisle if I could be away from there," said Rhona. "If I stayed there forever, I would be torn when seeing her mother and those memories. So, Carlisle placed me in London."

As Rhona recounted her story, I couldn't help but smile. It was fascinating to hear how she had met Joseph and the coven. "That's how you met Joseph and the coven?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.

Rhona nodded, "I didn't know them until 1952. I lived in the city, where I relied on human blood. Just horrible men to feed on. I decided to take a break from hunting and came across a diner."

She paused for a moment, lost in thought, before continuing, "I entered the diner, and their eyes watched me with disgust. I walked to the back of the diner, planning to be alone. I sat by an empty table until Joseph came up to me."

I couldn't help but be curious, "Was it love at first sight?"

Rhona chuckled, "I wasn't quite sure. There was something about him. He wasn't like my father, Daniel, or even David. He was charming to me. Polite. Then, someone commented to me. I don't recall what it was, but it made Joseph angry."

As Rhona spoke, I couldn't help but be captivated by her story.

"Then, he excused himself and punched the man who spoke," she continued. "Everyone witnessed it so I wiped their memories. The reason why Joseph was there was because of my gift. He told me that he sensed my gift in the diner and found me. That's how we became mates."

I had never witnessed Joseph's wrath, not even once. But the mere thought of it sent shivers down my spine. He was like a dormant volcano, calm and serene on the surface, but with the potential to erupt at any moment. One minute he could be strolling along, enjoying nature, and the next, he could be consumed by a fiery rage that would make even the bravest of men tremble.

"He just snapped," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "One minute he was fine, and the next, he was punching the guy who spoke. It was like he couldn't control himself."

"Then, he excused himself and punched the man who spoke," she continued. "Everyone witnessed it so I wiped their memories. The reason why Joseph was there was because of my gift. He sensed my gift," she said, a hint of pride in her voice. "And he found me. That's how we became mates."

As the memories flooded back, I couldn't help but recall the poignant exchange between Rhona and Joseph. It dawned on me that she was not to blame for the unfortunate circumstances that had befallen her. Her life had been plagued by malevolent individuals, saved for her mother, who had been a beacon of light in an otherwise dark existence. Yet, despite the adversity, Rhona had persevered with admirable fortitude.

I found solace in the fact that Joseph was a constant presence in her life, a source of comfort and support. The coven had become her sanctuary, a place where she could find respite from the harsh realities of the world. I was grateful to be counted among her friends within the coven, for it was a privilege to witness her strength and resilience firsthand.

As I ponder upon the future, I cannot help but wonder if the warm embrace of acceptance will still be extended towards Bella once she transcends into the immortal realm of vampirism. Will the same open arms that once welcomed her with love and compassion remain as inviting, or will they retract in fear and uncertainty? Only time will tell the fate of Bella's acceptance amongst her human counterparts, as she embarks on a journey of eternal life and unyielding thirst.

A week had passed and I had left the mansion, and now I found myself wandering through the woods. The sky was shrouded in a blanket of pure darkness, the perfect backdrop for a vampire's nocturnal stroll. Not a single light could be seen, and the silence was deafening. I never thought that walking through the woods could feel so peaceful, especially as a creature of the night. They say that the best time for a vampire to venture outside is at nightfall, and I could see why. The woods were devoid of any living creatures, no humans, no animals, just me and my thoughts.

But my thoughts were not peaceful. They were filled with memories of my old family, Gavin, Dina, and Ayla. I missed Ayla the most, and my dead heart ached at the thought of her. Why did I leave her? It was a stupid decision, and I regretted it every day. I wished she was with me, but I knew that life as a vampire would be too much for her to bear. Suddenly, I heard Gavin's and Dina's voices in my head, and my amber eyes twitched with irritation.

The words that were thrown at me like daggers were meant to hurt, to break me down. But I refused to let them. I refused to believe that I was unlovable, a burden, a disappointment. I refused to be compared to others, to be told to act a certain way, to be made to feel like I was always doing something wrong.

It was a constant battle, trying to prove myself to them, trying to fit into their mould of what a daughter should be. But no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough. I was always the black sheep, the one who couldn't quite measure up.

But then there was Ayla. She was the light in the darkness, the one who saw me for who I truly was. She didn't judge me or try to change me. She accepted me, flaws and all.

And when I ran away that night, it was her face that I couldn't forget. The way she looked at me with concern and love, the way she hugged me tightly and whispered that everything would be okay.

I didn't know where I was going or what I was going to do, but I knew that I couldn't stay in that toxic environment any longer. I needed to find my own path, to discover who I was without the constant criticism and negativity. And as I walked away, I couldn't help but wonder if they would ever realise what they had lost. Would they ever see that their words had pushed me away, that their actions had caused me to flee?

Nightfall had descended upon Forks, and the town was either tucked in their beds or out gallivanting. But I was neither sleep nor frolicking. My home had become my personal purgatory. As I gazed upon Gavin's slumbering form, I noticed the absence of his partner, Dina. The room reeked of sweat and an unfamiliar scent, leading me to believe that Dina was out philandering. I couldn't blame her, and I wouldn't be surprised if it were true.

I grabbed my backpack from the coat rack and made my way towards the door. Suddenly, a gentle voice called out to me.

"Violet?" The voice inquired, causing me to turn around and face her.

Ayla stood before me, clad in her lavender pyjamas, her sorrowful baby blue eyes fixed on me. Her hair was a tousled shade of blonde, cascading down her neck, and her skin was porcelain smooth. She was around fifteen years old at the time.

"What are you doing up so late?" Ayla asked, her voice laced with melancholy.

"I have to go," I replied, my heart aching.

"Why? Did I do something wrong?" Her voice quivered with emotion.

My head shook in a frenzy as I approached her, my heart heavy with the weight of my emotions. I reached out and placed my trembling hands on her shoulders, locking eyes with her in a desperate attempt to convey the depth of my pain. "No," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the sound of my own tears. "It's not you. It's never been you. It's just that..." I trailed off, my words choked by the overwhelming sense of despair that had taken hold of me.

Ayla's gaze was steady, her expression one of concern and compassion. "What is it?" she asked softly, her voice a soothing balm to my shattered soul.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the confession that was about to spill forth. "Gavin and Dina," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "They hate me. They always have. I'll never be good enough for them. I can't be pretty enough, or hard-working enough. They think I'm worthless."

As the words left my lips, I could see the pain in Ayla's eyes, and it only served to deepen my own sense of despair. But then, without warning, she wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me close in a fierce embrace. And in that moment, I knew that I wasn't alone. That no matter how dark the world may seem, there would always be someone there to hold me up and help me find my way back to the light.

"I understand where you're coming from," Ayla spoke softly. "My mom told me that before I was even born, she had been with so many men that she couldn't feel love for most of my life. But that all changed when she met your dad. Love has a way of changing a person, for better or for worse."

I couldn't help but let out a sniffle. "I suppose you're right," I replied, pulling her in for a tight embrace. I didn't want to let go. "I just need to figure things out for myself. Find a place to call my own. And once I do, I'll come find you, okay?"

Ayla nodded in agreement, and we parted ways, our eyes locking for one last moment. "Good luck with everything," she wished me.

"Bye, Ayla," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"See you soon, Violet," she replied, her voice just as soft.

I stepped out of the door and I walked away. My feet carried me faster and faster, until I was running at full speed...

My memories of Ayla were like a wildfire, burning bright and fierce within me. I couldn't shake the image of her from my mind, her face etched into my memory like a tattoo. I longed to find a better home for us, a place where we could be together without fear or danger. But as a vampire, that dream was impossible.

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the pain of my past mistakes. I wished I could see her one last time, to hold her close and tell her how much I loved her. But that was a fantasy, a dream that could never come true.

I sat down on a tree trunk, my heart heavy with regret. My amber eyes flickered with emotion as I thought about leaving Ayla behind. Why did I have to abandon her, leaving her in the hands of Gavin and Dina? I knew what life was like there, and it wasn't a place for a child.

I should have taken her with me, but I couldn't risk it. It would have been kidnapping, and I knew that Gavin and Dina would have called the police. They would have seen it as a victory, a way to get rid of me once and for all.

The memory of Bree burned within me like a hot coal. She was just like Ayla, innocent and naive, and yet she was used as a weapon. The Volturi didn't give her second chance, and Bree's life was cut short because of it.

The rage within me boiled over, and I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. But I knew that wouldn't change anything. All I could do was keep moving forward, hoping that one day I would find a way to be with Ayla again.

As I lay on the soft bed of leaves, the rustling of the trees and the chirping of the crickets filled the air. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps broke the peacefulness of the night.

Shadow Man.

He was near me.

I sprang up, my amber eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of danger. But then, I saw her. Rhona. Her mere presence was enough to calm my racing heart and soothe my frayed nerves.

With a concerned look etched on her beautiful tan face, she walked over to me and sat down beside me. "I was just looking for you," she said softly. "We told you walking out at nightfall is perfect."

I couldn't help but smile at her words. "Yeah, it sure is," I replied, feeling a sense of comfort wash over me.

As she looked at me with those piercing eyes, I knew what was coming next. "So, what are you thinking about?" she asked, her voice gentle yet probing.

I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to reveal the turmoil that was churning inside me. But Rhona was always able to see through my facade. "Nothing much," I lied, hoping to brush off her question.

But she wasn't fooled. Rolling her gold eyes, she said, "Come on, Violet. Really? Even I know that's a lie."

I sighed, knowing that I couldn't keep my thoughts hidden from her. Rhona's hand landed on my shoulder with a weighty thud, and I turned to face her. But something was different about her. Her eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, yet they were blank, as if she was looking through me. Her smile, once warm and inviting, had faded from her face. I remembered then that Rhona had the ability to see other people's memories. She was seeing mine.

I watched helplessly as my memories played out before her. "Please, stop it," I begged silently, hoping she could hear me.

As if in response to my plea, Rhona's hand lifted from my shoulder, and I continued to stare at her, my heart heavy with sadness.

"Was she your sister?" Rhona asked, her voice thick with tears. "Ayla?"

"Half sister," I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

Without hesitation, Rhona pulled me into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her words barely audible. "You must have missed her so much."

"I do," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I can empathise with your situation. My mother was the one I had to leave behind. It was a difficult decision, but bidding farewell wasn't the most challenging aspect of it all. It's the realisation that you're leaving them behind, and you'll never return." She loosened her embrace, allowing me to step back. "We should head back inside," she suggested. "Gabriel has something planned for tonight."

"What is it?" I inquired.

"Games night."

"What kind of games?"

Rhona grinned mischievously. "Oh, just wait and see."

And with that, we made our way back inside, leaving behind the weight of our shared memories and embracing the promise of a fun-filled evening ahead.

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calypsorp · 7 months ago

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CALYPSO

21+, 3/3/3 Jcink Premium, Brand New Soft Open + Playable Supernatural Species!

There is something very wrong with this cruise ship ― that much becomes clear as soon as the RMS Calypso lifts her anchor and pushes out to sea. But that's good for business ― a selling point. Dark tourism, baby, it’s all the rage these days. The price of your ticket covers more than just a luxury vacation: it’s the promise of fear and intrigue, proximity to history, and the unexplained. Paying customers onboard the new and absolutely-not-cursed Calypso were promised ample cheap (and some not-so-cheap) thrills to compliment their all-inclusive three course meals on the sun deck, and, boy, did the Calypso deliver. Think: Shadows in your peripherals, unexplained flickering of lights, hallways like cannibalistic mazes. Passengers begin reporting losing hours, minutes, days, becoming inexplicably lost and trapped in long and ever expanding corridors all the while reliving their worst nightmares. They happen upon parts of the ship that should not, and do not, exist. They find themselves unmoored, wandering the architecture of lingering echoes, rubbing elbows with individuals from the ship's past life — anchorless souls trapped in time indefinitely. The threadbare fabric separating our epoch and theirs wears thin. A tear in time yawns, letting slip starving pests once confined to a shadowed world outside of our own. The beasts from beyond spill out; teeth bared and empty bellied.

Link to Site / Link to Discord

#jcink #jcink ad #jcink premium #jcink supernatural #supernatural rp #horror rp #oc rp #jcink rp

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the-chomsky-hash · 11 months ago

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[Intro:] A coincidence of dates is worth underscoring:

1899, Husserl's Logical Investigations

1900, Freud's Interpretation of Dreams

Twofold attempt by man to

recapture his meanings

recapture himself in his significance

A. With the Interpretation of Dreams, the dream makes its entry into the field of human meanings.

1. [Contrast:]

a. [Previously,] In the dream experience the meaning of behavior seems to blur:

as waking consciousness darkens and flickers out, the dream seems to loosen, and finally to untie, the knot of meanings

dream had been taken as if it were the nonsense of consciousness

b. [Now,] we know how Freud turned this proposition around, making the dream the meaning of the unconscious

– Michel Foucault, Dream, Imagination and Existence: An Introduction to Ludwig Binswanger's Le rêve et l'existence (part II: Man in his significance), 1954, translated by Forrest Williams

#foucault #philosophy

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macabre00danse · 2 years ago

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Name: Luca Acheron

Aliases: Fixer, Roose Payne, Dragon of the Axe, Dracula Jr, the Rat King

Clan: Nosferatu

Sect: Ordo Dracul

Born: 1870

Embraced: 1899

Aspirations: Uncover supernatural secrets. Transcend vampiric condition. Enforce secrecy and safety for the Ordo. Keep up with the modern world. Master technology. Develop healthy social habits. Protect and study the innocent

Fears: true origins of Clan Nosferatu. The God Machine. Demons and the Inferno. Intellectual stagnation.

Beast: Fixer's beast is a thing of morbid fascination, grotesque humor, and perversion. The curse twisted his body with minor mutations: demonic irises, pasty skin, and visible black coagulated blood just beneath the skin in his extremities. Fixer's beast reaches out beyond his body and manipulates the environment: lights flicker, ambient noises seem to mute, and shadows move on their own. Delight from fear, spite, or arousal echo within Fixer like a song stuck in his head. Frenzy feels like fighting fire with gasoline for Fixer. It is an inversion and amplification of the unnatural terror he exudes, a fear so powerful he can only react and scream. Rousing the blood feels like a million creeping, crawling things sensually writhing through his corpse.

Thoughts on the Coterie:

Cipher: She'd be a better hacker than me if she weren't such a spazz. Cipher is cool, but she has dumb hobbies.

Keeper: Never thought I'd meet an interesting Ventrue.

Hunter: he's my oldest friend and the only one I can rely on. His simplicity is refreshing.

Striker: She's lovely and deadly. I can't tell if God put her in my path as a karmic joke or as a blessing.

#macabre00danse #vampire the requiem

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heliads · 3 years ago

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Alright, please hear me out. Peter Pan took a girl from her lonely, awful home in 1899. A year later he (unknowingly) takes her twin brother to Neverland. They hang out a lot and catch up and Peter get jealous.

please hear ME out, i love a good chance to write for peter pan

masterlist

It is 1899, the cusp of a new century, and you have never felt so alone. Your family is somewhere inside the house, talking in excited voices that manage to pierce the gloom long enough to drift up to you every once in a while. You aren’t inside, because you haven’t felt like a real part of their closely knit gathering in months, maybe even years.

New Year’s is approaching, and even though it isn’t your birthday and you have no candles to blow out, you silently close your eyes and make a wish. Let this year be better, please. Let me feel wanted for once in my life.

No one answers, of course, and when you open your eyes again, you’re still out here, still alone. You’ve left the festivities inside and climbed up to the roof. Your legs dangle over the edge, although you pull one up to your chest so you can lean your chin against your knee and think. The wind out here is brisk, but it’s been a warm December, and you can still stand to be out here without a coat.

Soon enough, the cold will be too much to bear, and you’ll have to slip inside again. That would be a second kind of death, wouldn’t it? No ice could freeze your lungs when you’re inside your parents’ home, but you would feel enough nothingness that you’d almost wish that you stayed outside. At least hypothermia would mean that you’d get to leave it all behind.

A voice flickers by your ear, carried over by the wind. “I’m not sure that’s the proper way to think on New Year’s Eve.”

You scoff, half sure you’re just talking to yourself. “Why not? I can think what I please, and if you’re reading my mind, you should leave without comment.”

You fully expect the same dismal, cold silence to follow your spoken words, yet for some reason, the voice laughs. You know many kinds of laughs, those faked around families of higher social standing, or the kind of laugh that’s high and thin as a reed and promises that you’re in for a world of trouble.

Therefore, you know for a fact that the laugh from behind you was real, not just a figment of your imagination. You didn’t hear anyone climb up onto the roof after you, but someone is here nonetheless.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, and see a boy about your age leaning against one of the stone chimneys on your family’s house. Either he doesn’t care for smoke and ash or he’s smarter than you and wants the heat, but he’s still here.

“Who are you?” You ask. It seems the most fitting question to pose at a time like this.

The boy shrugs, straightening up so he can walk over to you. “I think I should be asking who you are, actually. I only stumble upon the Lost, after all. Why are you one of them?”

You bite back a laugh of your own, gesturing towards the house below you. “I don’t belong here, I think that’s obvious. What do you do with people who get Lost?”

The boy takes a seat next to you, idly slinging his legs over the chasm before you. “I take them with me. If they’re good enough to come to my island, that is.”

He shoots you a glance, but you just roll your eyes. “That’s fairly theatrical, but okay. If you, in all your judgmental glory, decide to take these people with you, what happens to them next?”

The boy spreads his hands as if the answer is obvious. “They live on my island, of course, and as long as they can keep up, they never want for anything else ever again. Why do you want to know?”

You shrug. “I’m deciding whether or not I’ll accept your offer.”

The boy’s face splits in a grin, one that appears as quickly as if he had been slashed with a blade. “I like your spirit.”

You allow yourself a brief spark of hope. “Does that mean you’ve made a decision, then?”

The boy nods, standing again and holding out his hand. “It does. I’m Peter, Peter Pan.”

You stare at his outstretched hand, then take it. He pulls you up with more strength than you’d expect from such a wiry frame. “I’m Y/N.”

He grins again. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N. I have a feeling that we’re going to get along just fine.”

You return Peter’s sharp, brilliant smile. You’ve never been the best at guessing what the future will hold, but for once, you think he’s dead right.

Peter Pan is standing at the outskirts of a forested clearing, feeling quite proud of himself. He likes being right, just like anyone else, and there’s no greater challenge than having to find the proper Lost Boys for his island. He took a risk on Y/N, but he’s glad to see that it’s paying off.

She’s been here for about a year now, according to time back on the mainland, although to Peter it passes like the blink of an eye. It’s long past time for him to start finding new boys to bring to Neverland, but for some reason he’s been so infatuated with showing Y/N around his island that he hasn’t really been thinking about anyone else.

She just impresses him, that’s all. Most of the other Lost Boys only half attempt to hide their fear of him, mostly responding through sharp, instant remarks whenever he asks them a question or even passes by them. He’s grown used to their following, Peter supposes. In the past, he never would have thought of that as a bad thing.

Then he met Y/N, who is quite possibly the most charming girl to ever hold a knife against his throat, who matches the energy and spirit of the Lost Boys with ease. She has the whole island confused with the fact that she keeps calling him Peter, not Pan, and that he keeps letting her. Peter should have corrected her on that a long time ago, yet he doesn’t. Perhaps he has some shred of sentimentality left in his cracked and dusty bones after all.

He is trying to move on, though. His shadow identified a new potential Lost Boy, who’s probably flying over the seas now. This newcomer will touch down on the beaches of Neverland soon enough. The rest of them can engage in Cat and Mouse or long, spirited chases through the woods and everything else a group of bloodthirsty, ageless kids are wont to do when they find themselves in the presence of a stranger.

In fact, as Peter registers an odd sensation that vaguely feels like someone yanking a hook through some part of his skin as if to drag him backwards, he realizes that someone new is on the island, someone attempting to fight the shadow so they can leave. Everyone tries to fight it at first, but they always grow to love Neverland before they can finalize their escape attempts.

Somewhere in the back of his subconscious, a voice whispers: Y/N didn’t. Y/N wanted to stay ever since the beginning.

Peter brushes the thought aside. He’s not supposed to be thinking about her. For once, though, his mind refuses to cooperate with his demands.

Peter steps forward, and automatically, all eyes turn to him. “Boys, we have someone new coming to camp. If I were you, I would make sure to give them a warm welcome.”

The Lost Boys erupt in a wave of malicious chatter that promises the new kid will likely be greeted by friendly death threats and general tomfoolery. Peter loves it.

A boy bursts forth from the opposite side of the clearing, panting heavily. He’s been running like mad through the woods ever since he managed to shake Peter’s shadow, so his racing heart isn’t all that surprising.

The new boy stops short when he sees that he’s no longer alone. His mouth starts to form the words to ask who everyone is, but he’s slowed by his own ragged breathing and, strangely enough, Y/N, who turns to the boy as if she’s seen a ghost.

“Walter?”

Her voice is hesitant, like by saying the name aloud she’ll dispel whatever myth has allowed this boy to be here in front of her, but the newcomer reacts anyway. He scans the crowd until he finds her, then surges forward again.

“Y/N? Y/N, is that you?”

Peter watches with raised brows as the new boy pushes through the crowd of Lost Boys to reach Y/N. They stand for a moment, just staring at each other like some scene out of a play, then he hugs her.

Peter doesn’t realize he’s storming towards them until everyone is practically leaping out of his path. He comes to a stop before the two of them.

“Y/N, do you know who this is?”

The question is, admittedly, redundant, but seeing as Peter would much rather claw this guy’s eyes out than partake in conversation, he feels that everyone can accept this.

Y/N steps away, smiling far more happily than Peter can ever remember seeing before. “Yeah, I do. This is Walter, my twin brother. I thought I’d never see him again.”

Now that he knows about it, Peter wonders how he didn’t realize before. The two siblings stand similarly, with those same proud shoulders, and their eyes are identical, as if they shine and narrow in the exact same way.

“Ah.”

The word is cold, but Walter doesn’t appear bothered by this. “Thank you for bringing me here. I mean, when Y/N disappeared last year, I thought I’d never see her again. I’m glad to see that she looks much better. Thanks again, I mean it.”

Peter’s mouth sours. “Any time.”

He hadn’t actually known that he was having his shadow ferry Y/N’s twin brother over to the island, but he’s not about to say this when she’s grinning at him like he’s saved her from the brink of death, again.

Instead, he just nods, and pretends it doesn’t affect him. It doesn't, of course, even when Y/N dedicates her days to catching up with her brother, when she stops hanging out with Peter to teach Walter to use a bow and arrow instead.

Peter should be pleased about the whole thing, or at least apathetic. However, he feels his temper growing, his patience shrinking. He hadn’t realized how much time he spent just drinking in Y/N’s presence beside him until she traded him in for someone else. Now, he’s left choking in the dust.

He’s watching the Lost Boys undergo sword training at the moment. Inevitably, his eyes stray towards Y/N and Walter, who are exchanging parries with bright laughs as they fight. He hates to admit it, but Walter had rapidly progressed ever since first arriving at the island. He would be one of Peter’s best Lost Boys, were it not for the unnameable feeling in Peter’s chest that roars to life whenever Y/N leaves him for Walter yet again.

A small cluster of twigs crunches in the ground next to Peter, and he turns to see Felix walking up beside him. Felix is silent at first, as per usual, although Peter can tell that he’s harboring some sort of secret.

Peter is proven right soon enough. Felix coughs pointedly, looking over at the training Lost Boys.

“So, what do you think about the latest arrival?”

Peter makes sure to keep his voice level. “He seems to be doing well with the others. He doesn’t fall behind.”

Felix nods. “You still don’t like him, though.”

Peter casts his second in command a wary look, but Felix’s face is as impenetrable as always. Perhaps Peter should ask him for pointers.

“No,” Peter manages to admit, “I don’t. Not quite sure why.”

Felix breaks from his solid expression long enough to glance knowingly at Peter. “It has to do with Y/N, doesn’t it?”

Peter folds his arms across his chest. “I’d caution you not to bring up topics that you know nothing about.”

Felix doesn’t seem cowed by this, perhaps because he knows there’s nothing Peter can really do to him after all the time they’ve spent on this island.

“I’m going to take a guess and say that you don’t like Walter because he’s drawing Y/N away from you. I could be wrong, of course—” Felix raises his voice to speak over Peter’s attempts at interrupting, “—but even if I was, it wouldn’t be unreasonable. Y/N was your favorite for a long time. Anyone would expect you to be displeased if you were no longer hers.”

The words cut deep. “I’m not jealous,” Peter defends, but he knows as well as Felix that it’s a lie.

Felix just shrugs. “If you aren’t, I suggest you discover some other reason to hate Walter. Y/N is going to find out soon enough.”

The blond boy chooses this moment to slip back away into the woods, leaving Peter alone with his thoughts. As he looks back at Y/N, and notices that she’s now regarding him with a mixture of confusion and downright suspicion, he realizes that Felix may be right, and he’s going to need to act before it’s too late.

Fate comes for him soon enough; scarcely a week has passed since that conversation when Peter finds himself walking with Y/N through the forest. They used to do this all the time, a ritual that slowed to a stop once Walter arrived. Peter can’t imagine that this sudden meeting signifies anything good.

Y/N is the first to speak. “What’s your problem with me?”

Why is it that everyone close to Peter is so brutally direct? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “Yes, you do. You’ve been practically avoiding me.”

“That problem,” Peter amends, “is different than you think. I’m not avoiding you.”

Y/N seems unimpressed by this answer. “Then you’re avoiding Walter, which brings us back to the same issue. What did he do?”

Peter tries to stay silent, but he’s never been able to manage it around her. “Nothing. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Nothing at all. I did everything for you, yet the second some brother shows up, you toss me aside like a rag. I thought you hated your family.”

Y/N’s lips purse. “He was the exception.”

Of course he was. “All I’m saying is that Neverland is supposed to be a place where you leave your entire prior life behind. If Walter is distracting you from that, then maybe—”

Peter regrets voicing the thought aloud, but Y/N catches on to what he’s saying before he can take it back. “Maybe you’ll take him away again? Is that it? You’ll leave me alone, just like how I started.”

Peter jerks backward. He wants to say that she was never alone, she had him, but too many sharp words have been said for such a soft thought to survive.

Instead, he pulls up that same persona of Peter Pan that the rest of the Lost Boys fear. He never wanted her to fear him, but if it gets her to stop reading so closely into him, perhaps it will work this once.

“Maybe.” He says, and it sounds so final that he almost does not recognize himself.

Y/N takes a hesitant step backwards, and some part of Peter knows he can’t do this any longer.

“If it keeps you here, maybe. If it means you don’t follow him off of Neverland, maybe.”

Y/N’s expression morphs from shocked to confused. “Wait, why would I leave Neverland?”

Peter spreads his hands. “Because he’s your family. When people have family, they aren’t lost anymore, and they leave. That’s how it always works.”

Y/N laughs, surprising both of them. “I’m not going to leave, you idiot. That was never an option.”

Peter blinks at her in surprise. “Really?”

Her smile is back in full force. “Yeah, really. Were you doing all this because you thought I would leave? You’re kinder than I thought.”

Peter scoffs, although it sounds fake even to his own ears. “I’m not kind.”

Y/N just grins. “I’m sure you’re not. If you were, though, I wouldn’t mind.”

She leans over and kisses him on the cheek, then heads further into the words, leaving him standing there speechless.

Peter’s in trouble, isn’t he? Good trouble, though. He doesn’t mind at all.

ouat tag list: @lovesanimals0000, @amortensie

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defectivevillain · 2 years ago

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forgettance

pairing: daniel solace x reader

reader’s pronouns: unspecified, but masc-intended

cw: 1899 spoilers

word count: 1.4k. [ao3 version here]

Things are falling apart. You can’t help but run over this thought as you stride through the halls, ignoring the calls and shouts of various passengers. There’s far too much running through your mind. Nothing is making any sense. The Prometheus is just the tip of the iceberg. Even worse, you still can’t remember how you boarded the Kerberos. The only image that comes to mind is the yellowed edges of that letter you received all that time ago. How long ago was it? You don’t even know anymore. You walk along the ship’s deck and stop at the edge of the railing.

The wind rustles your clothes and sends a shiver down your skin. You cross your arms over your chest and look out to the water. How did things come to this? The Prometheus looms in the distance, an eyesore and reminder to all. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath.

“This is your time to say something.” You turn around, conflicting feelings rising within you as you see Daniel walking towards you. He’s wearing his black collared coat and dark pants, and his eyes flit about in disinterest before focusing on you once more. You feel the sudden need to look away, so you do so. Letting your arms rest on the railing, you wait for him to continue.

“The captain will listen to you,” Daniel remarks, sidling up next to you. You’re suddenly brutally aware of your proximity. His gaze is focused on you intently, as if you’re the only thing in his field of vision. You try not to analyze that look on his face too much. “He’s… out of control. You’re the only one who can stop him.” You frown.

“Why should he be stopped?” You can’t help but remark. You know it’s the wrong thing to say- as you see Daniel’s expression visibly darken- but you’ve never been one to sugarcoat things. “Eyk’s not out of control—he’s mourning. He lost someone.”

Rage flickers in Daniel’s brown eyes for the briefest of moments—so quickly that you almost wonder if you’re imagining it. He mimics your posture and lets his forearms rest on the railing. Your elbows are almost touching, you notice detachedly. It seems defending Eyk was not the right move. You can’t quite regret it, though. After all, it’s what you believe—Eyk is grieving. He’s not crazy. At your side, Daniel takes several minutes to respond. The waves lap around the ship. The water looks particularly dark and ominous today. “I lost someone too.” The statement is nearly lost to the wind and it takes you a few seconds to truly process it.

You don’t voice the question you want to ask, but it must show on your face. Daniel looks askance. Contemplation flashes in his eyes. Decisiveness comes a moment later and he grabs something out of his pocket. He takes your hand and presses something into it. You look down at what you’re holding and time seems to freeze. Another shiver runs down your spine, but it’s not from the wind.

It’s a picture of you. You’re smiling— a true, real smile. You can’t remember the last time you smiled like that. The photograph is cracked and weathered. It almost feels as if it will disintegrate with a careless touch. Your eyebrows furrow as you try to form a connection with the person—you—in the picture. Unsurprisingly, you don’t remember ever having it taken. Your hands tremble ever so slightly and your thoughts begin to spiral. Daniel’s hand clasps yours for a moment before he takes the photograph back, placing it in his pocket with delicate care. You can’t find the words to even begin to describe your feelings, but the man seems to recognize your confusion.

“We were married,” Daniel murmurs, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looks out to the sea. You take the opportunity to dissect his facial features a bit more. He has a sharp nose and jawline, but softness is written in the lines of his smile and the warmth of his eyes. It’s hard to breathe, all of a sudden. You avert your eyes, but your gaze catches on his left hand. A golden ring shimmers when the sunlight hits it. You bite your lip.

“I don’t remember that,” you admit. Surely, you would remember being married. Surely, you’d remember having lived an entire life with someone. You take a deep breath again, needing to manifest some composure. You feel remarkably discombobulated now. Suddenly, the clouds above seem far stormier and murky. Your breaths feel more labored and sharp. Your hands are trembling, you note with disinterest.

“You never remember,” Daniel says cryptically, shaking his head. You freeze at that. A thought comes to your mind, but it’s macabre. You don’t want your ideas to become true. Are you stuck in a time loop? You don’t want to know. Your skin prickles with anxiety and discomfort.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You eventually manage to say. Your grip tightens around the ship’s railing and your knuckles whiten. A particularly tall wave crashes against the wall of the ship and your hands are misted with its water. You look at Daniel, tired of waiting for him to answer.

“Never mind,” he responds upon noticing your intent gaze. You desperately want to ask, but there is no waverance in his posture. There’s a tight set to his shoulders and an even tighter pull to his lips. You’re certain he won’t explain, regardless of how you ask. You close your eyes for a few selfish moments, desperate for some solitude. You feel remarkably disconnected from reality now, and you need a moment to run through everything Daniel’s just said.

Instinctually, you can’t bring yourself to fully believe him. Even so, the devastated look on his face makes pity rise in your chest. Before you can contemplate the risks, you’re putting your hand over his. Thankfully, he doesn’t immediately snatch his hand away. However, the torn expression on Daniel’s face almost makes you regret doing it in the first place. Just as you’re about to pull away, he clasps your hand in return. His thumb drags across your skin and the gesture lights a fire in your chest.

“I tried so hard to stay away from you this time,” Daniel murmurs, his gaze locked on your intertwined hands with fervency. His gaze is somewhat frantic, as if he’s drinking in the sight of you. His ring glimmers in the light and, against your intuition, you run a finger over it. Unfortunately, it doesn’t bring any more memories. “I can't, though. Every time I see you, I just-”

“It’s okay,” you say. You’re not sure who you’re trying to convince anymore.

“No, it’s not,” he replies quickly. Daniel shakes his head, his hand slipping from your grip. He turns to face you, his eyes never leaving your face. The intensity of his gaze hasn’t become any less overwhelming.

There’s a tortured expression on his face and it nearly hurts you to witness. You avert your eyes for a moment, a burning feeling rising in your throat. You don’t get the luxury of looking away for long, because Daniel soon brings his hands up to caress your cheeks. Suddenly, you feel the visceral need to comfort him. Before you can, however, a devastating confession slips from his lips.

“I miss you.” Your breath catches in your chest. You bring your hand up to hold his own briefly. Honestly, you don’t know what to do. You’re brutally aware that there’s likely nothing you can say that will change the situation. Nothing will bring your memories back. Even so…

“I’m right here,” you find yourself whispering, despite knowing that the reassurance won’t quite dissuade his concerns. Sure enough, Daniel nods silently. Your empty promises won’t fix the dark shadows under his eyes or the devastation written all over the lines of his body. You take a deep breath.

“I know,” he replies sadly. His hands slip to bracket your jaw and his gaze flits about your face. There’s a sense of disbelief ingrained in his stare. For a fraction of a moment, his thumb slips across your bottom lip and you can hardly breathe. “I don't want to lose you again.”

“You won’t.” You promise. You’re not quite sure if it’s your place to say that, but Daniel’s lips quirk into a smile. It must’ve been the right thing to say, you think to yourself. His hands fall down to your waist and he tugs you closer to him. You decide to meet him halfway. As Daniel kisses you, his grip tightens and his fingers dig into your hips, as if afraid of losing you. You break away from him for a moment and rest your forehead against his. “You won’t lose me this time. I promise.”

#defectivevillain #1899 #1899 x reader #1899 x male reader #male reader #x male reader #male y/n #Daniel solace x reader #Daniel solace x male reader

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